Hotshot Doc Page 10

  “Would you like a different one?” I ask, my voice so gentle it nearly verges on being passive-aggressive.

  “Yes, Bailey,” he drawls out slowly, like he’s worried I can’t comprehend simple words. “I’d like the correct one.”

  The operating room is absolutely still. Sure, everyone makes a show of pretending to work, but in reality, their ears are trained on us, waiting to see just how much of his bullshit I’m willing to take.

  No doubt they’re anticipating an imminent blowup, but I harness what can only be described as the patience of a saint, take a deep, yoga-worthy breath, and reply sweetly, “Of course. Let me get that for you right away.”

  I think I have it. I’ve beat him at his own game by keeping my cool, right up until I turn and my elbow collides with the sterile instrument tray that was resting precariously beside me. In a flash, it crashes to the ground and metal pings in every direction. Implants scatter. Pedical screws disappear beneath the operating table.

  My mouth hangs agape behind my mask.

  One of the nurses gasps.

  The anesthesiologist peeks out from behind his curtain and his eyes widen in shock.

  Dr. Russell turns quickly to the device rep. “Do we have another sterile set?”

  I swear the man’s chin quivers as he shakes his head. “Not a complete one.”

  My eyes pinch closed and I brace myself for the impact. Biting words from Dr. Russell are about to rain down on me like an enemy siege. I will not make it out alive.

  “Pick everything up and get it in the autoclave. Now.”

  His voice is cool and precise, like the blade of a knife sinking into my gut. I yank off my gloves, fall to my knees, and start crawling around the operating room floor as quickly as possible.

  Dr. Russell barks at Kendra to help him cover the patient.

  This is bad. This is cry-and-plead-for-forgiveness bad.

  Accidents like this happened once or twice during one of Dr. Lopez’s surgeries, but I was never the cause, and we always had a backup instrument set prepared just in case.

  I really want to give in to the urge to cry, but it would only make things worse.

  There is no way I will survive this. He’ll give me the axe as soon as this surgery is finished. This has to be a new record. Kirt—the sobbing giant—lasted at least a couple months. I’ve lasted a paltry few weeks.

  I’m shaking as I hurry to collect all the equipment on the ground. Dr. Russell growls at the techs to help. There are half a dozen of us crawling around the operating room, and I swear if a single tear falls from my eyes I will never forgive myself. Everyone is waiting for me to crumble, but I refuse to let it happen.

  I keep it together through a feat of superhuman strength. I compartmentalize my feelings and stay focused. I count the instruments and confirm with the device rep that we’ve collected everything. The autoclave only takes 45 minutes. We’re hardly delayed. The surgery finishes with flawless results, and I’m still completely numb as Dr. Russell tells me to close, pulls off his gloves and gown, and leaves the room.

  I watch him go, heaving a sigh as soon as the swinging door shuts behind him.

  I can’t believe how unlucky I’ve been. I’ve tried my hardest and worked my butt off, but in the end, the universe and Dr. Russell seem to be in cahoots against me.

  “Bailey?” Kendra asks gently. “Are you okay to close?”

  I nod. Of course.

  It might be the last thing I ever do at New England Medical Center.

  Chapter 12

  MATT

  I dip my hands under the faucet, letting the warm water rinse away the suds from my skin as the door to the OR swings open. Kendra peeks her head around it and grimaces.

  “Do you have a minute, Dr. Russell?”

  There’s a mountain of work standing between me and my weekend. I’ve got a lot to do and not enough time to do it. I’m usually in the office as much on Saturday and Sunday as I am Monday through Friday, but I’m less efficient. Patricia’s gone. There’s no resident rushing in with Starbucks, and I usually have to contend with the cleaning staff. They skitter past when they see me walking down the hall, and they don’t even bother knocking on my door anymore. I don’t want anyone in my office rearranging things. There’s a method to my madness and I’m perfectly capable of taking out my own trash.

