Hotshot Doc(34)

“Yes—well, no. I mean, it’s part of it. I just feel like your presence in the operating room is too intimidating. My every move is magnified and judged. You make me feel like I’m not quick enough or smart enough to keep up with you.” She throws up her hands in defeat. “Maybe we just aren’t a good match. I thought I could handle pressure, but I realize now that working with Dr. Lopez was nothing compared to being on your team. Dr. Lopez was sunshine and rainbows and playlists filled with The Beach Boys, and you’re…”

“I’m what?” I demand.

I think she whispers, “Scary,” but I’m not sure I hear her right.

I take a left then pull into a lot and now we’re outside my tailor’s shop. I need to get out, but it’s still storming and I can’t just leave her in here after that speech. I put the car in park and turn to face her.

She’s staring straight ahead though I know she can’t see a thing with the rain beating down on the windshield.

“Okay. All right.” I clear my throat. “It’s come to my attention that I might be the problem.”

She throws her head back and laughs and laughs and laughs. Her blonde hair spills down her back. Her long dark lashes fan out across her pronounced cheekbones. I sit perfectly still watching her, hands clenched because for some inane reason, I have the urge to reach out and touch her, to brush the freckles across the bridge of her nose, to run the pad of my finger along her bottom lip—the one currently stretched into a smile at my expense.

Jesus, the power she wields.

Finally, she gathers herself and turns to me, tears of laughter collected along the bottom rows of her lashes. “‘I might be the problem.’ Uh, ya think?” Her words drip with sarcasm.

I shake my head and force myself to look away. Damn the rain. I need to get out of this car.

“Wait here. I won’t be long.”

I don’t bother with an umbrella as I dart outside and into the shop. I have my suit in hand a few minutes later, glad the tailor took the time to wrap the garment bag in plastic to ensure it stayed dry. I, however, did not. I’m a wet dog when I slam my door and turn to hang the suit up in my back seat.

“You’re soaked,” Bailey says, stating the obvious.

She must have composed herself while I was inside because there’s no hint of laughter in her eyes anymore. Her golden brown gaze skims across me quickly and I glance in the rearview mirror to see what she sees. Soaked hair falling across my forehead, annoyed scowl paired with a grimace—I look like an emotional vampire. With a grunt, I shrug out of my suit jacket and toss it in the back before rolling my sleeves up to my elbows. My white button-up is just as wet as my jacket, but with the heat blasting in the car, it should dry out soon enough.

“What’s your address?” I ask bluntly.

“I’d like to finish our conversation.”

“No. You see, I picked up my suit and now I’m going to take you home. That’s how this works.”

Her hand reaches out to touch my forearm, and it’s delicate and warm and porcelain white. I stare down at it, half-expecting her to jerk it away, but she doesn’t.

“I shouldn’t have laughed when you admitted you might be the problem.”

Oh, I get it. She thinks she wounded my pride, like I’m a fragile, temperamental creature.

I hate that I might be.

“If you want me to continue working for you, you’re going to have to talk to me.”

“I don’t give two shits if you stay.” I’m annoyed that she thinks she has me figured out. With a gentle touch and a sweet tone, she thinks she’ll crack open my shell and I’ll spill some deep dark secrets to her.

Her hand squeezes my arm painfully and then she tosses it away, crosses her arms, and stares out the passenger window. “8745 Oak Drive. Take me home. Now.”

I’m at a crossroads. I want to come out on top, preserve what’s left of my dignity, and get Bailey the hell out of my car, but then I think of how annoying it will be to walk into work on Monday and admit to Patricia and Kendra that Bailey quit because I couldn’t put my ego aside.

“Take. Me. Home,” she says again, each word bitten out.

“I’ll never be the nice guy in the operating room,” I say suddenly, words spilling out of me before I’ve even decided I want to say them. “I won’t put on a Beach Boys playlist and joke around. With pediatric scoliosis surgery, you aren’t making the spine straight again. You’re taking a spine that operates like a slinky and turning it into a rock. It’s a preventive measure, not a cure. There’s no definitive reason why this happens to some people and not to others. Through no fault of their own, my patients are given a life sentence of pain and suffering.”

She doesn’t budge, so I continue talking to the back of her head.

“I’m passionate about what I do, and sometimes that carries over into how I treat my staff.”

“Not everyone. Just me,” she clarifies.

“I hold you to a higher standard.”

She snorts and shakes her head. I want to yank her ponytail and force her to turn around and look at me. I want her to meet my gaze and see for herself that I’m trying as hard as I can. I can’t touch her while I’m this worked up, though. So, instead, I focus on the storm brewing outside her window and try to ignore the painful tightening in my chest. This is hard for me. I don’t like to dwell in the dark underbelly of my job, but she dragged me here, and she doesn’t get to turn back now.