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And when I do, I gasp. Out loud. Which admittedly isn’t my proudest moment, but it can’t be helped. At least I don’t cover my mouth with my hand or point like a loony at him. But still. Holy shit.
Bennett Lawson. Bennett fucking Lawson.
It’s a good thing I’m sitting down, or I’d likely pass out. I haven’t seen him in a long time—seven years to be exact—but the way my already wildly beating heart is now hammering in my chest, you’d never know it’s been that long.
He was chief resident when I was a third-year medical student.
But more than that, we shared a very drunken, very hot kiss one night at a party. A kiss I’m positive he doesn’t remember even if it made my toes curl. He left the next day for a fellowship across the country, and that was that.
But before the hot kiss, I idolized him. He was so smart and amazing with a scalpel. Undoubtedly, he was the best teacher I had as a med student. Residents, especially chief residents, never take time with med students, certainly not third-year med students.
They’re the lowest on the totem pole of the medical hierarchy. The scut puppies.
But Bennett Lawson taught me. He brought me into the OR and worked with me on cases. I learned so much under him.
The only memorable thing about me was possibly that kiss in a dark corner where no one could see us. We’d been talking a lot that night. I didn’t even bother to flirt. He was a lot older than me, and again, I was only a medical student.
I told him the truth about why I wanted to be a trauma surgeon, explaining how my parents had died when I was just a little girl, and I was in the car with them when it happened. I remember I went to the bathroom, and when I came out, he grabbed my hand and dragged me into that corner, threaded his hands up into my hair, and then kissed me.
After a few minutes or so, he pulled back and murmured against my lips, “For luck.” And that was it. He was gone.
But now he’s here, in my hospital, and after what Keegan told me about Wes bringing in a hotshot trauma surgeon, I have a gut-sinking feeling he’s my new boss. And judging by the complete lack of recognition in his eyes, I was correct in my assumption that he doesn’t remember me at all. I do my best not to be disappointed by that.
I’m stuck in an elevator with my new boss, who also just so happens to be the man I made out with seven years ago. Talk about bad luck and timing.
“Are you okay?” he asks, taking note of the fact that all the blood has drained from my face and I’m making weird noises in an elevator as I blatantly stare at him.
I blink and look away. “Yes. Um. Just… nervous. Confined spaces aren’t my favorite, and stuck elevators even less so.” At least that’s not a lie.
He smiles and I die a little. Keegan—as usual—wasn’t wrong. Just looking at him I know exactly why everyone is swooning. His shorter on the sides and slightly longer on top dark, wavy hair flops in an almost Superman way on his forehead, making his startlingly blue eyes and black lashes that frame them stand out even more against the harsh flashlight. His smooth, sharp jaw was obviously hand-chiseled by God, and when he smiles like he is now, angels weep at the sheer perfection of his white teeth and fantastic chin dimple, giving this man a slightly boyish appearance.
“Don’t be nervous,” he says softly, though there is an obvious hint of humor in his smile and glittering eyes. “Despite the weird situation and lack of lighting, we won’t plummet to our deaths or anything.”
I shake my head at that, turning on my flashlight and setting it down on the floor so it also shines up. “You must give motivational speeches for a living. You’re very comforting and inspiring, Bennett.”
He laughs, rubbing a hand across his sharp jaw and bringing his knees up so he can rest his forearms on them. “Sorry. That probably wasn’t the right thing to say. The last time I was stuck in an elevator, I was with two three-hundred-pound offensive linemen, and I was their quarterback’s doctor. That time, I was worried that was a possibility. I’d happily be stuck alone with you over them anytime.”
“Same. Definitely same. Though I won’t tell my cousin Mason that. He’s a quarterback, not a lineman, but still.” I stare down at my hands, closing my eyes. Jesus, I need to shut up with the nervous talking.
“You have a lot of cousins,” he notes, not commenting on my inane babbling.
“Yet another long story, but most of them aren’t blood.”
He reaches out, grasping my chin and lifting it until my eyes are back on his. “Are you doing okay?”
No. Definitely not. Not with his large, warm hand on my face making butterflies drunkenly zip through my stomach and chest. I lick my lips and manage a nod.
“Good. Keep looking at me. It’ll help.”
Is he kidding? That’s making it harder to breathe, not easier.
He stares directly into my eyes for a beat, smiles, drags his thumb along my jaw, and then releases me, but I can’t tell if that extra touch was an intentional move or not. “What kind of doctor are you, Katy?”
“How do you know I’m a doctor?”
“Your badge tells me so.” He points a lazy finger at it. “It also says surgery.”
And my last name, so now he knows it, and obviously, that did nothing to jog his memory. Again, I try to remember it’s for the best if he doesn’t remember the last time he saw me.