  This weekend is different, though. Tomorrow is Molly’s wedding, and I actually have to make it out of the office at a decent hour if I want to grab my suit from the tailor before he closes his shop.

  I wouldn’t have to rush if my surgery hadn’t run over time thanks to Bailey’s mistake.

  “What do you need?”

  I turn and grab a towel.

  She steps out and lets the door swing closed behind her. “It really could have happened to anyone.” She’s talking about Bailey’s accident. “And I don’t think you should punish her for it. You might not have noticed, but she’s good. These last few weeks have been paradise compared to when you were working with Kirt.”

  I toss my towel into the laundry bin, and she must sense that I’m about to run out of patience because she scrambles to continue.

  “Okay, yes, that mistake delayed your surgery today, but usually with Bailey by your side, you drastically cut down on your procedure times.”

  I’m aware.

  “So today aside, she’s the best assistant you’ve had. Please don’t go hard on her.”

  “What do you think I’m going to do? Fire her?”

  Her eyes widen in fear. “Please don’t. She makes my job easier too. I’m not run ragged anymore.”

  I sigh and brush past her. “Thank you for the insight, Kendra, but Bailey isn’t going anywhere. I assure you. Have a good weekend.”

  As I work through some emails at my desk, I’m annoyed to find the cold front the newscasters were droning on about this morning finally makes an appearance. It’s raining cats and dogs, which means Friday after-work traffic will be more hellish than usual. I’ll have to take my paperwork and finish it at home so I can pick up my suit in time.

  I use my personal bathroom to change out of my scrubs, grab my coat, and gather the files I want to take with me. The elevator is crowded, but everyone gives me a healthy berth—one perk of being universally disliked is I never have people encroaching on my personal space.

  The elevator doors slide open and I’m about to take a sharp left toward the parking garage when I spot Bailey standing just inside the front entrance to our building with her arms wrapped around her middle. She changed out of her scrubs and she’s wearing jeans and that same pink, puffy coat that completely drowns her. I wonder if she’s waiting for someone to pick her up. Why else would she be hovering near the front door? Then she wipes furiously at her cheek and I realize she’s crying.

  Fuck.

  I eye the parking garage door. I’m seconds away from freedom.

  I glance back at her in time to see her shake her head at her phone, stuff it in her pocket, and then reach down for her backpack like she’s about to march right out the front door. Except, there are no cars out front, just sheets of rain and rumbling, dark skies.

  Aw hell.

  “Bailey,” I say, my voice carrying easily across the marble floor. “Wait.”

  She turns back and rolls her eyes, clearly annoyed to see me coming her way. She quickly wipes at her cheeks then holds up her hand to wave me off. “I’m off the clock. I don’t want to talk to you right now. If you want to chew me out for what happened back there, you’ll have to do it on Monday. I’m going home.”

  “How?”

  Her pretty brown eyes, full of tears, narrow up at me in confusion. “How what?”

  “How are you getting home? Did you park on the street or something?”

  Her brows relax as she realizes I’m not about to scold her. “Oh.” She turns to the window. “I’m going to catch the bus.” The bus? “The stop is just down the street a little bit.”

  “Don’t you have a car?
”

  She steels her spine. “No. I don’t.”

  I’ll have to look into what we’re paying her—surely she should have no problem affording a car to get her to and from work.

  “Okay, well then what about an Uber or something?”

  Her tone doesn’t lighten as she replies, “I usually take the bus. It’s fine.”

  I look for an umbrella and frown when I see her hands are empty. “You’re going to get drenched and it’s freezing out there.”

  She laughs and starts to step back. “It’s not your concern. Don’t worry about me.”

  Yes, well unfortunately, I do worry about her. For the last three weeks, all I’ve done is worry about her.

  Cooper is to blame. He fuels my annoyance on a daily basis, updating me about their texts and bragging to me about how their relationship is developing. Relationship—I find that laughable. They haven’t gone on a date. They haven’t even spoken on the phone. If the metric for a “relationship” lies solely in the number of text messages exchanged then as of this week, I’m in a relationship with my tailor, my UberEats delivery guy, and my housekeeper. I’ve got my hands fucking full.

