Page 29 of None Of Your Business

I find Beckett at the nurses’ station, wearing dark blue scrubs, with three patient files open in front of him.

“Beckett.”

He looks up, his dark eyes assessing me for a second before dropping back to the chart. “What are you doing down here? Did you lose a patient, or did you just get lost?”

“Consult for the liaison service,” I lie, resting an elbow on the counter. “Following up on admission notes.”

It’s not even a good lie. The liaison team has its own office two floors up. Beckett knows that. I know Beckett knows it. Apparently, we’ve agreed to let me embarrass myself at my own pace.

He nods. “Fascinating. Do it upstairs next time. You’re ruining the ambiance down here.”

I glance at my watch.

11:28 a.m.

I have a stack of patient charts waiting on my desk upstairs, two grant proposals due by five, and a department head who expects me to be coherent at an afternoon budget meeting. I’m too busy to stand in an emergency department corridor on a Thursday morning, fishing for information.

I schedule my days in fifteen-minute blocks. Rowan Callahan has somehow become an unscheduled twenty-seven.

I could do without the distraction of a stubborn painter who refuses to follow standard intake protocol, but until I understand what she’s doing in my study, she remains an unresolved variable.

I dislike unresolved variables. Particularly redheaded ones.

The problem is figuring out how to get the information I need without raising any red flags with Beckett. He’s spent years watching me analyze human behavior. The second I ask a targeted question about someone’s personal life, he’ll know something is up.

Subtlety is required.

I clear my throat. “How was the trauma rotation last night? You guys look slammed.”

Beckett doesn’t even look up from his chart. “Fine.”

“Get any sleep?”

“Two hours on a cot in the breakroom.” He flips a page. “Hudson, if you’re trying small talk, stop. It’s unnatural.”

Fair. I once worked with Beckett for fourteen straight hours before realizing he’d gotten engaged. I’m not known for being conversational.

I need something completely innocuous that wouldn’t make him suspect I’m tracking a specific five-foot-four data-integrity hazard.

“So,” I say. “How’s wedding planning going?”

He finishes his signature, snaps the binder shut, and turns to face me. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What? I’m your best man.”

“You told me three days ago that your responsibilities begin and end with ensuring I arrive.”

“I’ve reconsidered the scope of the role.” I shift my weight. “How many people are we looking at?”

“A hundred and twenty.”

“Callahans?”

“Mostly.”

“Madison’s siblings?”

Beckett’s eyes narrow.