I walked into the staff break room around two in the afternoon, starving and exhausted. I poured a cup of black coffee from the pot, the steam hitting my face, and sat down at the small laminate table in the corner.
The door opened.
I didn't look up until I heard the quiet click of the lock. Evelyn Carmichael was standing there.
She looked immaculate, as always. Tailored suit, dark hair pinned back, blood-red lipstick that looked like a warning label.
She was still in hospital administration, still married to Raymond Carmichael, the senior surgeon who hated my guts because I was younger, better, and taking his spotlight.
Despite our occasional hook-ups, I hadn't touched her in almost two months.
"Nicholas," she said, her voice smooth and low. She looked surprised to see me. "I didn't think you were on this floor today."
"Just finished," I said, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. "Taking a minute."
