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I catch the smile she aims at Connor, and that’s just my luck. Does he even realize how lucky he is to be liked by Lois? I bet it makes his job so much easier.
After rounds, one of the overeager residents walks up and talks too loudly near me. My ears ring. “Dr. Martin, where should we—”
I hold up my hand, pinching my eyes closed. I’m about to tell him to go lock himself in a room until I tell him he can come out, but I overcome that urge and instead speak in a very professional tone. It takes a Herculean effort. “Follow me. You’ll observe my surgery. You and you, scrub in,” I say, pointing to two residents, one of whom is Dr. Lee. “You’ll be assisting me today.”
Even with a dull headache, I manage to plaster on a smile and a good attitude once I’m in front of the patients and their care teams. My patients matter, and I won’t slack on the job just because of a late night. It’s funny how it works, actually. The second I step into the operating room, it’s like the outside world doesn’t exist. Adrenaline and endorphins kick in. My focus narrows. My headache and queasy stomach are pushed to the side once I see a patient on my table. Nothing matters but them.
Unfortunately, the second I walk back into the sterile core after surgery, everything comes rushing back. I wince as I remove my scrub cap, and that’s when I realize I’m not alone.
Connor’s scrubbing out too.
He must have been in the operating room beside mine. He’s sweating, like I am. His navy scrubs are stuck to his chest. His brown hair is damp, making it look darker than it is. He should look terrible, but he doesn’t. He looks strong and healthy, like he’s just won a championship football game or run down an elk. Our innate biological urges are so strange.
“Tough morning?” he asks before standing to shake out his hands.
I barely muster a half-smile. “You could say that.”
“Looks like your surgeries went well though. Dr. Garza just came by a second ago, bragging about you.”
Pride unfurls in my chest. I might have made a stupid mistake last night letting peer pressure win out, but fortunately, it didn’t affect my work. I’m never that careless the night before I’m scheduled to operate. I cringe, thinking of what would have happened if I’d had to call in sick with a hangover. Lesson learned.
“Going to make it the rest of the day?” he asks, assessing me with his cool blue eyes.
“Not if you and the residents keep hounding me with questions.”
He laughs and shakes his head. A medical student pushes open the swinging door that leads from the hall into the sterile core and tells Connor he has some of the lab results that were requested during rounds.
Connor thanks him and turns back in my direction before leaving the room. “By the way, Noah wants us to have dinner at the townhouse tonight before he leaves.”
Panic grips my chest. That’s right; Noah is leaving tonight on a red-eye.
Tonight, Connor and I will officially be on our own.It occurs to me later, after I get off work and go on a short run with Lindsey, that Connor hasn’t acknowledged the comment he made in the kitchen last night. He could have commented on it during our walk to work, though Noah was with us. But Noah wasn’t there in the sterile core, after our surgeries ended. He could have said something then, asked my thoughts on the subject, but he didn’t. Now I’m left wondering why. There’s the possibility that he regrets saying it. I also consider whether or not I could have hallucinated such a thing, but no—I know it happened. I know because I can still feel how fast my heart raced, how hard it was to take a full breath as I watched him disappear up the stairs.
Back in the guest house, I pay careful attention to my appearance before dinner. My hair is still slightly damp from my shower, the curls starting to take form as I swipe through the clothes in my closet, unimpressed with the selection. I wish Lindsey lived closer so I could steal something of hers to wear. I didn’t tell her about Connor’s comment during our run. It didn’t feel right. It feels too soon to reveal his confession, like I’m counting my chickens before they hatch.
I groan as I pass yet another boring top that leaves me feeling uninspired. Once I’ve gone through every article of clothing I own not once, but twice, I growl and give up. This is silly. What am I going to do? Walk over to dinner wearing a pencil skirt and a button-down? Knot my hair up in a bun and slap on some red lipstick? Connor has known me for years. He’s seen me in my running clothes and my scrubs. He’s seen me in ratty pajamas and the very few occasions I’ve actually dressed up. There’s no reason to start trying to change how he perceives me now.
