—

I woke up sometime later flat on my back. It could have been seconds. It could have been minutes. Who knew?

What I did know was that I now felt an uncomfortable breeze in places that should definitely be covered up.

“Corin?” Dr. Harrison peered down at me and I squinted as he shone a flashlight in my eyes.

“That’s what my parents called me,” I rasped dryly. At least I hadn’t lost what little sense of humor I had.

My head hurt. My elbow was throbbing. And that breeze I mentioned was because my skirt was now up around my waist. Just great. I was showing the world my undergarments once again. I should just give up on wearing clothing altogether with the frequency I was flashing the goods.

The only silver lining was that at least I had learned my lesson and wasn’t wearing the ratty undies that could house a family of four.

I tried to sit up but a nurse I didn’t recognize put a gentle, yet insistent hand on my shoulder, keeping me down. “Just lie still for a minute. No sudden movements. You took quite a spill.” She spoke as though she were at a cheer rally and not in a doctor’s office. Her overly excited enunciation made my head hurt even more. All she needed was a set of pom-poms and we’d be set.

I lay back down and stared up at the ceiling. I felt incredibly exposed with my limbs askew and the good doc and perky nurse staring at me like something icky under a microscope.

“You hit your head when you fell. How do you feel?” Dr. Harrison asked, pocketing his penlight.

I rubbed a sore spot on the back of my skull. I hit my head? That couldn’t be good. How did I feel? Like total shit.

“Maybe I should go home and rest,” I suggested as Nurse Perkalicious helped me into a sitting position. I quickly repositioned my skirt so that it covered all parts of my body that were meant to be covered.

Neither Dr. Harrison nor Super Nurse responded to my very rational suggestion but instead fussed over me like I had contracted some horrible disease in the last couple of minutes.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice sounding like I had been gargling broken glass. It was almost hot in a sex phone operator kind of way. I tried to clear my throat but it was no use. Cheer Nurse—I really should find out her name—picked up on my discomfort and brought me a glass of water, which I downed quickly.

Dr. Harrison spoke in a low voice with Bouncy Nurse, and I tried to hear what they were whispering about. I thought I caught the words “panic attack” and “observation.” There may have been “psychological issues” and “counseling” sprinkled in there as well. I felt my face flush and a familiar, indignant anger begin to simmer.

“You passed out for a few seconds. You were having a panic attack. Was that the first time you experienced something like that?” Dr. Harrison asked, finally helping me up off the floor and depositing me into a chair.

I rubbed at my pounding temples trying to get my thoughts straight. I had experienced another panic attack. This was becoming a serious problem. But that didn’t mean I had “psychological issues.” And I would rip my hottie doctor a new one if he so much as suggested it. I wasn’t above junk-punching a physician.

“No, it wasn’t the first time,” I admitted grudgingly. A little brokenly. I took a deep, shuddering breath and opened my eyes, forcing myself to meet the worried doctor’s gaze. I hated to see it there. It annoyed me. It irritated me.

It made me worry too.

“How often do you get them?” Dr. Harrison asked softly.

I shook my head, not wanting to answer that particular question. “I really need to get back to work,” I mumbled, reaching down to pick up the purse I had dropped in my rushed meet and greet with the floor.

“How often do you have these panic attacks?” Dr. Harrison asked again, disregarding my attempts to flee.

I waved my hand in front of me, dismissing his question. I wasn’t going to get into this. Not now. I had come in wanting answers for my physical problems. I most certainly hadn’t signed up to hash out my supposed psychosis.

“I need to get back to my shop—” I began, but Dr. Harrison cut me off. He was proving to be a lot pushier than Dr. Graham had been. And I didn’t do pushy. It made me want to throw things and yell. A lot.

“Corin, this isn’t something you should brush aside. If your anxiety is a problem, it needs to be addressed. It could, quite possibly, be the cause of many of your physical issues,” he explained calmly, rationally. Too rationally. It made me feel small. And moronic. And dense.

I reconsidered the whole junk-punching thing.

Nurse What’s-Her-Face stood in the corner, tidying up cotton balls or whatever, trying to be discreet as she nosed up in my business. She was failing miserably. I glared in her direction. She responded with a toothy smile that looked as though she had stepped out of a Colgate commercial. I narrowed my eyes and she finally got the point and excused herself from the room.

There was only so much positivity I could stomach.

I rubbed at my chest that for the moment didn’t hurt. “I have a heart problem, Dr. Harrison. I know that’s the issue,” I argued, feeling my face grow hot.

Dr. Harrison didn’t say anything. But he stared at me for a long, long time. Long enough that I started to feel extremely uncomfortable.

“I am not ruling out a heart issue, Corin,” he placated, pulling out a pad and writing on it. He ripped the top sheet off and handed it to me. I looked down at his messy script and saw that it was a prescription.

“What is this for?” I asked suspiciously.

Dr. Harrison tucked his pen back into his shirt pocket and took off the glasses that had slid down his nose and laid them on the desk. “I’m prescribing you a very mild antianxiety medication. If these panic attacks are occurring frequently, then this could help. You only need to take half a pill when you feel the first symptoms of a panic attack.”

“I don’t think I need these,” I said, trying to hand back the prescription.

Dr. Harrison shook his head. “Corin, we have to examine all possible causes for your heart problems. Severe anxiety can often mimic heart issues. Have you ever spoken to a counselor about your anxiety? I can provide you with a referral, make a phone call—”

“No!” I shouted and felt embarrassed by my outburst. But I didn’t apologize. Fuck that.

Dr. Harrison did the staring thing again that was starting to seriously get on my nerves. “Let’s make another appointment for next week and we can talk about some more tests,” he said finally.

I let out a sigh of relief. “Okay. That sounds good.”

“Make an appointment on the way out. And Corin, just have the prescription filled and hang onto the medication. There’s no shame in admitting that you need help in managing your anxiety. I really think it’s important that you address the root of what’s causing it.”

I didn’t want to argue about it and I certainly didn’t want to talk about it any longer. I simply nodded and got to my feet. “I’ll make that appointment. See you next week, Dr. Harrison,” I responded quickly, wanting to leave before he started trying to shrink me.

I hurried out to the lobby, my head bowed, eyes trained on the floor. I still felt shaky. My heart was thumping wildly and I felt bruised and battered from the inside out.

Another anxiety attack.

Just great.

I felt sick to my stomach and I debated whether I should just go home and spend the rest of the day in bed with hours of Grey’s Anatomy on the DVR.

I really didn’t want to deal with anyone.

“Corin, hey!”

Because the universe didn’t already hate me enough…

I looked up and almost groaned out loud. Beckett stood at the reception desk, leaning casually on the counter, a bright smile on his pretty, pretty face. He must have gone to the same school of perky as Dr. Harrison’s nurse. “What are you doing here?” he asked.