Page 95 of The Love Operation

“This is one of the four-leaf clovers you found in college.”

My face goes slack, then I narrow my eyes at him.

He grins. “You probably don’t remember, but we were crossing the quad, heading to the library. You stopped, bent down, and handed it to me like it was nothing.”

I do remember. I don’t let myself go there fully, so I don’t accidentally send my mind back to that day, but I remember.

“I pressed it in one of my books,” he continues. “Not long after, I found someone who made botanical jewelry and asked her to turn it into a necklace—for my girlfriend.”

His eyes hold mine. And for a second, it’s like we are suspended in resin.

“I never got the chance to give it to you. Now felt right.”

I stare at him, torn between wanting to hug him and slap him. But I’m about to operate, so I can’t slap him. I need to spare my hands. I won’t hug him either. It feels too intimate.

“That was . . . very kind of you.”

“You wanna put it on?”

I shrug. “Sure.” The word catches in my throat, nearly ruining the nonchalant vibe I’m going for—that I don’t care either way. But the truth is, I don’t know what to do with all this—the fact that he kept the clover, that he remembered, that he went to beautiful, excruciating effort, that he held on to it all this time. I don’t want him to know how much it means to me. I don’t even want to feel how much it means.

He takes it back. “Turn around.”

I do, and his hands sweep up and over my shoulders. His fingers graze the back of my neck. Something electric fires down my spine, settling lower, where it should not settle. My breath catches. The sensation is sharper than I feel like it should be.

“There,” he says, and I turn around, catching a wistful expression on his features before it drops, and he says, “Just don’t drop it into my dad mid-surgery.” He winks.

I look away before my face betrays . . . whatever might be on my face.

I lift the pendant, pull my scrub top forward, then drop the necklace underneath. It slides between my breasts—cool at first, then warm, almost too warm.

“Okay,” I say, stepping back before I do something unprofessional. “I’d better get to it.”

A few hours later, I call Benedict.

“Your dad did great,” I say.

He exhales a high, shaky breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for hours. Most family members do this. It’s like they’ve been holding their breath the entire time, only exhaling once they hear my voice. But hearing him do it feels different.

“The surgery went well?” he asks.

“Textbook.”

Another breath, this one quieter. “Thank you, Cordelia. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Don’t worry. Your dad’s insurance is covering that. And don’t forget, you did give me the necklace.”

“Right. That’s clearly why the operation went so smoothly.”

“That damned clover did most of the work. I might be out of a job.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm.

“They’re taking him to recovery now. Once he’s awake and stable, they’ll move him to a room and you can see him. I’ll stop by after my next case.”

“Thank you,” he says again, and this time his voice catches. There’s gratitude in it, but it’s wobbly and thin, like it’s balancing on something bigger.

“You’re welcome.”