Who the hell was this chick?
The game continued before Daisy paused. She interrupted the flow, puffing on her cigar as she looked at her hand.
My work was ignored now because this was the most interesting thing I’d ever seen.
She pushed all her chips into the center.
The commentary continued, but I ignored it.
The energy at the table changed, the men trying to figure out if this was a bluff—or if this was legit.
I didn’t have a clue.
Two of the men folded, but the other three pushed their chips forward.
She took it a step further and added even more chips.
Damn. The pot just went to three million.
The men studied her before they met her pot.
“Fuck… Hope that’s not a bluff.” My arm draped over the back of the couch as I gazed at the screen, my hand moving to my beer on the end table.
It was time to drop their cards, and the men displayed them on the table.
Full house.
Two pairs of sixes.
A straight flush.
So, if she didn’t have a royal flush…she would lose millions.
I set down my beer and leaned forward, my arms moving to my knees.
She took her time dropping her cards, the cigar still sitting in her mouth. Then she splayed them on the table—a royal flush.
I grinned. “Damn…”
I didn’t take rest days, so I worked out Saturday morning then went to the clinic afterward. It was empty because no one was there on the weekends—except me. I took on the overflow patients, and since I had other obligations during the week, the weekend was the best time for me to focus.
The folders were on my desk, and I sketched out my notes, a visual person the way Daisy was. I didn’t have my papers pinned to a bulletin board, but it was something I might consider to stay organized.
My phone rang on the desk.
It was Dr. Hamilton.
He was probably at the office today and wanted to discuss something related to our research project.
I answered. “Hello, Dr. Hamilton. Need me to come in? I have time in the late afternoon.”
“No, that’s not necessary, Dr. Beaumont. I’m working at home today. We start our trials next week, and I wanted to discuss a couple things with you. Do you have some time?”
“Yes.”
We talked for a while about our work and the next steps we needed to take to prepare for our human trials. Despite repeating the experiment three times, he decided he wanted to do it again.
“That’s fine with me, Dr. Hamilton. You can never be too certain.”
“I need to give patients hope when I administer treatment, not uncertainty.”
“Absolutely.” And that was why I wanted to work for him. It was never about money, time, or goals. It was about doing the best job possible—day in and day out. “I’ll get started first thing Monday morning.”
“What are you doing today?”
“I’m at the clinic. We had more patients than we could handle, so I took the overflow.”
“Admirable.”
“I enjoy patient care. Nice break from all the paperwork.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“I watched Daisy’s poker game last night.”
“You did?” Instantly, a smile was in his voice. “Did she win?”
“Took the pot.”
“That’s my girl.” His pride was even bigger now, audible in his tone. “I’m glad the two of you worked out your problems. When you’ve got two rams in one place…they tend to lock horns.”
“That’s a good description.” I’d never met anyone like her, someone so brilliant but so combative. She wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty, speak her mind, go head-to-head with anyone who wronged her. Most people were passive and went quiet. She yelled louder so people in the back could hear. I hadn’t liked her before we even met, but I’d quickly started to see why she was universally adored. She wasn’t just smart but had the kind of passion and dedication I hardly ever saw in anyone.
“I’ve got some time. Want to grab something to eat?”
I heard the question but blinked a couple times because I didn’t understand it. Did he just ask me to lunch?
“If you have other priorities, don’t worry about it.”
“No, I can meet you in twenty minutes. Just let me know where.”
He looked the same as he did at the lab, dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt, having lines in the corners of his eyes and a bit around his lips, but still looking like a man in his late thirties. His arms were muscular and tight, cords visible under the skin. He definitely lifted—and I’d imagine on a daily basis.
It was strange to be in this intimate setting with him. He wasn’t a friend or acquaintance.
This was Deacon fucking Hamilton.
I didn’t think we were at the same level. Couldn’t believe he’d taken me on as a research partner. I was smart, having one of the highest IQs on record, but I still felt inferior to him. I didn’t have a Nobel Prize. I didn’t have a company that took on the complicated practices of medicine and cancer treatment. My accomplishments were insignificant compared to his.