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He looks over to me, and I nod in agreement with an impressed grin. Quite the offering for such a tiny restaurant.
“And two baskets of fried pickles.”
She scribbles it down on a notepad. “Anything to drink?”
“I’ll have a beer. Um—” Luke looks over his shoulder at the sign over the bar-style seating where the options are listed. “A Sam Adams, please. Clara?”
I’m not usually much of a drinker, being an on-call surgeon most nights, but there’s no way I’m going back to work any time soon, so I decide what the hell.
“Same. Thanks.”
Doris nods with a tired smile and sticks her pen and notepad back in her apron.
“All right, should be out soon.”
When we’re alone at the table again, I meet Luke’s eyes across the way, and that burning in my cheeks returns.
“I should really call the hospital. Let them know what’s happened.”
Luke cocks his head, humming a little. “Eh, it can wait till I get you back home. You’ll have a full belly then and be able to think clearly.”
Scoffing that bleeds into a laugh, I shake my head at him.
“You’re really on this me staying with you thing.”
“I see something I want, or in this case, can do something to help, and I go for it.”
Dammit, that should not be so attractive.
There’s a bit of silence as I stare down at the table.
For the first time since the incident at the apartment, I let myself actually think about what Luke is offering—and how he offered it.
I look back up at him, and those brown-green eyes with flecks of gold are mesmerizing. There’s way more to them when you look up close.
“You really want to just help me?”
Luke pulls his arms down from the back of the booth, leaning on the table between us.
“I want to help you. I don’t just want to help you. I’ll admit that.” He swings his head down, raising his brows. “But I’ll do whatever you’re good with. I’m not that kind of pushy.”
It would have been easier if he was that kind of pushy.
Sighing, I look down at my hands where they rest on the table. There’s a tiny tremor to them, and I don’t like it.
I’m a surgical resident. I must have exceedingly steady hands.
Cardiac specialty. You’re going for a cardiac specialty. You have to be even better.
My mind drifts to Beth, the valve repair she’s scheduled for, and the amount of money that fucking surgery is going to cost.
It’s one hundred percent required, but her insurance doesn’t seem to care about that. They’re still happy to charge Regina a damn arm and a leg.
It may as well be literal at this point.
My chest pinches as I chew on my lip. I think the only people who hate insurance more than most Americans are doctors.
Beth needs you. You have to be here for her. You can’t let her get hurt.
