" Blood pressure check!” The doorknob rattled, as if the nurse were intending just to walk in, but the lock held, thank God. The nurse knocked again.
“Oh, shit,” Gina breathed, laughing as she scrambled off of him. She reached to remove the condom they’d just used, encountered . . . him, and met his eyes. But then she scooped her clothes off the floor and ran into the bathroom.
“Mr. Bhagat?” The nurse knocked on the door again. Even louder this time. “Are you all right?”
Oh, shit, indeed. “Come in,” Max called as he pulled up the blanket and leaned on the button that put his bed back up into a sitting position. The same control device had a “call nurse” button as well as the clearly marked one that would unlock the door.
“It’s locked,” the nurse called back, as well he knew.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, as he wiped off his face with the edge of the sheet. Sweat much in bed, all alone, Mr. Bhagat? “I must’ve . . . Here, let me figure out how to . . .” He took an extra second to smooth his hair, his pajama top, and then, praying that the nurse had a cold and couldn’t smell the scent of sex that lingered in the air, he hit the release.
“Please don’t lock your door during the day,” the woman scolded him as she came into the room, around to the side of his bed. It was Debra Forsythe, a woman around his age, whom Max had met briefly at his check-in. She had been on her way home to deal with some crisis with her kids, and hadn’t been happy then, either. “And not at night either,” she added, “until you’ve been here a few days.”
“Sorry.” He gave her an apologetic smile, hanging on to it as the woman gazed at him through narrowed eyes.
She didn’t say anything, she just wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, and pumped it a little too full of air—ow—as Gina opened the bathroom door. “Did I hear someone at the door?” she asked brightly. “Oh, hi. Debbie, right?”
“Debra.” She glanced at Gina, and then back, her disgust for Max apparent in the tightness of her lips. But then she focused on the gauge, stethoscope to his arm.
Gina came out into the room, crossing around behind the nurse, making a face at him that meant . . .?
Max sent her a questioning look, and she flashed him. She just lifted her skirt and gave him a quick but total eyeful. Which meant . . . Ah, Christ.
The nurse turned to glare at Gina, who quickly straightened up from searching the floor.
What was it with him and missing underwear?
Gina smiled sweetly. “His blood pressure should be nice and low. He’s very relaxed—he just had a massage.”
“You know, I didn’t peg you for a troublemaker when you checked in yesterday,” Debra said to Max, as she wrote his numbers on the chart.
Gina was back to scanning the floor, but again, she straightened up innocently when the nurse turned toward her.
“I think you’re probably looking for this.” Debra leaned over and . . .
Gina’s panties dangled off the edge of her pen. They’d been on the floor, right at the woman’s sensibly clad feet.
“Oops,” Gina said. Max could tell that she was mortified, but only because he knew her so well. She forced an even sunnier smile, and attempted to explain. “It was just . . . he was in the hospital for so long and . . .”
“And men have needs,” Debra droned, clearly unmoved. “Believe me, I’ve heard it all before.”
“No, actually,” Gina said, still trying to turn this into something they could all laugh about, “I have needs.”
But it was obvious that this nurse hadn’t laughed since 1985. “Then maybe you should find someone your own age to play with. A professional hockey player just arrived. He’s in the east wing. Second floor.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Lots of money. Just your type, I’m sure.”
“Excuse me?” Gina wasn’t going to let one go past. She may not have been wearing any panties, but her Long Island attitude now waved around her like a superhero’s cape. She even assumed the battle position, hands on her hips. "

― Suzanne Brockmann , Breaking Point (Troubleshooters, #9)