Hotshot Doc Read online

  “Usually we’re wearing gloves,” I say, suddenly sounding like I’m high out of my mind.

  “What?”

  I stare down at my hand. “In the operating room, when you hand me instruments, we’re wearing gloves. That’s why…”

  This feels so intimate.

  I swallow the words and release her hand.

  “I think I should just go home. This night has been a total disaster.”

  I regret letting go of her as she starts to walk away.

  I’m screwing this up, but there’s no clear path forward. Do I let her go? Ask her to stay? We work together and she came with my brother and no part of this night makes any sense.

  “What if my brother was right?” I say suddenly. “What if his experiment worked?”

  She turns and her eyes collide with mine. I watch as the meaning of my questions sink in and HOLY SHIT what have I done? Why did I say that?!

  “There you are!” Cooper’s voice booms behind her. His timing is impeccable as he approaches us and drops his hands onto Bailey’s shoulders. She flinches, but he doesn’t notice. “C’mon, they want everyone to head into the ballroom. Dinner is starting!”

  Chapter 15

  BAILEY

  Oh yes, just what I was hoping for: a five-course meal following the weirdest conversation of my life. I’m not hungry. My stomach has been replaced by a knot of tension, and yet here I sit at a banquet table with Cooper and his entire family. Short of feigning a sudden illness, there no way to escape sitting here for another hour or so. I keep trying to catch the waiter’s attention so I can somehow signal for him to poison my food, or at the very least deliver me a drink with a heavy pour. Unfortunately, he just thinks I’m flirting—he passes me his number when he delivers the next course.

  Dr. Russell is sitting across from me, brooding Mr. Darcy style and drawing the attention of every female in attendance who isn’t related to him by blood. Even then, I think a few of his cousins would go there. Now, the waitress filling his water is focused so intently on his hair that she doesn’t realize his cup runneth over. What is it about jet black, slightly rumpled, grip-it-while-he’s-kissing-you-senseless hair that turns brains to goop?

  She shakes herself out of her stupor just before the water starts to pool onto the table.

  The banquet table is long, but not nearly wide enough. If I’m not careful, our knees will brush ever so slightly. It’s happened twice now and the sensation of his smooth suit pants caressing my leg is nothing short of erotic. I find the only way to stifle a moan is by filling my mouth with bread. Consequently, the knot in my stomach has been replaced with a massive ciabatta loaf.

  The other female guests aren’t the only ones making googly eyes at Dr. Russell. Considering I’m sitting right across from him, I’ve had no choice but to peer at him from beneath my lashes and collect data like I’m a scientist and he’s some newfound species of hunk. Here are my thoughts:

  1) His eyes are the clearest blue, like that White Walker general in Game of Thrones. Fitting comparison considering they also share a similar personality.

  2) The fact that he’s taken off his jacket and hung it on the chair behind him is fine, but did he really need to roll the sleeves of his shirt up as well? We don’t all need to be subjected to that level of forearm porn while eating dinner, tyvm.

  3) He’s a really terrible dinner companion. I think he’s said three words to the people around him. I know this because I have one ear trained directly on him. If he so much as swallows, I notice.

  4) He will not meet my eye no matter how hard I try. I think he regrets what he told me earlier.

  I can’t decide if I want him to regret what he told me earlier.

  That’s a door I’ve never considered opening before tonight.

  “So Bailey, how long have you been a surgical assistant?”

  The question comes from Mrs. Russell, who happens to be seated to my left. Oh yes, I’m surrounded by Russells on all sides. This would be a nightmare if Mrs. Russell wasn’t one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. To continue the Game of Thrones comparisons, she would be Samwell Tarly: kind, helpful, and always down for a snack. She’s helping me finish off the bread basket.

  “A few years now. I really like it even though it’s not what I initially thought I’d be doing.”

  “Oh, really? Was medicine not always the end goal?”

  “No, it was. I just thought I’d end up in a different role. I started out taking pre-med courses in college, but life got in the way a bit.” Her brows crinkle with pity and I quickly add, “I really like what I do now though.”

