Professional women everywhere, please be advised. There is no easier way to sink your career prospects, ruin your reputation and compromise your osteo-skeletal wellbeing in one fell swoop than getting caught in flagrante having clumsy supply closet sex with your supervisor. And if said supervisor, unbeknownst to you, also happens to be the head-bitch-in-charge's not-quite-ex-husband, then girl—you're screwed. And unfortunately, I mean that in the most un-sexy manner possible.

Take it from a fool who's been there. 

Yes, I sat at the top of my class throughout pre-med and had my studies paid in full by academic scholarships. Yes, I was aggressively pursued by some of the country's top hospitals to join their prestigious internship programs. While in med school, I even singlehandedly mounted a wildly successful after-school initiative designed to support high school students interested in studying medical sciences.

Yet my claim to fame is being the stupid first-year intern who found herself with her elephant-patterned scrubs around her ankles and Dr. Denis Duckett humping awkwardly between her thighs on top of a cardboard crate full of blood pressure cuffs. And the situation quickly went from bad to worse when I discovered that his definition of ‘divorced’ was a heck of a lot looser than that of, say, your average civil court judge.

No, asshole—‘divorced’ is not a state of mind. It’s a state of law.

Anyway, since the woman on the receiving end of that philandering bastard’s wedding vows happened to be my boss’s boss’s boss, you can just imagine how well things turned out for me.

And now, I'm in professional purgatory with the big, bold scarlet letter tarnishing my personnel file for all of eternity. Because with the mess I got myself into, the only medical institution that would even offer me an interview, let alone hire me, was the dilapidated backwoods hospital in my hometown.

After all the hard work I've done, after all the sacrifices I've made, after all the important life events I've missed out on for the sake of my career, I'm back in Copper Heights, tail-tucked and defeated, sleeping on the itchy, scratchy couch in my little sister's rundown apartment.

Meanwhile, the Ducketts just renewed their wedding vows at a secluded beach resort off the coast of Venezuela. 

Congratulations to the happy couple! 

The steady splash! splash! splash! of water dripping from the leaky ceiling into a nearly-overflowing bucket behind the nurses' desk is seriously grating on my raw nerves. The little woman in front of me shoves a stack of clipboards at me without even glancing my way. "Patient charts," she announces through a remarkably stuffy nose.

"Patient charts?" The papers almost feel foreign in my hands. I stare down at them with major apprehension. “Y-you do the charts…by hand?”

At Seattle Presbyterian Medical Center where I started my internship, patient files are digital. They're all stored on the hospital's main server and easily accessible through top of the line hand-held devices. Going digital makes accessing client files convenient and it lowers the chances of the kind of error-making that is commonplace when updating charts by hand. Any modern medical facility should be expected to operate under such a system. But the Copper Heights Community Hospital is anything but modern.

This hospital seems to be frozen in time, forgotten a few decades back in the mid-20th century. Decrepit equipment, out-dated medical practices, and don't forget the narrow halls and blinking fluorescent lights. If they ever decide to repurpose the place, it would do well as the location for a remake of an Alfred Hitchcock film.

Red, watery eyes twinkle with amusement as my new coworker adjusts the stethoscope around her neck. “Not up to your standards, Harvard?” Her evil laughter seamlessly transmutes into a fit of racking coughs that shakes her narrow shoulders. In response to my horrified jolt, she scoffs. "Just allergies...Woman up."

Dr. Nina Yamazuki is my new supervising resident and—god help me—she’s a snarky one. She's tiny and cute with her upturned nose, her jet black hair and her sloe eyes. She seems harmless...until you say or do something stupid and she pins you to the wall with her death glare. It's obvious that she's deriving indescribable glee from my current discomfort. If I expected her to go easy on me just because it's my first day on the job, the past 25 minutes have proven that I expected wrong.

“Uh…I, uh...” I squint down at the chicken scratch on the patient file in front of me. This day is going to be shit.

“I know you’re used to the glamour and bustle of a big hospital in a big city but things are pretty laidback around here." With a quick glance over her shoulder, Nina uses the heel of her canvas running shoe to reposition the bucket and catch a new drip that has just sprung through the ceiling tile. Her agility is impressive but it’s obvious that she’s had quite a bit of practice dealing with the quirks of this crumbling building. "Don’t get me wrong—we get heart attacks and do-it-yourselfers who fall off their roofs and the occasional gnarly bone fracture, but in general, the pace is manageable around here.”

My spirits deflate even further. I'm not looking for 'manageable'. I'm looking for exciting, ground-breaking. I want to be part of surgical innovations and medical discoveries that radically advance the state of medicine.

I don’t want manageable!

But from the looks of it, this place is where the dreams and aspirations of budding surgeons come to die. Sometimes life is so unfair.

Maybe I'm not completely innocent in the debacle that my existence has become. One could theoretically make that argument. It's true that Denis Duckett misled me about his relationship status and that his disgruntled wife unjustly pinned me as a scapegoat. But the fact remains that screwing a co-worker is, and always has been, a recipe for disaster.

In my defense, life as a medical intern at a Level I Trauma Center in a large metropolitan area is stressful. Your whole existence revolves around working long shifts in high-adrenaline situations to save lives. You don't have time to date, you have no social life and soon enough you start yearning for a physical connection...with a penis not of the silicone variety. Meanwhile, you find yourself working side-by-side with the same people, day in, day out. Eventually, your fingers brush innocently while passing a scalpel during surgery or you share a tense elevator ride after an emotionally-charged evening in the operating room and although you know it’s inappropriate, your body starts developing 'cravings'. It's human nature. At least that’s what it was like for me.

