Hotshot Doc(59)

I’m also not sure how I feel about not seeing him for those ten days. Sure, it won’t be so different than how it is now. We aren’t currently talking outside of the OR. For weeks, he’s treated me how he would treat any other employee. When he speaks to me—and it’s only ever about work—his tone is detached and aloof. He’s not being rude, per se, but compared to the warmth I got from him when we were on friendly terms, it’s torture.

I’m sitting with a few other surgical assistants in the staff lounge over lunch, picking at my sandwich and trying not to visibly mope, when Erika elbows me in the side.

“You have a visitor.”

I glance up, follow her gaze to the door, and freeze when I see Matt’s imposing figure standing at the threshold. He’s wearing his suit and white coat. There are files tucked under his arm. His piercing gaze is aimed right at me and my stomach fills with dread. I lurch to my feet and hurry over.

“Is something wrong with Hannah?”

She’s the patient we operated on this morning and I’m worried if he’s here, it’s because something is going wrong with her recovery.

His brows furrow and he shakes his head. “No. She’s doing well. A new case just came in and I need to speak with you about it.”

I let out the breath I was holding and nod quickly. “Oh, okay. Of course. Let me just go toss the rest of my lunch.”

He holds up a to-go box. “It’s fine, you can finish it—we’ll eat while we talk.”

Then he takes a step into the lounge and I swear every person’s breath catches from shock. Doctor’s don’t eat in here. They have chocolate fountains and catering. We have plastic utensils and Cup of Noodles.

If he’s aware of everyone’s attention on him, he doesn’t seem to care. He claims an empty table in the corner, drops the files that were clutched under his arm, and makes himself at home. The silence in the lounge continues as I walk to gather my meager lunch and head over to join him. All eyes are on me. I’m sure everyone’s wondering what’s going on, why he would deign to grace us with his presence.

I shake off their attention and try to focus on Matt. If he’s here, willing to talk to me, the case must be pretty important.

I sit down across the table and see he’s already laid out a few pieces of paper for me to read, his lunch forgotten, so I follow his lead and forget about mine too.

“A colleague of mine in Chicago emailed me this morning about an emergent case,” he says, launching straight into work. “A nineteen-year-old female presenting with extreme kyphosis and compression of her spine. She should have had surgery years ago, but her doctors and her parents chose to prioritize her other health concerns.”

I frown and lean forward to read her file. “What other health concerns?”

“Leukemia.” My breath hitches and I glance back up at him. His frown is deep as he continues, “They haven’t completely ignored her spine issues. She’s been wearing a brace for the last year and a half, but it’s no use—”

“She’s too old,” I conclude.

He nods with a grim frown. “Had they used a brace when she was younger, she might have stood a chance at foregoing surgery, but now it’s a necessity.”

“Why now? Why is this emergent?”

He pushes a document toward me, but the mass of words means nothing to me. I don’t even know what I’m looking at. Then one word at the very top of the page jumps out at me: paraplegia.

“Because as of last week, June can’t walk.” My hand flies to my mouth before I can stop it. “The curvature of her spine is extremely severe. She’s complained of numbness and paresthesia in her legs for the last few months. Last Monday, her symptoms intensified to the point of paraplegia. She’s lost all motor function in both of her legs.”

All I can think is, Poor June. To have endured leukemia only to now deal with this.

“What can be done?”

He gathers the papers in a neat pile and I watch as sheer determination sparks in his gaze.

“The paraplegia is a symptom, not a life sentence. Her spine needs to be decompressed to alleviate the pressure on those nerves. Hopefully, after the inflammation goes down, she’ll regain motor function.”

“Is your colleague in Chicago going to take the case?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not his specialty. Even if it was, June’s body has been through hell with chemo and radiation. There are additional risks. Most surgeons wouldn’t take this on.”

But Matt will. He has to.

His gaze meets mine and he must sense what I’m thinking because a moment later, he nods. “Her parents are bringing her here on the next flight out of Chicago. If we’re going to do this, I’ll need your help.”

There’s no hesitation.

I nod emphatically. “Yes. Of course.”





I had no idea what I was agreeing to. The moment I nod, he stands, tells me to gather my stuff, and we head back to his office. Patricia is standing at her desk as we approach, hurriedly writing on a notepad with her office phone pressed to her ear.

When she spots us, she tells the person on the line to hold on, presses the phone to her chest, and then launches into an update for Matt. “Dr. Buchanan is on line one. Dr. Mills says he’ll call you back when he gets out of surgery. Dr. Goddard is still out for lunch, but I’ll try to catch him when he gets back. Mr. and Mrs. Olsen will be on a flight with June from Chicago at 6:45 PM. I tried to get them a room at the hotel across the street, but it’s booked with holiday travelers. I’m talking to another hotel now.”