"Did you say Imma Nutters?" I ask.

McSexy nods.

"That's crazy! I JUST read an article by her in the waiting room."

"In a magazine?" He seems surprised Ami or Imma would author a piece for a periodical.

"Yeah. Poor Housekeeping." I reach for the small stack of magazines Bubbles brought in earlier still piled on the tray and shuffle through them. Sure enough—like a cliché happenstance in a cheesy Hollywood movie—the magazine I hoped to find is there.

"Is it about her novels?" McSexy questions.

"Nope. She wrote about soul mates, and why we're not supposed to spend the rest of our lives with them."

"What?" The handsome nurse repositions himself by my side and waits patiently as I flip to page 69.

"There!" I point to her name in the article.

I watch McSexy's lips move as he silently mouths the title—Soul Mates Are Teachers, NOT Life Partners. "Is this fiction?"

"I don't think so. It's more informative than fantasy."

"Let me see that." He lifts the magazine from the tray and scans the contents. His reading ensues a long bout of silence, causing me to side-glance the remains of my egg salad sandwich. I bet I could get another bite in and swallowed by the time he finishes the article, I think to myself. Or not. You've had terrible luck so far today. It's probably best to err on the side of caution. Yeah, best to be cautious. Don't touch the egg salad sandwich. I repeat, don't touch the egg salad sandwich. Naturally the voice of my inner toddler chimes in and whines, but me want more sandwich in mouth.

"Unlikely soul mates?" McSexy whispers, prying my attention off my egg salad snack. "Soul highs?"

"Addictions. You must be at the part where she talks about our pull towards negative people."

"Yeah," McSexy confirms. "But—soul mates? C'mon—"

"It sounded like a bunch of crap when I first read it, too. But the longer it sank in, the more it made sense—once you get beyond the semantics."

"Why on Earth would I be addicted to someone mistreating me?"

"Because they have something to teach you" I explain. "Like your surgeon friend, for example."

"Woh, woh, wait." McSexy shakes his head from side to side in disagreement. With an uncomfortable chuckle, he adds, "The surgeon and I are not soul mates. That's for damn sure."

"But—the metaphorical knife still stuck between your shoulders."

"Doesn't mean we're friends."

"You don't have to be friends to learn from someone," I argue. "That's why you can't pull the knife out. He needs to teach you something."

"There isn't anything I want to learn from him." McSexy closes the magazine and tosses it on the tray. "Sounds like magazine filler to me."

"Well—the surgeon obviously gets under your skin," I continue. "You're a different person when his names comes up." Glancing up at the nurse with a bashful grin, I add, "Addiction has that effect, you know—turns people into someone they're not."

Nurse McSexy closes his eyes and gently presses his lips together for a moment, as if resetting his systems. "So how's the hives situation? Any better?"

"Nope. It's like I'm wearing a pink leopard bodysuit from the slut section of a Halloween costume shop doused in itch powder."

He smirks at my comment, but his eyes are still glued to the Poor Housekeeping magazine.

"Are you thinking about the girl who doesn't mean what she says?" I question, falling into uncertainty with absolute certainty.

"Who?"

"Satan," I reply. "She sent you a message earlier on your phone."

McSexy points a finger at me with one eye slightly squinting. "You're dangerously perceptive. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Me?" I question. "Oh gawd, no. I'm the person too afraid the world's gonna find out I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing."

"So you're a clairvoyant with Imposter Syndrome."

His Imposter Syndrome comment sparks a memory from my conversation with Queen Elizabeth. McSexy's supposed to teach me something, I suddenly remember. Oh my God! Does this mean he's my soul mate?

"Talk about perceptive," I say, blushing as my new and old definitions for soul mate cross wires. "I've been labeled with that syndrome before."

McSexy glances at his watch, then gives my chart another look. "Need to give those meds 30 more minutes to kick in." Slumping into the chair with a sigh, he adds, "I'll take my break in here while we wait. If you don't mind?"

The Sex God of the Universe wants to take his break with me?

"That's fine," I reply, desperately trying to reign in the squealing of my inner hormonal teen. Okay, I won't lie. I'm trying to reign in the squealing of my inner, middle-aged, single lady.

Lounging in the chair sexily like only the sexiest of the sexalicious can, the handsome nurse motions towards the Poor Housekeeping magazine with his hand. "So what do you think about that? What she wrote."

"You mean Imma?" I ask.

"Yeah. The soul mate stuff."

I scratch my head, like a scratch 'n sniff sticker, hoping the sweet smell of wisdom will brush over the surface of my lips as I respond to McSexy's query. "Uhh—[Pffft!]—I don't know."

Fail. Nothing but bad breath. Not the scent I was after.

With his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fingers, McSexy reveals, "Imma told me she was working on a project I'd appreciate."

Stay cool, I remind myself. Pretend you know nothing about SilverFox, Pompoms and Urgent Care supply closets!

"Do you think the article is her special project? Something to do with her husband—and the knife he put in your back?"

"Not sure. She was cryptic about it." McSexy leans back in the chair and eyes me suspiciously. "Did you and my favorite assistant talk about anything other than romance novels in here?"

"Nope," I reply, head swaying from side-to-side as though trying to shake the deceit out of my ears—fingers crossed like a child. "Just romance novels—and sandwiches. Egg salad sandwiches."

"Um hmm," he mumbles.

Wipe the lies off your face, I yell at myself. Oh my gawd! Bubbles will kill you if McSexy finds out she spilled the beans on him.

"Off the record?" McSexy asks in a barely audible voice.

"You're on your break," I remind him. "Everything's off the record when you're on break."

"Not exactly." He smiles, head resting in his hand. "But I know my favorite assistant well enough to know she only gives sandwiches to those she trusts."

"Oh! I'm not sure why—"

"We both know why," McSexy interrupts. "You're gifted at reading people. You also had the unfortunate luck of being caught in the middle of a toxic respiratory team triangle. Wouldn't take a genius to figure out what's going on."

"I'm not sure what—"

"If my assistant trusts you, then I trust you."

"I have no idea what you're—"

"The respiratory specialist is the woman who texted me," McSexy reveals, ignoring my attempt at ignorance.

"Satan?"

"Yes."

"You, Satan and the surgeon make up a triangle?" I question.

"Yes," he confirms again.

"I apologize for our unprofessionalism," McSexy confesses. "My friends told me to not date anyone I worked with. Unfortunately, I didn't listen."

"Well—she's beautiful," I point out. "I would've probably dated her too, and I'm straight."

McSexy attempts to hold back a smile.

"But what about Imma?" I ask. "Does she know?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think this is what her cryptic message was about?"

"Possibly." McSexy readjusts in his chair. "It's why I find this article—published under her real name—so intriguing."

"You think she might know what's going on?"

"I think she's making a bold statement about what she knows. That's why I wondered what your thoughts were on the article. Who's teaching who?"

An image flashes in my mind—

—but I don't know why.

"Mirrors," I blurt out—the image on the edge of my subconscious falling into the conversation. "Mirrors are teaching."

*****McSEXY BREAK*****

This chapter is entirely fiction, except for the fact we get to see my Urgent Care revelations (regarding soul mates and mirrors) revealed in a far more entertaining way.

MUSIC: New Order. Bizarre Love Triangle. 

Your vote is truly McAppreciated. Muah!

MarilynHepburn.com

(This is a second edit chapter)