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"What do you have?"
"Her name was Siobhan Lansing. She died a little over a week ago outside of Dallas. Baby's father was a Danny Spangler," I say, relaying what little I know. Samara didn't fill me in on many details, and I didn't ask. When she tells me the full story, I don't want it to be because I demanded answers. I want it to be because she trusts me to hold her while she grieves the sister she obviously loved a great deal. She doesn't trust me right now, not with this.
I can't say I blame her for that, either. I know how fucking judgmental doctors are, how pretentious they can be. They've probably sat across from her all week, staring down their noses at her, accusation in their eyes when they discuss Scout's condition and how she should have had this surgery weeks ago. I'm guessing not one of them considered that it wasn't Siobhan's choice not to seek medical care during her pregnancy or after. I'm guessing not one of them knows she sacrificed her life to get her daughter to safety. I doubt they looked far enough into her case to find out.
It grates on my nerves to think of how many times Samara has had to bear the judgement of men who don't even understand true sacrifice. Her sister was a warrior, and so is she. Her entire world just changed and she's still standing. She's still fighting for her sister's memory and the baby she left behind. She's stronger at twenty-two than most men could ever hope to be, but I don't think she even realizes it. She's in survival mode, just trying to make it from minute to minute.
I've seen it a thousand times. When your kid is sick, nothing else matters. Scout might not be hers by birth, but she's going to be a hell of an aunt to that baby girl. She hasn't left her side all week.
I talked to Scout's care team this afternoon. I read her chart from cover to cover too. She's dangerously ill, but she's a fighter too. Her team is relieved I'm taking over. Dr. Shapiro is a good surgeon, but good isn't enough in a case like this. Scout doesn't need good. She needs the best. She needs me. Dr. Shapiro knows it as well as I do.
"I'll see what I can find out for you," Fifth says.
"Thanks, man."
"No problem. Good luck."
I disconnect and shove my phone into my pocket to wait for Samara.
Within five minutes, she ducks through the door, buried so deep in her hoodie she looks like she's in the Siberian wilderness instead of Houston in July. Her dark hair blows all around her face before she manages to bat it back into place, making me smile. She's fucking beautiful without even trying. She looks like she's headed to the gallows instead of standing in a luxury high rise.
I offered to meet her at the hospital, but she insisted on meeting me here instead. I don't think she wants anyone to know she's staying at my place. As if they aren't all going to know soon enough anyway. I plan to ensure they know she's mine. They won't be treating her with anything less than the respect she deserves, or they'll answer to me, plain and simple. Fuck their rules and their judgement.
"Hey," she says when she spots me. Her gaze dances up and down my body, her cheeks heating before she quickly glances down at her at shoes. Fuck, I like how sweet she gets when she's feeling shy. I can't wait to see her looking at me the same way when she's spread across my bed, wearing nothing but a smile and my love bites. My dick stiffens at the thought.
"You cold, angel?" I ask, grinning at her.
"I'm always cold," she says, scrunching up her nose at me. "I thought Texas was supposed to be horrible in the summer."
"It's eighty-five degrees outside. That's flip-flop weather." I push away from the column, strolling toward her.
"It's ninety in San Diego," she says, craning her neck back to look up at me.
My smile grows when her little nose turns up, as if to punctuate her feelings about the inferiority of Texas weather. I happen to agree with her on that front. My mom runs a successful modeling agency for plus-size models in Los Angeles. My siblings and I grew up in Beverly Hills. I didn't move to Texas until I started my residency at Baylor. The weather sucks, especially when the humidity kicks in, but the rest of the state isn't so bad. It's home to me now.
"Come on," I murmur, leading her to the elevator with a hand on the small of her back. "Let's go up and get you settled."
She mumbles something under her breath that sounds like a complaint, but she doesn't speak again until we're on the elevator. As soon as the doors close behind us, she scurries to the far corner. Her brows furrow when I swipe my keyfob and press the button for the top floor.
"I thought you said you had an apartment here."
"I do."
"A penthouse isn't an apartment."
"It's a penthouse apartment."
She huffs at me. "I should really be paying you rent if I'm going to be staying here, Dr. Grimes."
"Tate."
"What?" The little groove between her brows deepens.
"My name is Tate. That's what you call me. Not Dr. Grimes. Tate."
She's a stubborn little thing, I'll give her that. As soon as I say it, her lips compress into a thin line, her gold eyes narrowing further. "I don't think that's very appropriate," she says. "You're my niece's surgeon."
I prowl toward her across the chrome and glass elevator, fighting a smirk when she plasters herself up against the wall like she plans to climb it to avoid me. Once I'm in her personal space, close enough to touch her but not close enough to make her feel like she can't get away from me, I tilt my head down toward her.
