Page 101 of The Love Operation

I laugh. “Fair.”

We hold eye contact, and the air thickens. I step back against the door, then do something dangerous. I curl my finger and mouth the words: Come here.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He presses against me, silent and sure, and kisses me deep. I reach between us, sliding my hand over him through his slacks. His breath catches.

“Shh,” I whisper, gently stroking.

His eyes darken. Then he lifts a hand and drags a finger softly along my cheek.

I suck in a breath, not because it’s sensual, but because it’s sharp, like he’s brushing over skin that’s already been burned. I pull back, startled.

He must think I’m teasing, because his arms lift and bracket me on either side. As he leans in again, I brace for another jolt of discomfort, but this time, when his forehead meets mine, the contact is normal. The soft pressure is grounding, pulling us—or me—back toward erotic.

Still, something isn’t right with me. I feel it. But I push the thought aside and breathe in this moment between us.

After several seconds, Isaac whispers, “I love you, Dr. Wren.”

This time, the moment feels right. “I love you, too, Mr. Thompson.”

His face lights up.

The words send a crackle across the base of my skull, and I realize I’ve been afraid to tell him this, afraid to fall too deep too soon because it always crumbles.

But this, this feels different. I believe this could actually last.

I’m two minutes from texting Benedict when I get a phone call.

“Cordelia Wren,” I answer.

“Hey, Cord, it’s Micha from the OR. Dr. Tenpenny wanted me to reach you.”

My body goes rigid. Tenpenny’s on call tonight.

“What is it?” I ask, dread already filling me.

“They paged him to the ER for a spine consult, but he’s scrubbed in. He asked if you could see the patient.”

There’s a rustle, then another voice cuts in—tinny and echoey.

“Hey, Cord.” It’s Tenpenny. “Should be a straightforward kyphoplasty. ER says she’s sixty, fell, has two vertebral body fractures. She’s in a lot of pain.”

“There’s no one else?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “I have plans.”

“I tried Wal first. Apparently he’s skiing in Tahoe. Wouldn’t fly in for it. Bastard. I could try someone else, but—”

“I’ll do it.”

“I owe you.”

“Yes, you do.”

I hang up and head toward the ER, deciding not to call Dahlia unless I confirm we’re headed to the OR.

I stare at Mrs. Hubert’s MRI. Dr. Tenpenny was so wrong. This woman is four weeks post-op, butchered by the worst neurosurgeon in town. Her hardware is a horror show—one screw’s actually in the spinal canal. I’m amazed she’s not paralyzed. And her wound is infected.

I call the OR and tell them to prepare the room, then contact Dahlia and Ezra.