“You’re flushed,” he says as his smile turns condescending.
“And you’re wrong,” I insist, voice quivering. “You think I want you to kiss me? I’m terrified of you.” His eyes spark as I continue, “You have all the power. If this doesn’t work out, I’ll be the one forced to find another job. When gossip spreads through the office, you’ll look like a playboy and I’ll look like the surgical assistant who couldn’t keep her legs closed. I’m not going down this road until I’m absolutely certain it’s what I want.”
“And what about me? What if it’s what I want?”
His hand curves around my throat and his thumb presses against my pulse. The action could seem threatening, but instead it’s gentle and intentional. I think he wants to shake sense into me, but he doesn’t. His eyes are locked with mine and there are a thousand emotions passing between us: longing, need, desire, want, jealousy, rage, and finally…impatience. I freeze as he tips his head down toward me again.
My heart soars and my breath catches as I brace myself for a soul-stealing kiss, but at the last moment—just before his mouth meets mine—he shifts and lets his forehead fall against the shelf beside me. His eyes pinch closed and he whispers my name like he’s in pain then he slams his hand against the shelf and turns for the door. The mop is thrown aside and the sound of it clattering against the concrete reverberates around the closet as he storms out.
I’m shaking with residual panic.
It feels as if a bullet just whizzed past my ear.
I should be relieved more than anything, but the only emotion flooding my body at the moment is crushing disappointment.
Chapter 21
BAILEY
I’m resisting Matt under the guise of being sensible and responsible. I tell myself I can’t indulge my fantasies just because I might want to. I have to think about my future. I have to do what’s best for Josie. I don’t have the luxury of living solely for myself. It wasn’t so long ago that I was worried about being out of a job. When Dr. Lopez retired, I was terrified of what would happen if I didn’t find another position quickly. I remember what that uncertainty felt like, and I won’t let burning-hot desire cloud my better judgment.
To curb temptation, I ban Grey’s Anatomy from the house. Josie, of course, puts up a protest, but I don’t listen.
“I can’t watch it! I hate it! All those stupid doctors making out in storage closets. Guess what?! In real life, it’s not so glamorous. Those metal shelves really hurt.”
She stares at me with wide eyes and I hurry to amend my statement.
“At least, I assume they do…”
The following week is torture on par with waterboarding. I swear Matt wears scrubs that purposely accentuate his ass. He’s tan and healthy while the rest of us are winter white. When he speaks, his voice has never sounded so deep and compelling. AND OKAY THE BEDROOM EYES HAVE GOT TO STOP. I’m boiling up inside.
I don’t think Matt’s faring any better than I am. Though he keeps his promise about treating his staff better, underneath his forced civility, I can tell he’s a brooding mess. He might not be shouting orders at any of us, but he’s still stomping around like he’s angry at the world.
I give him a wide berth outside the OR so there’s no chance of another steamy session in the storage closet, but it’s hard work avoiding someone all day. When I get home from the practice, I have PTSD from looking over my shoulder and listening for his voice. I’m ready to collapse from exhaustion, but Josie only makes things worse by asking me about him incessantly. Now that I’ve banned Grey’s, she’s been checking out too many young adult romance novels from the library, and she’s cast Matt and me as the main characters. Her questions might seem innocuous to someone else, but I know her tricks.
“Did surgery go well today?”
Yes.
“Was Dr. Russell there?”
Of course.
“Did he look handsome in his scrubs?”
Sure.
Every question is a little test to see how I’ll respond. If I say he looked so hot I nearly wept, she’ll accuse me of having a crush. If I say I barely noticed him, she’ll accuse me of lying. So, I toe the line and attempt to seem unruffled whenever he’s brought up, but of course, she sees right through it.
“You’re so blind to matters of the heart, it’s not even funny,” she says to me one night over dinner before she walks away to continue reading, leaving me with the fallout of that emotional grenade.
The only respite I have is at the end of the day when I’m tucked in bed. I indulge myself by unpacking every moment I had with him that day, even if he was acting like an angry monster. It’s better than nothing. I hoard every word and glance (okay, fine, every glare) he aims in my direction, and I dream about how it would be if things were different, if there were less on the line for me.
A few weeks after the supply closet incident, I overhear him speaking excitedly to Patricia in the hallway. I have my lunch in hand, en route to the staff lounge when I catch sight of him holding out a piece of paper for her to read. He’s beaming from ear to ear. I haven’t seen him look so happy since…well, ever. I freeze and stare, enamored by that smile and how it transforms his face. Hello, Heart? Yes, it’s me, Brain. Please control yourself.