  “Well I’m not going to let you wait out at the bus stop in this weather. C’mon, I’ll drive you.”

  Her soft feminine laugh echoes around the lobby.

  “Thank you, but I’d rather walk.”

  What she really means is, Thank you, but I’d rather die.

  “It’s really not a request. You’re no good to me if you have to call in sick on Monday because you caught pneumonia.”

  Her gaze sheens with a new layer of hatred. “You of all people know you don’t catch pneumonia just from being cold and wet.”

  She tries to step around me, but I catch her backpack and tug it off her shoulder. I can’t put it on because she has the shoulder straps set to fit a toddler, so I hold it in my hand and start walking. She can either follow me or not. I tell myself I don’t care either way.

  “Dr. Russell—” she says behind me, her feet lightly tap-tap-tapping on the marble as she hurries to keep up.

  “You’re clocked out, aren’t you? Call me Matt.”

  “Doctor,” she says pointedly. “Please give me my backpack before I call security.”

  I laugh because really, she’s hilarious. No one has ever threatened to call security on me before.

  “It’s Matt, and if you’re going to call security, make sure you ask for Tommy. He’s younger and stands a decent chance of catching me before I hightail it out of here with your pink JanSport backpack. What do you have in here anyway?”

  It weighs nothing.

  “My lunchbox. A water bottle. Some empty Tupperware.”

  Tupperware.

  I glance behind me to check on her. She’s fast-walking as she trails behind me. Am I really that much taller than her?

  “Did you bring more banana bread?”

  She nods and nearly breaks out in a jog. “Patricia didn’t get any last time and I felt bad.”

  “I didn’t get any last time either,” I point out.

  She snorts. “Yeah well, I don’t feel bad about that.”

  I face forward again so she can’t see my smile. There she goes again with that brutal honesty. In the operating room, she’s perfectly compliant. Everywhere else, she’s not.

  We take the stairs down to the first level of the parking garage and I lead us toward the area reserved for doctors. She makes her way toward a black Audi, turns, and waits for me to join her.

  I smirk. “That’s not my car.”

  She nods. “Right, of course. I see it now.”

  She goes to a bright yellow Ferrari that belongs to one of the plastic surgeons. The vanity license plate reads: SXY DOC88. “Here we are.”

  “Not even close.”

  “Oh, okay. I get it. You aren’t flashy. Maybe that gray Range Rover over there?”

  I press the unlock button on my key fob and my rear lights flash. There she is, the car I’ve driven since I was in medical school.

  “You’re kidding. A Prius?! Satan himself drives a Prius?!” She turns around as if hoping to find someone else she can share this moment with. All she’s got is me.

  I shrug. “It gets good gas mileage.”

  She blinks exaggeratedly. “I couldn’t be more shocked if you’d hitched a horse to a buggy.”

  I chuckle and open the back door to toss in her backpack. “Get in. Traffic is going to be hell.”

  We buckle up in silence, back up and leave the parking garage in silence, pull out into traffic in silence.

  Finally, I ask, “Where do you live?”

  “On the west side. Right across from Franklin Park.”

  “Good. I have an errand I need to run that’s right by there. Mind if I do that before I drop you off?”

  “Well seeing as how you stole my backpack and forced me into your car, I don’t really think it matters what I want.”

  I see. She’s still pouting. That’s fine. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”

  She doesn’t think I’m funny.

  I drum my thumb against the steering wheel and try to keep my attention on the road and off of her.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone in this car besides me, a longer time since it was someone I found as interesting as I find Bailey Jennings. I try to study her surreptitiously. She seems smaller now when she’s sitting still. I could fit two of her on that seat. I look down and smirk when I see there’s no phone in her lap. Doesn’t she need to text Cooper and let him know about her day? She ought to tell him she’s currently in hell being driven home by her crotchety boss—the boss who made her cry.

