“I think we should call it quits after the next round.” Roan stood up from the table, snatching Tank’s wallet off the table. “Before Tank gets us thrown out of here.”
Three more mimosas and twentyish minutes later, they were waiting in the front area for Crozier and Alex’s Uber.
“You’re gonna make sure he gets home, not hungover, Crozier?” Roan asked, trying to gauge the relative level of intoxication from the two other doctors. Alex seemed giddy, and Drew’s next sentence convinced Roan he was feeling it too.
“Drew, please. Crozier is my dad, and, if I got the residents to call me Drew, so can you.” He gestured wildly into the air to Roan standing next to him.
“Only to your face,” Alex said, weaving slightly against Drew, placing more weight on his ‘good’ left leg than he usually did. “Also because that nice girl pediatrician told them to.”
“What?” Roan, along with Tank and Drew, exclaimed—all for different reasons.
“Remember her, Roan? She was one of the only good things in January. Brought sunshine to anesthesia with those happy scrub caps.” Alex stroked his chin, while on Roan’s left side, Tank became rock-still.
Shit. Tank was aware of exactly one pediatrician who could have rotated into Anesthesia.
Alex continued on, oblivious of the havoc he was wrecking. “She’d stop by to intubate and chat with the residents. Encouraged them to call him by Drew.”
“Wow. I had no idea.” Drew turned to the left to give Tank more details. “Now, supposing you were in the market for a nice girl, you could do way worse than Morgan in peds.”
“You don’t say?” A muscle in Tank’s jaw twitched and he raised his hand to his mid-chest. “She about this tall? Brown hair, brown eyes? Goes by Clarissa?”
“That’s the one. Drew had a crush,” Alex teased him and batted his eyes at Drew.
“Hey. I’ve never... well… she’s cute. I thought about her, but it’s complicated,” Drew was focused on pushing Alex away instead of connecting the dots that Tank shouldn’t have known Clarissa’s name. Blissfully incognizant to how close he was to sudden death via a large number of methods.
It was a toss-up between who would kill him first—Roan or Tank. Probably Tank because Roan’s own alcohol-slowed brain was a little behind. He was still struggling with the idea that Alex was the only neurosurgeon on the planet who actually paid attention to the anesthesiologists, let alone that Drew was carrying a torch for Clarissa.
Before Roan had staked his still mostly private claim on Clarissa over Valentine’s Day, Drew had mentioned interest in Clarissa. Roan had immediately strongly discouraged pursuing her and had assumed he’d been successful since she’d never indicated anything more than professional interest in Drew.
“Complicated how?” Tank’s question was deceptively neutral, taking a few steps around Roan and toward Drew, his face having lost all humor.
“She’s a resident, so she’s a few years younger than me. It’s better that she’s not in my department. Still, she’s so fresh-faced you kinda wonder if she’s ever been kissed—and then you feel bad about thinking about it.” Drew was registering alarm now as Tank began his transformation from ‘friendly non-threatening guy’ to ‘about to rip you limb from limb guy.’
“But you thought about it? Kissing her?” Tank grabbed ahold of Drew’s jacket. “Wonder what she’d sound like? How she’d taste, you goddamn mother?—”
“Stop.” Roan shoved his way between them, preventing the impending homicide. “He has no idea Clarissa is your sister.”
“Oh. Wow. I’m sorry.” Horrified, Drew tried to pull away from the unyielding grip of a pissed off Navy SEAL.
“Let him go, Tank.” Roan kept his tone even. “Drew and I had an understanding about this. Didn’t we? I told you to stay away from her.”
“You did, which I did.” Drew nodded vigorously, an exaggeration of their conversations. “Haven’t talked to her since she left anesthesia.”
“I hope that’s true.” Tank didn’t loosen his fist but resorted to threatening him. “My sister, Clarissa Evangeline Morgan-Saint-Claire is off-limits. I will take the greatest of pleasure in gelding you if you go near her. Capiche?”
“Is everything okay here, gentleman?” They had attracted the host from the counter.
As if a man dressed as a Gameron and six inches shorter than Tank was going to be much of a threat.
“Tank, I gave you an order. Release him.” Roan resorted to his command. While there was a new burning pit of anger in his own stomach over the idea of Drew making a play for Roan’s woman, it didn’t mean he could let Tank murder him. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That’s because she’s not your sister,” Tank growled, yet he dropped his hand from Drew with a glower. “You have no idea what a man would do for his little sister.”
“True, except she is cute and friendly and any single straight male will notice.” Roan certainly should not have said the next part. “You can’t kill everyone who gives her a second look.”
“Can’t I?” Tank’s eyes were slits, staring through Roan toward Drew.
Fortunately, their local drunk neurosurgeon came to the rescue. “Wow. Wow. Finally, someone else is making worse dating decisions than me! I love this place. Is it okay if we grab a few more shooting stars?”
