Page 135 of The Love Operation

“Is he another doctor?” Ms. Clara asks, eyes bulging.

I decide to throw her a bone. “No, ma’am. He’s the COO of the hospital.”

She presses a hand to her chest, then looks at her husband again. “My doctor is making the COO wait for little old me.” She wraps her pearls around her fingers.

Her husband beams.

I can’t help but smile. I want to put this gossip-loving, afghan-knitting woman in my pocket as a reminder: This is what life is about. Though she’d probably have a cardiac event if she knew I was sleeping with said COO or that I memory-dove during surgery and am now on semiprobation.

“Making sure you walk out of here better than you came in is my only concern at the moment,” I say, ignoring the lightheadedness that assaults me as I push up on my thighs. “I’ll go get the injection ready.”

I could—probably should—have Elizabeth inject Ms. Clara’s bursa since she needs the practice, but I’m doing it myself because I need to be active, control something positive, and I need a moment before seeing Isaac.

Once I’ve sent my patient and her husband on their way—both grinning like they’ve just won something—I slip into the bathroom and stare down at my hands. They’re not shaking. Not visibly. But they feel like they are. In fact, my body feels like it’s fraying at the edges.

I meet my own gaze in the mirror and blow out a breath. There are faint circles under my eyes. They’re a quiet little reminder: I’m on thin ice. And right now, I’m struggling to keep my skates on.

I wash my hands just to feel the slipperiness of the soap against my skin and watch it swirl down the drain, as if I can wash my hands of this entire day.

The urge to cry pulses behind my eyelids, but I’m too tired to cry. Not that I’d allow myself to at work anyway, even though it would be a nice release right about now. Instead, I straighten my coat, set my face, and stride toward my office.

Isaac is pacing when I walk in. I don’t close the door, even though I want to. I can’t risk rumors.

“Hello, Mr. Thompson. What can I do for you?” I say, rounding my desk and sitting because I need to sit.

On the surface, he looks polished and collected, but his energy buzzes with a barely restrained mix of concern and . . . something else. Fear? Anger? I can’t tell yet.

He apparently doesn’t care about the rumors because he closes the door, then locks it.

“You can’t lock the door,” I say, rising. “If someone tries to come in here—”

“Like hell I can’t.” Then, more softly, “Are you okay?”

I guess it doesn’t matter. People are going to be talking about “the incident,” not looking at me and Isaac.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s it? You went unresponsive for minutes, Cordelia.”

“I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t slept. I had a moment. That’s all. I know it might reflect poorly on the hospital, and I’m sorry. Like I told Russell, it won’t happen again.”

His brow furrows, and he closes the distance between us. The black of his suit fills my vision until I look up into his face.

“You think I’m here because I care about hospital optics?” His voice cracks slightly. His face is open, raw emotion evident. “I was in a meeting when someone told me my girlfriend might’ve had a seizure during surgery.”

“That’s what people are saying?”

“It was speculation. Russell cleared it up. But, Cord . . .” He takes my hands and pulls me gently to my feet. “You’re really okay? This was truly just exhaustion? That’s not like you.”

“Yeah, well.” I try to look away because I can’t tell him about the study and I can’t lie to his vulnerable eyes. “Nobody’s perfect.”

He tilts my chin until our eyes lock. “You’re as close as they come.”

I clear my throat. “I thought you were giving me space. This doesn’t feel like space. Unless they’ve updated the definition.”

“I needed to know you were okay.” There’s softness in his eyes. He’s not a hospital executive right now. He’s a concerned boyfriend.

Are we still dating?