  I loosen my tie, uncomfortable with how tight it feels all of sudden.

  We’re a few miles away from the hospital by the time she finally works up the courage to speak. “Not including what happened today, have I done something to offend you?” Oh good, deep conversation. “You’ve seemed annoyed with me over the last few weeks and I haven’t been able to work out why.”

  “You know, actually, I was hoping we could just sit in amiable silence for the entire trip.” Her gaze tries to bore through my skull, so I relent. “Have you considered that it has nothing to do with you?”

  “Yes,” she replies right away, “but that doesn’t make sense because you seem to only get snappy and aggravated with me. It’s not like you’re shouting at Kendra when she takes more than one second to get you something in the OR. You practically snarl when you look at me.”

  Truly, that can’t be the case. If it is, I haven’t noticed.

  “I have a few things going on right now,” I admit, giving her an inch.

  “Work related?” she presses.

  “Some of it is, yes. I’m supposed to have heard back about a grant proposal but the committee is delayed.”

  “Patricia mentioned something about it.”

  “It’s been stressful, not to mention I’ve taken on more cases recently. With more cases comes more consults, paperwork, pre-ops, post-ops.”

  “I get it, you’re a busy guy—but that still doesn’t quite explain why you seem to want to take your stress and anger out on me. Can’t you go to the gym or something? Punch a beanbag?”

  I smile. “I think you mean a punching bag.”

  “That’s what I said. Now, what else? You said some of your stress is work related. Is the other stuff personal?”

  I put my blinker on and change lanes, not sure I want to go down this path with her. A part of me wants to admit I’m annoyed she’s texting and flirting with my brother, except she doesn’t know Cooper’s my brother. I asked him about it the other day and he said it hasn’t come up organically in conversation. What the hell does that mean? I told him to work it into conversation artificially. Simple as that. He said he’d do it soon but didn’t want to scare her off. Like being my sibling means he’s tainted by association. Honestly, his logic made absolutely no sense to me, but I’ve kept my word not to bring it up
with Bailey. Besides, there’s never been a chance to talk about it. I only ever see her in the operating room.

  Until now. Until I put her in the passenger seat of my car and pretended like it was normal. I can smell her perfume. I notice every time she shifts in her seat, trying to get comfortable—or is she trying to get as far away from me as possible?

  Her cheek is about to be squashed against the window.

  It shouldn’t bother me that they’re texting, so I tell myself it doesn’t, as if I’ll change my stance on the subject by sheer willpower alone.

  Cooper can do whatever the hell he wants and I’ll carry on with my life as normal. That’s been my plan, except I guess it hasn’t really been working. Apparently, I’ve been a real asshole to work with. Imagine that.

  “Let’s change the subject,” I say, reaching forward and turning on the radio as if that will help matters. This is nothing today’s top hits can’t solve.

  She swats my hand away and turns it down. “No, we’re going to get down to the real reason you hate me.”

  I scowl. “I don’t hate you.”

  “Oh, okay, I’m sorry, you just don’t like me. What’s the difference?”

  I don’t say anything and the car is filled with tense silence. I change lanes and exit the freeway as the song ends and another one starts up. She crosses her arms on a heavy sigh.

  “I think I should just quit. This isn’t working out.”

  It feels like someone just sucker-punched me.

  “What? Why?” I flick quick glances in her direction while also trying to keep my eyes on the road. I don’t want to miss my turn. “Because of what happened in the OR today?”

  “Yes—well, no. I mean, it’s part of it. I just feel like your presence in the operating room is too intimidating. My every move is magnified and judged. You make me feel like I’m not quick enough or smart enough to keep up with you.” She throws up her hands in defeat. “Maybe we just aren’t a good match. I thought I could handle pressure, but I realize now that working with Dr. Lopez was nothing compared to being on your team. Dr. Lopez was sunshine and rainbows and playlists filled with The Beach Boys, and you’re…”

  “I’m what?” I demand.