“It’s an email from the grant committee,” Matt explains proudly. “They’re down to two proposals—mine and another one from an orthopedist in California.”
Patricia beams. “That’s awesome. When will they have the final decision?”
“Right after Christmas.”
Of course, his grant—the thing I’ve heard so little about and the thing that must be weighing heavily on his mind. I know it’s a big deal for him to be one of the final two nominees. I’m tempted to walk over and ask to read the email, but then he glances up and his gaze clashes with mine. Blue eyes pin me to my spot. In an instant, his smile fades. His eyes harden and any hope of congratulating him shrivels up and dies. I turn in the opposite direction and head for the stairwell. Creepy vibe or not, it’s better than walking past him.
I’m looking forward to Christmas with equal amounts of excitement and trepidation. At the end of this week, the surgical department will close up shop for ten whole days so we can celebrate the holidays, but before everyone scatters across the country, the department will throw its annual Christmas party. It’s always at a fancy location—a trendy restaurant or swanky hotel—and the food is worth stuffing myself into an uncomfortable dress. I always attend (re: food). Historically, Matt doesn’t, and chances are he won’t be there this year either.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I’m also not sure how I feel about not seeing him for those ten days. Sure, it won’t be so different than how it is now. We aren’t currently talking outside of the OR. For weeks, he’s treated me how he would treat any other employee. When he speaks to me—and it’s only ever about work—his tone is detached and aloof. He’s not being rude, per se, but compared to the warmth I got from him when we were on friendly terms, it’s torture.
I’m sitting with a few other surgical assistants in the staff lounge over lunch, picking at my sandwich and trying not to visibly mope, when Erika elbows me in the side.
“You have a visitor.”
I glance up, follow her gaze to the door, and freeze when I see Matt’s imposing figure standing at the threshold. He’s wearing his suit and white coat. There are files tucked under his arm. His piercing gaze is aimed right at me and my stomach fills with dread. I lurch to my feet and hurry over.
“Is something wrong with Hannah?”
She’s the patient we operated on this morning and I’m worried if he’s here, it’s because something is going wrong with her recovery.
His brows furrow and he shakes his head. “No. She’s doing well. A new case just came in and I need to speak with you about it.”
I let out the breath I was holding and nod quickly. “Oh, okay. Of course. Let me just go toss the rest of my lunch.”
He holds up a to-go box. “It’s fine, you can finish it—we’ll eat while we talk.”
“And you’re wrong,” I insist, voice quivering. “You think I want you to kiss me? I’m terrified of you.” His eyes spark as I continue, “You have all the power. If this doesn’t work out, I’ll be the one forced to find another job. When gossip spreads through the office, you’ll look like a playboy and I’ll look like the surgical assistant who couldn’t keep her legs closed. I’m not going down this road until I’m absolutely certain it’s what I want.”
“And what about me? What if it’s what I want?”
His hand curves around my throat and his thumb presses against my pulse. The action could seem threatening, but instead it’s gentle and intentional. I think he wants to shake sense into me, but he doesn’t. His eyes are locked with mine and there are a thousand emotions passing between us: longing, need, desire, want, jealousy, rage, and finally…impatience. I freeze as he tips his head down toward me again.
My heart soars and my breath catches as I brace myself for a soul-stealing kiss, but at the last moment—just before his mouth meets mine—he shifts and lets his forehead fall against the shelf beside me. His eyes pinch closed and he whispers my name like he’s in pain then he slams his hand against the shelf and turns for the door. The mop is thrown aside and the sound of it clattering against the concrete reverberates around the closet as he storms out.
I’m shaking with residual panic.
It feels as if a bullet just whizzed past my ear.
I should be relieved more than anything, but the only emotion flooding my body at the moment is crushing disappointment.
Chapter 21
BAILEY
I’m resisting Matt under the guise of being sensible and responsible. I tell myself I can’t indulge my fantasies just because I might want to. I have to think about my future. I have to do what’s best for Josie. I don’t have the luxury of living solely for myself. It wasn’t so long ago that I was worried about being out of a job. When Dr. Lopez retired, I was terrified of what would happen if I didn’t find another position quickly. I remember what that uncertainty felt like, and I won’t let burning-hot desire cloud my better judgment.
To curb temptation, I ban Grey’s Anatomy from the house. Josie, of course, puts up a protest, but I don’t listen.
“I can’t watch it! I hate it! All those stupid doctors making out in storage closets. Guess what?! In real life, it’s not so glamorous. Those metal shelves really hurt.”
She stares at me with wide eyes and I hurry to amend my statement.
