Hotshot Doc(86)

I feel like the floor is falling out from underneath me. Am I dreaming? Did I eat too much leftover Christmas candy last night and now this is some weird sugar-induced nightmare? I press a hand against my stomach and try to steady myself, and now Erika is actually concerned by how I’m taking the news. “I’m confused—aren’t you two dating? Everyone just assumed with how you acted at the Christmas party, and you’ve been inseparable around the hospital ever since…”

I give her a sort of half-nod, half-shake of my head. Yes, sure, I thought we were dating. All signs point to the two of us being a couple. I’m wearing diamond studs he gave me. He’s practically living with me. He kissed my cheek in the wee hours of the morning before he left for work today. Until this moment, I thought we had a future, but this is throwing me for a loop, and why the heck are there so many people out here right now? I couldn’t get into his office if I tried. It’d be like attempting to push my way to the front row at Coachella. No thank you. It’s a little too early in the morning to get elbowed in the head.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Erika says, dropping a hand onto my shoulder in solidarity.

Oh Erika, you kind soul. You aren’t to blame in this.

Matt is.

Matt with his stupid secrets and his big plans.

I shake my head. “It’s nothing. Really. I’m just a little flustered because of this surgery I have in a little bit. Actually, I better get down there.”

It’s such a good excuse she doesn’t even try to stop me. I walk numbly down the hall and away from the chaos. The elevator opens and a deliveryman steps out with an extra-large Edible Arrangements bouquet and an armload of balloons. There are so many, I sort of get tangled up in them as I try to step into the elevator.

“Oh, oops!” The deliveryman laughs. “Here, let me just—”

I flail my arms and kick my legs and let out a guttural groan before I finally break free onto the other side.

“Sorry about that! Death by balloons, ha ha.”

I barely contain my snarl as I repeatedly press the Close Door button in the elevator. The surgical floor is blessedly empty when I arrive. It shouldn’t be a surprise considering every human in the building is up in Matt’s office bowing down and kissing his ass.

I head straight for the surgical board, confirm our assigned room, and get to work.

I keep my head down, stay focused, and let the rhythm of my job take over.

This is what I know.

This is what I love.

It’s simple and methodical and before Matt swelled my heart to ten times its normal size, it was enough to keep me happy.

My coworkers start trickling in as I finish my prep. I nod to each of them and feign a smile as they mention Matt or the grant or all the children in Costa Rica who will be affected by the clinic he’s going to open. There’s an undercurrent of excitement in the air. Everyone’s glad to be working with Matt today—everyone except me.

It makes me mad that everyone seems to know more than I do, and even more mad that I shouldn’t be mad. He’s going to help children! He’s going to be a hero! I can’t hate him for that, and yet deep down…I’m angry. Blisteringly so.

I’m scrubbed in and standing at the operating table by the time he walks in.

His gaze is aimed straight at me as he makes a beeline for my side.

The anesthesiologist tries to catch his attention, to congratulate him, and Matt barely throws a glance in his direction.

“Bailey, I’ve been trying to call you all morning.”

“Not all morning.”

“What?” he asks, brows furrowed.

I clear my throat, aware that every person in that OR has stopped what they’re doing to listen to us.

“I checked my phone when I was on my way to work and I didn’t have any missed calls,” I clarify, turning to the patient. “Everything is ready to go. Let me grab your gown and I’ll help tie it.”

That’s my way of trying to tell him, Not now. Not in front of everyone. Please don’t tell me you’re moving to Costa Rica now because I will definitely sob and I’d like to maintain some dignity in front of my coworkers, thank you very much.

His eyes lock with mine and they’re imploring me to do…something. What? Do what, Matt?!

I turn to retrieve his gown and as I tie it onto him, we don’t say a word. As we go around the room for the time-out, confirming we’re all ready to get started, I stare up at the gallery, at all the eager faces staring right back down at me. They’re watching, waiting. My fledgling relationship with Matt is probably just as interesting to them as the surgery they came here to watch.

“Bailey, you’re up,” Matt says, his voice distant and cold. It’s the surgeon talking—that’s what I tell myself so I don’t have to feel hurt when I turn and see he’s staring at me like he doesn’t even recognize me.

I’m the same person I was yesterday, Matt.

You’re the one who’s changed.





He finds me after I finish scrubbing out. I’m walking down the hall when he steps out of a post-op recovery room and heads in the opposite direction. His presence might as well take up the whole damn hallway. He’s half a foot taller than everyone he passes. His hair is ten shades darker. He turns heads without even trying.