Flash Marriage To My Mysterious Patient

Kellie pulled her phone from her pocket. She opened her contacts and scrolled down to the J's. Jeffry Alston. The name sat there, isolated. There were no call logs. No text threads. No voicemails. It was a dead end in her digital life. For a month and eight days, he had been a ghost. He had honored the agreement to the letter. He hadn't called, hadn't texted, hadn't shown up at the hospital. He existed only on that piece of paper locked in her desk drawer. She had almost convinced herself she had hallucinated the whole thing. A stress-induced fantasy. Until last night. When the ghost had materialized on her gurney, smelling of whiskey and looking like death. A sardonic smile touched her lips. "Mutually non-interfering," she muttered to herself. So much for that. The question nagged at her. Why? The profile had said he was a healthy, disciplined academic. Why was he drinking hard liquor alone on a Tuesday night until his stomach burned? She shook her head sharply. It doesn't matter. It's his business. That was the deal. But even as she tried to delete the thought, an image flashed in her mind: Jeffry's pale face, the weak smile, the quiet plea for soup. She groaned, rubbing her temples. This was exactly what she hated-losing control of the narrative, of her own emotions. She turned and walked back into the hospital, deciding to drown the confusion in work. She worked like a woman possessed. She took on extra shifts, handled three critical admits, and jumped into an emergency consult. She moved through the ER like a storm, leaving no room for thought or feeling. Caleb tried to approach her twice, his phone out, probably ready to share more gossip. One look from Kellie-a glare that could freeze lava-sent him scurrying in the opposite direction. But despite her frantic pace, her body betrayed her. Every time she walked past the elevator bank that led to the fourth floor, her steps slowed. Her eyes would flick to the "Up" button. Late in the afternoon, the ER doors slid open. Zara Voss strode in, carrying a sleek, black insulated bag from a popular bistro downtown. She spotted Kellie at the nurse's station and marched over. Her expression was a mix of hostility and reluctant curiosity. "Dr. Walter," Zara said, her tone stiff. "I don't know what's going on between you and Jeffry, but he needs to eat. I brought him something." Kellie glanced at the bag. She knew the place. Rich food, heavy sauces. Exactly what a man with a bleeding ulcer should not have. "Thank you for your concern," Kellie said, her voice neutral. "But the patient's diet is restricted to medical approval." Zara bristled. "He's sick, not dying. He needs real food." She leaned in closer. "You better actually care about him." She turned on her heel and walked toward the elevators, the bag swinging in her hand. Kellie watched her go, a strange knot forming in her chest. Ten minutes later, Zara stormed back out of the elevator. The bag looked heavier than before. Her face was flushed with frustration. She stopped in front of Kellie, her jaw tight. "He won't eat," she spat out. "He won't touch it." She walked away, leaving the words hanging in the air. The words echoed in Kellie's head, mixing with Jeffry's soft, pleading voice. "I want your homemade chicken soup." Her shift ended at seven. She changed out of her scrubs in the locker room, moving slowly. She walked out to the parking garage and slid into the driver's seat of her car. She sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at the concrete wall. The engine was off. The silence was deafening. She thought about the agreement. She thought about the distance she had carefully maintained. She thought about how stupid it was to get involved. Then she thought about him refusing Zara's food. This wasn't about him anymore. It was about her. He was her responsibility, a problem that had landed on her doorstep. And Kellie Walter always solved her problems. The fastest way to get him out of her hospital and out of her hair was to get him healthy. She turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life. She put the car in drive, but instead of turning left toward her apartment, she turned right. She drove straight to the organic market on Broadway.