7
“Nate Prudhoe?”
In the midst of hurrying through the emergency room on her way to the parking lot, Bethany skidded to a stop in front of the lanky figure sprawled in one of the chairs. With his long legs crossed at the ankle, and a towel wrapped around one arm, his butternut hair a tousled mess, Nate looked as if he’d had a hard night.
“Dr. Morrison,” he said, almost formally, slurring the words a bit. Shock, if she had to guess, rather than alcohol. “How are you this fine eve?”
“Are you hurt? What happened?”
“Nah, all good. You know how it is in a small town. Not much going on, so you might as well hang out in the ER and people-watch.”
She laughed. It figured that Nate would have the “joke while you bleed to death” attitude common among medical personnel. “Are you waiting for a do
