"What was that, Dr. Phillips?" Sebastian asks from directly behind me, making me jump.
"Nothing," I reply, not turning around. "Just reviewing the chart."
"Hmm," is all he says, the sound somehow conveying his disbelief.
The final straw comes as I'm heading to the cafeteria, mind already on the sad salad that awaits me. I round the corner at full speed, my thoughts a jumbled mess of frustration and confusion, and nearly collide with a solid chest in a white coat.
Sebastian's hands shoot out to steady me, gripping my upper arms before I can stumble. The contact is brief but searing, his fingers leaving phantom imprints on my skin even after he quickly releases me. I look up, ready to apologize automatically, but the words die in my throat.
His expression is a contradiction—professionally distant yet somehow burning with something else, something that makes my breath catch. His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up, darkening with an emotion that can't possibly be desire, not after a week of Arctic treatment.
"Dr. Phillips," he grumbles. "Watch where you're going."
Then he steps around me and continues down the hall, leaving me standing there with my heart racing and my body confused about whether to feel angry or turned on. Possibly both.
Definitely both.
As suspected, the cafeteria salad is a sad affair, all wilted lettuce and suspiciously pale tomatoes that have never seen actual sunlight. I stab a cucumber slice with more force than necessary, imagining it's Sebastian Walker's perfect, infuriating face.
It's been a week since he showed up at my apartment. A week of professional coldness punctuated by moments when I catch him looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin burn. A week of whiplash between Dr. Walker the Ice King and Sebastian the man who almost… almost what? That's the question that keeps me up at night, tossing in my sheets, remembering how he'd backed away from me like I was radioactive.
I spear a cherry tomato with enough force to send juice spraying across my scrub top. Great. Another stain to add to my collection. I dab at it half-heartedly with a napkin, my mind still circling the same frustrating track it's been on for days.
Reasons I Should Hate Sebastian Walker:
1. He publicly dismisses my ideas without consideration.
2. He's handed every interesting case to Harper.
3. He corrected my charting in front of a patient.
4. He treats me like I'm incompetent when I graduated top of my class.
5. He has the emotional consistency of a weathervane in a hurricane.
Reasons My Body Doesn't Care:
1. The way his forearms look when he rolls up his sleeves.
2. Those eyes that seem to see straight through me.
3. How his voice drops an octave when he's thinking hard.
4. The rare smile that transforms his entire face.
5. The memory of how he looked standing in my doorway, like a man starving.
My thighs press together involuntarily at the last thought, and I shift in my seat, annoyed at my own physical response. The fact that I'm still attracted to him after a week of professional frostbite makes me want to schedule myself for a brain scan.
"Well, don't you look like someone pissed in your Cheerios."
I look up to find Laney standing over me, her tray loaded with what appears to be one of everything from the cafeteria's hotline. Her scrubs are electric pink today, paired with sparkly crocs that look like they've been bedazzled by a kindergartner on a sugar high. Her hair is pulled into her signature twin buns, and her eyeliner is sharp enough to perform surgery.
"Move over, sunshine," she says, sliding onto the bench beside me. "You're giving off such intense fuck off vibes that table four started a betting pool on whether you're planning a murder or just failed a procedure."
I laugh, despite myself. "What's the current odds?"
"Four to one on murder. I put twenty on you planning Dr. Walker's slow, painful demise."
