Page 27 of The Love Operation

I started my period during a critical part of the operation, but, despite the OR staff’s concern, I wasn’t about to abandon my patient. So, I stayed. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask for help. I let the blood trail down my legs until I finished—because someone’s spine, someone’s future and family, was in my hands. And I’ve never taken that faith lightly.

But now, all I want is a Cherry Coke, a Snickers bar, and ten uninterrupted minutes where no one needs me.

When I push open the door, I collide with a wall.

A warm, solid, living wall.

I startle, stumbling back before my brain catches up. Pulse spiking. Skin flushing. A low, unwelcome tug coils in my stomach.

And then I’m looking up. He’s tall, broad, and too close. And because I’m too tired to stop myself, my eyes linger—first on his mouth, then his eyes, which are dark, direct, and unapologetic.

“Dr. Wren?” His voice is smooth, a velvet-covered scalpel ready to open me.

I blink. A new doctor? One of those pretentious ones who wears a full suit to the hospital? He’s got a badge clipped to his belt, but I can’t read it without staring at his zipper. “Do I—?”

He extends a hand. “Isaac Thompson.”

I hesitate, instinct demanding I know more before placing my hand in his.

“New COO,” he adds. “I’ve been making rounds, meeting all the providers. Wasn’t sure I’d catch you—you’re always working.”

Ah. Corporate.

I extend him a polite, close-lipped smile, hoping it masks the inappropriate desire to drag my fingers over the sharp cut of his jaw.

“A good doctor is always hard to track down,” I reply evenly.

He nods, unsurprised, as if he respects this about me. “I’ve heard great things. You have quite the reputation.”

Heat flares in my chest—a mix of pride, suspicion, and something else I don’t have the energy to unpack.

I square my shoulders, ignoring the way my skin still tingles where we collided, because he needs to know that I’m not someone to mess with. “My aim is to always live up to that reputation.”

Our eyes lock. It’s inappropriate. One of us should look away.

Neither of us does.

Finally, I pull my decorum up through my fatigue. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Thompson. It’s been a long day, and I want a Cherry Coke.”

His lips twitch, not a full smile, just a whisper of amusement, like he enjoys a challenge. Like I’ve just issued one.

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “Didn’t mean to hold you up.” He steps aside—deliberate, like he’s surrendering ground he didn’t have to give. “Just wanted to introduce myself.”

I move past him, hyperaware of his proximity. The heat of him still lingers on my skin. At the soda fountain, I press the lever with shaky fingers.

I need to get away from this man before I do something spectacularly stupid. I want to be seen as a surgeon, an asset, and that’ll be harder to do if I lick his face and tell him I want him inside me.

Behind me, his voice stretches the air taut. “I’m only vaguely aware of how the previous COO worked, but I plan to be involved with the providers. I consider everyone here a part of the team, and a team works best when we’re all on the same page.”

The bubbles tease my nose as I lift my cup and regard him over the rim. “Excellent.”

The less I say, the safer I am. This is a man I can only talk to when I’m fully rested.

I push through the exit without another word. He stays behind—but our eyes don’t break until the door does it for us.

The night air collides against my overheated skin.

And then—I snap back. The night air, the Coke, the parking lot, they all vanish, and the cool bathroom tiles resolidify under my bare feet.