  “Cooper tells me you take care of your younger sister? Is that what forced you to reroute?”

  Reroute—what a nice euphemism for the chaos of that time in my life.

  “Yes, but truly, it’s better this way. I love having Josie live with me.”

  I’m expecting her to ask why my parents aren’t in the picture, and I dread having to tell the truth. The tale is bleak: slick ice on a dark road. My parents were driving home from a holiday party when my father lost control of the vehicle. I flinch at the memory of their mangled car.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Russell steers the conversation in a different direction.

  “How old were you when you became your sister’s guardian?”

  “20.”

  “Goodness.” She shakes her head in pity. “You’ve had to grow up so fast.”

  I shrug. “Maybe, but it taught me a lot. I don’t resent having to take care of her.”

  Her hand hits my forearm and her eyes meet mine, and I’m embarrassed that I’m suddenly getting choked up. It’s that kindness in her eyes making me feel like she’s found the chink in my armor, the ooey-gooey center of my Tootsie Roll Pop I try so hard to hide.

  “I didn’t know you take care of your sister,” Dr. Russell says from across the table, his deep voice cutting through the chatter around us.

  I still, keeping my gaze pinned on Mrs. Russell. I didn’t know he was listening. With all the conversations taking place around us, it would have been hard for him to hear me clearly.

  Unfortunately, when I finally work up the courage to glance over, those White Walker-blue eyes are studying me intently. There’s no doubt he’s heard every word. Dread fills my stomach. I want to go back to a few minutes ago when he was ignoring me, because the way he’s looking at me now, it’s like he’s also seeing my vulnerable spot. What a dangerous development. He already wields so much power, and I’ve just hand-delivered him even more.

  Cooper laughs loudly on my right and the sound jars me out of the moment. I’m thankful at least he is carrying on like he’s at a wedding while the rest of us go deep into a therapy session. I don’t need any more of an audience listening to my familial woes.

  “I wish you had told me,” Dr. Russell says, his dark brows crinkled in concern.

  I clear my throat, trying to ease the tension there. “You’ve never asked about my life outside of the hospital.”

  He looks stricken by my comment, and I instantly regret the way it sounded. His mother is still listening, after all. I don’t really think it’s appropriate to chastise him in front of her.

  “And,” I clarify, “it’s not something I talk about all that often.”

  After that, dinner lasts for another unbearable hour. I sit in silence, Dr. Russell nurses a few drinks, and Mrs. Russell carries the conversation for all of us. I practically leap out of my chair when they clear away the last plate, bumping into the waiter who gave me his number.

  “Hey, uh…I’m not sure if you came with anyone tonight…”

  Oh dear GOD.

  I sidestep around him and run for the bathroom, and even though I want to cut in front of the bride’s grandma and a tiny flower girl hopping back and forth from leg to leg, I don’t. I lean against the wall and wait my turn so I can lock myself in a stall and linger for as long as I damn well please.

  Sitting on a crinkly piece of tissue paper covering
the toilet, I check Uber and lament the ridiculous fee that pops up. It took us a while to get here. I knew the cost to get home would be expensive, but that’s like can-I-pay-with-sexual-favors expensive. Walking isn’t an option either because it’s -139 degrees outside and my limbs would freeze and break off within the first mile.

  “Hey! C’mon! There are only three stalls!” someone shouts before banging hard on my door.

  “Oh! Sorry! I’m having diarrhea.”

  And then I pull up a YouTube video of Niagara Falls so I can finish researching my exit in peace.

  Unfortunately, after a good deal of desperate searching, I’m left with no other option but to grin and bear it for a little longer until I can convince Cooper to take me home.

  When I vacate my sanctuary (stall) and reenter the festivities, I expect him to be worried about my prolonged absence. No doubt word of my condition has spread through the ballroom, but I’m annoyed to find that I happen to be on a date with the Russell brother who loves attention. At this very moment he’s in the middle of the dance floor smoothly transitioning back and forth between twirling the flower girl like a ballerina and shimmying beside the mother of the bride. There’s a circle of people clapping around him and oh my god, he’s doing the worm. Three bridesmaids hover nearby, licking their chops.

