The Queen of Hearts(82)
Dr. Chang seized the moment. He handed me a small piece of paper. “Here’s my number, gorgeous,” he said. “Let’s try for dinner, yes?” Clearly, audacity had worked for him in the past, or possibly he was a perpetual optimist. His round owly face was beaming with hope. I had to smile.
“Thank you,” I said.
There was a rustle from the other side of the viewing board, and someone stepped into our half of the room.
“Well, looks like you can hang it up right now, Georgie,” said Dr. Tamara. “Casanova is here.”
It was Nick, and without a word, he moved in, sweeping me backward in a low-dipping embrace, kissing my throat. After a few seconds, he released me, gallantly heaving me upright to face Dr. Tamara and Dr. Chang, who were both agape at this alpha-dog display of prowess.
For once Dr. Tamara appeared speechless. It was George who finally spoke, fixing X with a stare of unabashed admiration.
“I’m going to try that next time,” he said.
—
“So,” I said, “months of insisting we keep it secret”—I had discovered it was important to avoid the word “relationship,” because that shut Nick down like a kill switch—“and you choose to tell the world we’re dating with a public attack in the radiology department?”
“I didn’t tell anyone anything. I am a man of mystery,” Nick said calmly, turning the page of a surgery journal he was reading. He did the sexy-reading-in-bed thing perfectly, clad only in boxers, even managing to look hot in glasses.
Clues to Nick’s personal life were sparse. The only photograph in the room was an old black-and-white of a rescue dog afflicted with a terrible underbite, which gave him a lovable but maximally stupid look. This worked out better on a dog than on a human, however: it was one of those he’s-so-ugly-he’s-cute situations. He was facing away from the camera but was looking excitedly back over his shoulder, with one floppy ear half covering his eye and the underbite giving him a lemon-sucking Doh! of a smile. At least this was one thing about Nick’s past I did know: the dog in the picture was his favorite childhood pet, who had been named Pedro.
“Well,” I said to the man of mystery. “Whether you used words or just relied on the, ah, stunning visual, it was pretty obvious after that display that we’re together.” I allowed myself a small yawn, in the interest of seeming nonchalant.
“Nonsense,” said Nick. “All those dorks know is that the ladies can’t keep their hands off me.” He smirked at me over his glasses, smugly cocking an eyebrow before returning his attention to the journal.
“You know that was degrading, right?”
“Zadie,” he said, setting down his journal and looking straight at me, “you liked it.”
I strongly wished to deny this.
He regarded me with a trace of amusement. “Go ahead,” he said. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“I didn’t!”
“Oh. Well, my bad. I misunderstood.” He idly laid a finger below my waist, right on the prominence of my iliac crest, and began tracing the outline of my hip bone.
“Right, okay,” I mumbled, making a heroic effort not to start melting, which could have been construed as a tad hypocritical during one’s delivery of a lecture against sexual objectification. “I am hereby declaring I’m off-limits until you acknowledge to God and Dr. Markham and everybody that we are dating.”
“I am not at all concerned about your nooky moratorium, my little biscuit.” Nick eyed me with amusement. “I know you’re not about to start turning it down just to prove a point. You’re the sexiest girl I’ve ever met.” He returned to his journal, peering over his glasses to check my reaction.
Well, this was true. I was pretty much a sex fiend. I smiled to myself, then hastily tried to figure out how to redirect the course of events. Somehow, Nick could get the better of me in our conversations without ever seeming to address anything head-on. How did he do that?
I needed to stick to my guns here. “You are the most exasperating human being,” I grumped. “Are you going to continue to defy any attempt at discussing the rela—this?”
“Yup,” said Nick. Then, reconsidering: “Well, there is something we could discuss.”
“What?” I asked.
“This,” said Nick, lunging across the bed and tackling me.
“Get off me, you insatiable bull!” I howled. “I’m conversing!”
“Later,” he growled, pinning me under him and licking my face with giant disgusting laps until I was helpless with laughter.
—
Later, of course, there was no conversation about it, since we both fell into an exhausted sleep. Although he wouldn’t admit it, Nick loved cuddling in bed. It was the one time his face relaxed into unguarded sweetness; he liked caressing my hair, smoothing it over and over with his large hands while he murmured little compliments about my beauty, my accomplishments, my wit. The fact that he clearly appreciated my intelligence as well as my body reassured me.
My sleep was restless. I kept partially waking and thinking of the day, with a hollow half realization that Emma hadn’t paged me yet. I sat up and shot a glance at Nick’s bedside clock: eleven forty-three. Oh, hell. I’d been completely lobotomized by sex. I should have just shown up at the ER and dragged her out for a minute.