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Gina drummed her fingers against the doorframe. “Just be careful,” she said. “The girl’s cousin is on the board. I’m sure you’ve been keeping that in mind.”
“Oh, yes, of course, I’m constantly worried about the board and how it might reflect back on you.” I glanced over my shoulder and gave her a wolfish smile. “That all?”
She went to say something, but gave me a frustrated look instead, then turned and left. I watched her go, wondering just how much pull that cousin had, and how bad things had to get before Gina started pressuring me. She could make my life harder, if she wanted to—hell, she already was.
But it could always be worse.
I got up and stalked down the hall, feeling annoyed. I didn’t want to have to deal with the damn resident all the time. I wasn’t a babysitter. I was supposed to be her teacher. Apparently though, Gina seemed to think I had to be up Lori’s ass constantly—and maybe, come to think of it, that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
I found her in the maintenance closet, sitting on the dryer, reading a book. She seemed surprised when I came in, but didn’t bother to close it. Guess I shouldn’t have been surprised: she spent a lot of damn time down in this room, she might as well get some reading done.
“You look busy,” I said.
“Not at all. But that’s your fault.” She tilted her head. “You don’t normally come down here.”
“I’ve been made aware that you’re causing a bit of a stir.”
She closed her book and arched her eyebrow. That look again. Both her and Gina looked at me like I was the asshole here.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Cleaning staff keeps noticing you and complaining.”
She laughed, seemed genuinely delighted. “I guess your boss said something?”
“You guessed right.” I walked over to her and leaned up against the washing machine. Her legs were inches aware from me, but she didn’t move away. I noticed her ankles, thin and smooth, disappearing into her low socks and her comfortable shoes. Practical, smart, but somehow that small slip of skin made my stomach do flips. I looked back up at her. “We’ll have to do something about it.”
“Maybe you could stop making me do laundry.”
“But you’re so good at it.”
She made a face. “Why are you like this?”
“If you mean handsome and charming, I was born this way.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m not sure what to tell you then.” A short, tense silence as I studied her lips, her small nose, her ears, the way she nervously brushed hair from her face. “Maybe we can find another task for you.”
“Something relating to my chosen field would be nice.”
“And what field is that?”
“Surgery,” she said. “Which is why I’m training with you. Or at least allegedly.”
I nodded a little. “Why do you want to be a surgeon?”
Her frown deepened and she didn’t answer right away. I expected the usual clichés: wanting to help people, wanting to make money, wanting to do something important, blah blah blah, the usual shit. Not that any of it was wrong, but it was all right, a little too right—a little too obvious.
“I like the control,” she said, her voice soft. “Is that strange?”
It was my turn to arch an eyebrow. “No,” I said. “But you’re not supposed to say it out loud.”
Her cheeks turned pink. “I know it’s weird, okay? But ever since I was a little girl, I always wanted to be the one in the operating room. The one saving a life, the one standing between another person and maybe death, or whatever. I figured surgery was the most direct way to get there.”
“I like puzzles,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes. “Sorry, what?”
“Physical puzzles, like Rubik’s Cubes, stuff that took dexterity and spatial reasoning. I was really, really good at puzzles like that, and I figured that surgery might be the perfect way for me to keep doing those puzzles, but to get paid for it. And I guess to help people too.”
She let out a little breath, half laugh, half frustrated sigh. “I guess that makes you as weird as I am.”
“No, it means that we’re in this for the right reasons. All those other surgeons that start out because they want to help people, they could go into any other field and do that same thing. We’re both surgeons because we like the act of surgery.” I put my hand on her thigh, meaning for it to be some reassuring, platonic gesture—but as soon as my fingers touched her leg, I looked up into her eyes, and I saw the expression on her face.
It was surprise, mixed with something else, mixed with desire.
I left my hand there, let it linger much longer than it should have, much too far up on her leg, much too close to that perfect, warm spot.