  I turn in the exact opposite direction. Some people were made to dance, and some people were made to be wallflowers. I fall solidly into the second category.

  I round the edge of the room, happy to finally have a moment to myself, but then I spot Dr. Russell sitting outside in the cold. He couldn’t be farther away from the festivities unless he physically removed himself from the premises.

  I watch as he brings a drink to his lips and takes a long drag. Then he lays his head on the back of the chair and stares up at the night sky. I press my hand to the glass and confirm it’s just as cold as I thought it would be.

  Stupid man.

  He’s going to get frostbite. I should let him.

  What do I care?

  And yet, I turn and walk back to the dining table to get our coats. His is thick wool and undoubtedly expensive and I want to wrap it around myself so badly, but I stuff my arms into my own puffy pink sleeves and resist the temptation.

  At the door to the patio, I take a deep breath, appreciating one last second of warmth before I step outside and arctic air blasts my face. My extremities turn to ice. I lose feeling in my bare legs.

  “Jesus, are you insane?!” I shout, scurrying over to him quickly. “What are you doing out here?”

  He doesn’t turn around, just holds up his tumbler as if in explanation.

  “Yes, I get it: you’re trying to drink yourself to death. You’ve been doing it all night—surely you’re close by now.”

  He chuckles. “One more ought to do it.”

  His reply is lazier than usual. He’s definitely drunk, and I’m definitely about to die when another blast of wind hits me.

  I round his chair, fling his jacket onto his lap, and run back inside as fast as my legs can take me. I feel no pity for him anymore. He has his jacket. I’m going to walk right over to that nice roaring fire, plop down in the cozy sitting area, and pull up the Kindle app on my phone.

  When I get closer, I realize I’m not the only one with this idea. A young girl is reading a worn paperback and she’s so focused on it, she doesn’t even notice me.

  “Is this seat available?” I ask, pointing to the chair across from her. She nods without looking up and wow, this girl is my kind of people.

  I sit there, warming up and reading on my phone, glad no one cares to bother me, right up until a pair of keys appear in my line of sight. I follow them up to a large hand, and then an arm covered in thick wool. Up even farther, my gaze clashes with Dr. Russell’s.

  “Drive me home?”

  I scrunch my nose in distaste. “Can’t you drive yourself?”

  “That possibility flew out the window about four drinks back. Lily, mind if I steal your friend?”

  The little girl shrugs and turns a page. Such betrayal. Here I was thinking we were forming a little book club. Where’s her loyalty?

  “Can’t you ask someone else?” Anyone else?

  Maybe Lily has a motorized scooter she could tie him to.

  He drops his keys and they plop onto my lap. “No. I know you want to leave too. This is called killing two birds with one stone. Now c’mon. I already told everyone we’re leaving so you don’t have to bother with saying goodbye.”

  Fine. It’s just as well. My phone is about to die anyway.

  Though he says I don’t have to, I want to say goodbye to everyone because I’m not a complete jerk. There’s no way Cooper will let me go this easily. No doubt he’ll turn into a raging scorned lover when he finds out I’m leaving with his brother.

  “Okay, cool. Drive safe!” he calls from the center of the dance floor, sandwiched between two bridesmaids.

  Oh, right. Well…he must be very good at hiding his territorial side.

  At least Mrs. Russell is sad to see me go.

  “I hope we get to see you again soon, Bailey,” she says, sounding as if she actually means it. Unfortunately for her, the chances of that ever happening are slim to none. One of her sons is doing the robot and has forgotten I exist, and the other is hovering near the door, anxious to get away from here and me.

  Out in the parking lot, he walks a few paces behind me, drunk as a skunk.

