Too Much Information by Missy Johnson

We’ve all been there.
One minute, you’re sprawled out on your bed, minding our own business and the next you’re lying in the back seat of your best friend’s car as she races you to the ER.
And not the closest one either.
No. You’re headed to the one fifty miles farther out, because the one five minutes away is where you start your residency next week.
So there you are, lying in cubicle nine, hoping like hell that the doctor about to examine you isn’t young, sexy or male.
Of course he’s all three.