Anyway, now that I’m dealing with the fallout, I have never been angrier with myself in my life. That almost-orgasm in the supply closet was definitely not worth ruining my career over. But I brought this on myself so I have to suck it up and deal with the consequences.

Woman up! as Nina would say.

I blow out a breath, coming to grips with my current reality. Spine straight and shoulders back, I face Nina head-on. "Well, whatever you've got, bring it on. I am on duty and ready to work. Trust me, I won’t disappoint you. Woman to woman—I know you've probably heard the rumors about me and what happened at my last internship but I will prove to you and to all the doctors in this hospital that, despite that momentary lapse in judgment, I'm responsible and dedicated, I think fast on my feet, I'm committed to obtaining the best possible outcome for my patients, I'm..."

Nina quickly grows bored with my rambling, long-winded manifesto when the hospital's rickety automatic doors skid open and a group of paramedics casually file into the building. She thrusts her chin in that direction and her eyes haze over with lust. "Mmm...mancake conga line. Five o'clock."

I watch them uncomprehendingly. Sure, they're attractive but that's irrelevant. Where's the rush? Where's the gurney? Where’s the trauma? Aren't these people in the business of saving lives? Here they are, swaggering into the hospital like they're here for tea and biscuits with no emergency in sight.

Nina yanks the charts back from my hand and catalogues them in a filing cabinet. “Oh damn! I’m gonna have to walk you through the emergency protocol a little later this afternoon. I almost forgot that we have a meeting of first responders of Copper Heights right now. The fire department called the meeting to deliver a post-incident analysis today.”

Ducking just in time, I barely escape the spray of her wet sneeze. “A post-incident analysis?”

I watch as she reaches under the desk and grabs a pocket-sized mirror. Now, she's applying lipstick and powdering her runny nose. “It’s politics, really. There was a huge fire at Town Square a few months ago. A bakery burned to the ground and a lot of the surrounding buildings were damaged. Some of the department chiefs were really dissatisfied with the way things were handled. The firefighters have suggestions for making the town's emergency response more efficient. That's why we have this meeting today."

"Eep!" The tiny, anxious sound bursts out of my mouth before I have the chance to leash it.

Nina nods, seeming to agree with the sentiment I'm trying so ineloquently to express. "Like I said, it’s politics. But you’ll get through it. Just look at it as a legitimate excuse to ogle the hottie firefighters." She wiggles her brows.

If only it were that simple. I'm not mentally prepared for a meeting like this. I've just arrived back in town. I haven't had the chance to unpack, at least not emotionally. Plus, I’m not wearing any concealer. And there's one fireman in particular I'm definitely not ready to see.

And right at that moment, he strolls through the door with that casual, easy confidence that my body remembers on a cellular level.

My supervisor lowers her voice and leans in conspiratorially. "Exhibit number one—Benjamin Riggs. God, the man is hot. He's the reason fireman pants are made flame-resistant. That level of man heat is melting my panties from all the way across the room.” Her uproarious laughter is interrupted by yet another sneeze.

Nina and her antics become nothing more than a blip on my periphery as the man consumes all of my attention. My pulse is suddenly arrhythmic and my esophagus, constricted. Acutely light-headed, I reach out and grip the edge of the counter. I might be in need of an oxygen tank.

Those stunning blue eyes I used to stare into for hours. That silky, dark blond hair I’d run my fingers through. That strong, chiseled jaw I traced with my tongue too many times to count. The soft, plush lips that explored every inch of my skin before uttering the cruel words that had me running from this town.

My body clenches as my defenses go on high alert. Instantly, I'm struggling to protect myself against the onslaught of his swooniness. No way I’ll forget what that jerk did to me, how he tossed me aside after he’d had his fill, how he remorselessly cut me loose to pursue other opportunities. Fuck that guy!

…He’s hot, though. He’s always been so damn hot.

And there's a swarm of women in this room who would readily agree with my diagnosis. On the edges of my consciousness, I hear the way the nurses sigh with longing as he goes by. He's either completely oblivious or just plain immune to the attention. He keeps his full awareness focused on the conversation he's having with the older firefighter walking alongside him. Not even the random catcalls thrown after him become a distraction.

My heart plunges into the depths of my stomach when he disappears into a room at the end of the hallway without even noticing me standing here. Nina giggles under her breath. “Do me a favor and pick your jaw up from the ground, Harvard. And stay away from that man. He’s the definition of 'look but don't touch'. He has a history of sleeping with anything with an active pulse rhythm and breaking hearts left and right. Quite frankly, I’m tired of picking up snotty tissues from the nursing station while the women in this hospital take turns crying over him.” She thrusts a little black pager at me and she loops around the front desk. "By the way, keep this thing on you at all times."

The pager goes straight into my pocket and I make an attempt to seem unaffected when I speak. "Psht. Me? Hot firefighter isn't my type." I lift my chin and pull my shoulders back, clinging tightly to my denial as I follow after her.

She's not buying it. That's loud and clear in her tone as she marches down the hall. "Yeah, sure. Whatever. Now come on, let's go get this damn meeting over with."