Page 5 of Clinically Bewitched
“This is an intervention,” Gabriel corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“A very fine difference,” Fitz agreed.
I sat back down slowly. I looked at the envelope. At my colleagues. At Winnie, who was trying very hard not to laugh.
“Three days,” I said finally.
“Three days,” Quinton confirmed.
“And you’ll all behave while I’m gone.”
“Define ‘behave,’” Fitz said.
“No putting greens. No drum circles. No experimental procedures that haven’t been approved by at least three medical boards.”
“That wasone time,” Nathan protested.
“No burning down the clinic.”
“We would never burn down our own clinic,” Gabriel said, offended. “We have insurance, but still.”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Then to twenty. Then I gave up and opened them again. “Fine. I’ll go to Las Vegas. I’ll give the talk. And then I’ll come back, and everything will return to normal.”
“That’s the spirit!” Fitz clapped me on the shoulder. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll even have some fun.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Maybe you’ll meet someone,” Nathan suggested with a waggle of his eyebrows.
“I’m not going to Las Vegas to ‘meet someone.’ I’m going to give a professional presentation on neurological advancements and then return home.”
“Sure you are,” Quinton said, grinning.
“I am.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
I picked up my agenda with as much dignity as I could muster. “Now. Can wepleasediscuss Wednesday’s patient load?”
“Of course,” Gabriel said graciously. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
“It’s 7:23,” I said.
“Is it?” Fitz checked his watch again. “Huh? Time really does fly when you’re having fun.”
I didn’t dignify that with a response. I simply began reading from my agenda, pointedly ignoring the knowing looks my colleagues were exchanging.
Las Vegas. Three days. A simple presentation, and then back to my perfectly ordered life.
What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Two
Athena
New Orleans, Louisiana... the Bourbon Bar,
The universe was trying to tell me something. I could feel it in my bones, in the way the morning light filtered through the grimy windows of the Bourbon Bar, in the subtle shift of energy that had woken me at exactly 3:33 AM—a powerful angel number, obviously.