  I’ve never seen him like this. He’s always so buttoned-up and high-strung. I bet he watches TV in his suit in the evenings. When he’s watched exactly one episode of a documentary or snooze-worthy educational programming, he brushes each of his teeth for exactly 15 seconds and then he tucks himself into bed wearing a full pajama set, dressing robe, slippers, and little night cap.

  I laugh at the image before realizing the real-life Dr. Russell is no longer following me. For no good reason, he’s changed course and is toddling toward the dumpsters at the far end of the parking lot.

  “Where are you going?!” I cry, running after him.

  He laughs. “I can’t remember the color of my car.”

  “Obviously.”

  Though I have the sober advantage, his legs are easily twice as long as mine. When I finally reach him, I’m breathing hard. Like a zookeeper trying to wrangle a wild bear, I’m careful not to get too close in case he decides to pass out and smother me in the process. Instead, I hover behind him, hands on his biceps as I half-shove, half-prod him in the right direction. It’s not easy. With him resisting, it’s like I’m trying to move a boulder.

  We make it a few feet before he sees something on the ground that catches his interest and leans forward to grab it. It’s a flower growing in the concrete. He picks it and offers it to me. “Here, please, a token of my gratitude.”

  I yank the tiny white thing out of his hand, shove it in my pocket, and roll my eyes. “All right, fine. Thank you. Now c’mon, we’re almost there.”

  His Prius is just a few yards away, but he turns back to look over his shoulder and his bottom lip juts out like he’s disappointed. I should despise him for what he’s putting me through, but even inebriated, he’s ridiculously hot. His dark hair is a slightly tousled, his tie tugged loose.

  “You don’t like it, do you? I’ll buy you roses instead. Stop at a florist on the way home.”

  Oh Jesus. How did I get here?

  I unlock his Prius and have a hell of a time getting him inside. It’s like he’s forgotten how his limbs work. His hand flies toward me and I have to duck.

  “Do you have to be so big?”

  I accidentally bonk his head as I force him down and he groans, but eventually I have him stuffed in there and buckled up. I have to shift the driver’s seat forward about twenty feet before I can reach the gas pedal, but a few minutes later, I’m on the highway with his address in the map app on my phone.

  I’m so close to freedom I can taste it.

  “Bailey, Bailey, Bail
ey,” he says, head rolling back and forth on his headrest. “Why do you hate me?”

  Okay, maybe not that close.

  I glance over and his boyish charm hits me in full force. His head is turned toward me. His eyes plead with me to give in, though I have no idea what I would be surrendering to. His mouth is turned down in a sad frown. His hand is outstretched, palm up, resting on the console as if he’s waiting for me to clasp it. I clutch the steering wheel extra hard.

  “I don’t hate you, Dr. Russell.”

  He groans like he’s in pain as he redirects his gaze out the windshield. “My name is Matt. I don’t know why you insist on—”

  “Okay, okay.” I’m quick to appease him. “Matt.”

  He sighs. “Say it again, slower.”

  Instead, I turn on the radio, set it to a country station, and blast the volume as loud as I can without permanently damaging our hearing. There’s no more possibility of conversation for the remainder of the drive because a cowboy is singing about his achy breaky heart at max decibels.

  His house is in a fancy neighborhood, but it’s not an obnoxious stucco mansion with 45 bathrooms. It’s a modern one-story farmhouse with white brick, large windows, and a glossy black front door. I lead him straight to it, much the same way I led him through the parking lot at the chapel (protecting my face), and when we reach the welcome mat, I wipe my hands clean and step back.

  “All right. Well, good luck. See ya!”

  He drops his head to the front door and makes no move to enter.

  “Okay fine, let me just unlock this door and…there, now go inside.”

  I poke him in the back with my finger, but it’s clear he has no intention of moving from his stoop. I could leave him there, but it’s getting colder by the minute and I don’t necessarily want his death on my conscience.

  So that’s how I find myself in Dr. Russell’s—I mean, Matt’s (!)—house, helping him down the hallway to his bedroom.

  His arm hangs across my shoulders and I drag him forward like he’s a wounded soldier. My legs are shaking from the weight. Every room we pass, I try to stop.