This is why I’ll never specialize in pediatrics. Because when you have a soft spot for patients, it makes everything else a little bit harder—treating them, operating on them . . . losing them.
Nothing shakes the confidence more than really wanting to fix someone—and failing. And a surgeon who doesn’t have confidence . . . won’t be a surgeon for long.
I turn away from little Maisy. I lift my chin and straighten my white coat and smooth my features into an expression of professional aloofness. It’s as much a part of our uniform as our scrubs. And then I glance around to see if any of my colleagues have noticed my sweet exchange with the adorable patient.
They haven’t.
But someone has.
Tommy Sullivan is supposed to have his eyes on the corridor, watching for breaches in security—but he’s not.
He’s watching me.
Intensely. Deeply.
His dark gaze is penetrating—and so very, very interested. I’ve seen that look on his face before. Right before he kissed me.
It’s not something I let myself think of often, but my lips tingle now with the memory. The dominant slide of his mouth, the tantalizing stroke of his tongue, the sure, confident pull of his strong hands that told me he knew exactly what he was doing and wanted to do more.
I’m a grown woman. I’ve been kissed—I wouldn’t say plenty of times, but I’ve had my share. A few were even nice kisses—wonderful kisses.
But none of them were like that one.
None of them came with a tidal wave of sensation. The kind of feeling that knocks you sideways and sends you spinning. And for that one perfect, carnal moment you forget who you are, where you are—or you simply don’t care—because all that matters is him and you and the feel of him, the scent of him . . . and the craving, glorious desire that’s fusing you together.
Once upon a time, Tommy Sullivan’s kiss made me lose control.
And that makes him dangerous.
Discipline, control—they are the foundations of success. Without them, everything falls apart.
“Haddock!” Dr. Dickmaster shouts from halfway down the hall, where the group has moved on—his voice dousing my scorching memories with day-old bathwater. “Would you mind gracing us with your presence or are you going to dawdle there all damn day?”
I take a second to scowl at the security guard—because this is his fault.
Then I tear my gaze away and scurry down the hall to catch up.
* * *
“Why can’t myyy daddy have a job that gets death threats?”
Henrietta Hindenburg has the whine of Veruca Salt, the heart of Mother Teresa and the constitution of Keith Richards—all wrapped in a Rebel Wilson-esque package. Her father’s actual job is an American music producer instrumental in the success of boy bands like New Kids on the Block, Backstreet Boys, Hansen and NSYNC. Having been raised in the ways of boy band mania, the songs still frequently pour from the speakers of her custom baby-pink BMW convertible that her parents gave as a medical school graduation gift.
Henrietta looks out the glass door to the hall where Tommy Sullivan stands sentry with his back to us. “I swear you are the luckiest duck.”
Her mother purposely named her after Henry Pembrook, the now Crown Prince of Wessco, as a conversation starter—just in case they ever met. She’ll be specializing in plastic surgery to save her father a boatload of cash on her mother’s procedures. Her words, not mine. We met in our intern year and have been good friends ever since.
Even though we’re like Felix and Oscar, Bert and Ernie, oil and vinegar that ends up making a very tasty salad dressing.
“I can’t believe you get to bone him!”
“I’m not going to bone him, Etta.”
I make a note of the time on Mrs. Lu’s chart—the carotid endarterectomy patient we’re moving from recovery.
Etta’s eyes go wide and her head does a little shimmy—like she’s having a seizure.
“Dear God, Abby, I will literally never speak to you again if you don’t bone him.”
“I don’t even know him. He’s my security guard for two weeks and that’s all.”
“Some of the best sex I’ve ever had was with people I didn’t know! And two weeks is plenty of time—have you never seen the Kevin Costner Bodyguard, or the Richard Madden Bodyguard, or The Protector? Boning the bodyguard is a feature, not a bug.”
She turns to the other third-year in the room, who’s making sure the catheter tube won’t catch on the wheel of the bed when it’s moved.
“Tell her, Kevin! It would be blasphemy to pass up a prime piece like that.”
Kevin Atkins is the sort of person who surprises you. He’s quiet, calm, dependable—dull. Once you get to know him you learn that he’s a former army medic, remarkably intelligent, with the steadiest and most precise cutting hand I’ve ever seen. His reserved disposition shouldn’t be mistaken for lack of interest or ambition—he’s like the tortoise in The Tortoise and the Hare—consistent and confident he’ll win the race but determined not to make a misstep along the way. It’s a quality I admire.