“At least, I assume they do…”
The following week is torture on par with waterboarding. I swear Matt wears scrubs that purposely accentuate his ass. He’s tan and healthy while the rest of us are winter white. When he speaks, his voice has never sounded so deep and compelling. AND OKAY THE BEDROOM EYES HAVE GOT TO STOP. I’m boiling up inside.
I don’t think Matt’s faring any better than I am. Though he keeps his promise about treating his staff better, underneath his forced civility, I can tell he’s a brooding mess. He might not be shouting orders at any of us, but he’s still stomping around like he’s angry at the world.
I give him a wide berth outside the OR so there’s no chance of another steamy session in the storage closet, but it’s hard work avoiding someone all day. When I get home from the practice, I have PTSD from looking over my shoulder and listening for his voice. I’m ready to collapse from exhaustion, but Josie only makes things worse by asking me about him incessantly. Now that I’ve banned Grey’s, she’s been checking out too many young adult romance novels from the library, and she’s cast Matt and me as the main characters. Her questions might seem innocuous to someone else, but I know her tricks.
“Did surgery go well today?”
Yes.
“Was Dr. Russell there?”
Of course.
“Did he look handsome in his scrubs?”
Sure.
Every question is a little test to see how I’ll respond. If I say he looked so hot I nearly wept, she’ll accuse me of having a crush. If I say I barely noticed him, she’ll accuse me of lying. So, I toe the line and attempt to seem unruffled whenever he’s brought up, but of course, she sees right through it.
“You’re so blind to matters of the heart, it’s not even funny,” she says to me one night over dinner before she walks away to continue reading, leaving me with the fallout of that emotional grenade.
The only respite I have is at the end of the day when I’m tucked in bed. I indulge myself by unpacking every moment I had with him that day, even if he was acting like an angry monster. It’s better than nothing. I hoard every word and glance (okay, fine, every glare) he aims in my direction, and I dream about how it would be if things were different, if there were less on the line for me.
A few weeks after the supply closet incident, I overhear him speaking excitedly to Patricia in the hallway. I have my lunch in hand, en route to the staff lounge when I catch sight of him holding out a piece of paper for her to read. He’s beaming from ear to ear. I haven’t seen him look so happy since…well, ever. I freeze and stare, enamored by that smile and how it transforms his face. Hello, Heart? Yes, it’s me, Brain. Please control yourself.
“It’s an email from the grant committee,” Matt explains proudly. “They’re down to two proposals—mine and another one from an orthopedist in California.”
Patricia beams. “That’s awesome. When will they have the final decision?”
“Right after Christmas.”
Of course, his grant—the thing I’ve heard so little about and the thing that must be weighing heavily on his mind. I know it’s a big deal for him to be one of the final two nominees. I’m tempted to walk over and ask to read the email, but then he glances up and his gaze clashes with mine. Blue eyes pin me to my spot. In an instant, his smile fades. His eyes harden and any hope of congratulating him shrivels up and dies. I turn in the opposite direction and head for the stairwell. Creepy vibe or not, it’s better than walking past him.
I’m looking forward to Christmas with equal amounts of excitement and trepidation. At the end of this week, the surgical department will close up shop for ten whole days so we can celebrate the holidays, but before everyone scatters across the country, the department will throw its annual Christmas party. It’s always at a fancy location—a trendy restaurant or swanky hotel—and the food is worth stuffing myself into an uncomfortable dress. I always attend (re: food). Historically, Matt doesn’t, and chances are he won’t be there this year either.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I’m also not sure how I feel about not seeing him for those ten days. Sure, it won’t be so different than how it is now. We aren’t currently talking outside of the OR. For weeks, he’s treated me how he would treat any other employee. When he speaks to me—and it’s only ever about work—his tone is detached and aloof. He’s not being rude, per se, but compared to the warmth I got from him when we were on friendly terms, it’s torture.
I’m sitting with a few other surgical assistants in the staff lounge over lunch, picking at my sandwich and trying not to visibly mope, when Erika elbows me in the side.
“You have a visitor.”
I glance up, follow her gaze to the door, and freeze when I see Matt’s imposing figure standing at the threshold. He’s wearing his suit and white coat. There are files tucked under his arm. His piercing gaze is aimed right at me and my stomach fills with dread. I lurch to my feet and hurry over.
“Is something wrong with Hannah?”
She’s the patient we operated on this morning and I’m worried if he’s here, it’s because something is going wrong with her recovery.
His brows furrow and he shakes his head. “No. She’s doing well. A new case just came in and I need to speak with you about it.”
I let out the breath I was holding and nod quickly. “Oh, okay. Of course. Let me just go toss the rest of my lunch.”
He holds up a to-go box. “It’s fine, you can finish it—we’ll eat while we talk.”
