Page 98 of The Love Operation

“Just telling the truth. Now—about that dinner.”

“Dad, stop,” Benedict says, mildly panicked as if he’s just opened a two-liter and it’s fizzing everywhere. “I’m not taking your surgeon to dinner.”

“Why the hell not? And don’t pretend you don’t want to. You’ve been talking about her nonstop.”

We both freeze, then Wilton turns to me as if he hasn’t said anything odd at all.

“This guy needs to get out of this hospital. Between me and the girls at home, he’s been running himself ragged. Doesn’t take a moment for himself. What do you say?”

Saying no to the grin on his face is like turning down a golden retriever wearing a hospital gown.

“I . . . I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I stammer. “I don’t usually go to dinner with my patients. And I doubt my boyfriend would be thrilled.”

“Dad.” Benedict’s tone is firm. “This is ridiculous. You’ve got to—”

“You two act like I’m asking you to perform sinful acts at the foot of my sickbed!”

Benedict turns to me, mortified. “I’m really starting to miss the pre-op version of my dad.”

“You and me both,” I whisper. “But this is the Dilaudid talking. We’ll give him grace.”

Benedict doesn’t look convinced.

Wilton brightens. “You gotta eat, right?”

“I do, but—”

“I’m just suggesting the two of you catch up. As friends.” His grin falters a little. “Unless . . . you two don’t think you can handle being in the same—”

“I guess there’s no harm in it,” I hear myself say. Then to Benedict, “But only if you want to.”

“Yeah, sure. I thought you—”

“Your dad’s right. We’re making too big a deal of it.” I don’t want to disappoint this jovial, irritating man, and I think again about what Delenn said. “I need to wrap things up before I’m free, but we could grab dinner after.”

“Okay,” Benedict says. “Text me when you’re done?”

I nod.

Wilton beams. “I feel even better now. I’m properly thanking my doctor, and I get a few hours of blessed silence.”

“Hey,” Benedict protests.

“No offense. Just tired of your mug. A change of scenery’ll be nice.”

“I better go,” I say, inching toward the door. I’ve already stayed too long. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Mr. Calder.”

“Call me Wilton.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Wilton.” I glance at Benedict. “I’ll text you.”

“Try not to take too long!” Wilton calls after me, his voice full of humor. “I need a break!”

I sanitize my hands on the way out, walking slower than usual.

What am I doing?

Apparently . . . I’m about to talk to my boyfriend and see if he’s okay with me going to dinner with my ex.