Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)(85)
“Hey, Red,” Camden drawls sexily.
I frown, my eyes flashing uncomfortably to the blonde and dropping back down to the iPad.
“Cam, she has a name I’m sure,” the girl says, looking at me apologetically. “I’m so sorry. He can be a prat with very little effort I’m afraid.” She smiles kindly and asks, “What is your name?”
Of course she seems sweet and nice. It would be asking too much for her to be a bitchy, vain bimbo with stiletto pointy nails and a vapid personality disorder. I’d do anything to see her take a selfie with Camden in the background. That would at least distinguish the two of us.
“I’m Dr. Porter,” I state pragmatically. I see a flicker of surprise on her face when I give her my title. I really should have worn my black-framed glasses today. My wild eyewear makes it difficult for people to take me seriously. My first day as an intern, the chief of surgery glared at me and uttered, “Those had better be prescription.”
“We’re still at that level?” Camden states brazenly, completely disregarding the woman by his bedside. I look over at him with an incredulous glower. “I mean, after all we’ve shared,” he adds with a waggle to his brows.
My eyes widen and glance at the blonde who’s frowning in confusion. What is he trying to do? Cause a bloody cat fight right here? Whoever this woman is—girlfriend, fuck buddy, whatever—she’s obviously important enough to be here for him. I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me.
I turn back to the blonde. “I’m Mr. Harris’ resident doctor. I’ve just paged the attending ortho surgeon.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m—”
“I must be going.” I rudely cut her off because I don’t want her to introduce herself as Camden’s girlfriend. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching me squirm.
“You just got here.” Camden winces as he attempts to sit himself up more.
“You need to stop moving,” I chastise.
“You need to stop running,” he retorts with a challenging spark in his eyes.
This gives me pause, but then the blonde adds, “I keep telling him to stop moving. He doesn’t need to make it worse by over-exerting himself.” She crosses her narrow arms over her tiny runway chest. I wish she had a flaw, but she doesn’t. She’s stunning all the way up to her clear blue eyes.
My boring brown eyes mistakenly flick back to Camden, who’s looking at me with a puzzled expression. Before I can say another word, Prichard opens the door, distracting all of us. “Ah, Indie, I was just looking over Mr. Harris’ results you entered in the system.” His deep baritone voice fills the room with an air of confidence.
I sigh at his use of my first name in front of our patient. Prichard sometimes takes his friendliness with me too far and steps past the professional boundary. But he’s an attending, and he’s kind of too charming to get mad at. There are several nurses and interns who fawn all over him—even some of the men—but he never gives them attention. It’s the ones who ignore him that he seems the most fascinated by.
He definitely has that perfect tall, dark, and handsome cliché look about him. His daily scruff is an intriguing salt and pepper, which only adds to his distinguished appeal. Compared to Camden, Prichard looks like a proper grown-up. It’s like comparing crème br?lée to ice cream. They are both delicious, but for very different reasons.
“Indie is your first name?” Camden drawls smoothly, eyeing me up and down. “I like it.”
I grimace and glance back at Camden’s girlfriend, who doesn’t appear the least bit taken aback by the way he is acting. Maybe she’s used to him acting this way toward women wherever they go. Maybe this is normal behaviour for him. If so, good luck to them. My Penis List can survive without the likes of Camden Harris.
“Indie, I’d like you to double-check a couple of things,” Dr. Prichard says a bit louder than necessary while he eyes Camden with a contemplative gaze.
He places his hand on the small of my back and ushers me out of the room. I hear a noise and glance back to see Camden shifting uncomfortably in bed and shooting daggers at Prichard’s hand. Is he bothered? How can he be when he has a bombshell standing right next to him? Besides, I wouldn’t think this looks like much. Prichard has always been affectionate in the way he communicates. It’s partially what makes him a great doctor. Sometimes a slight touch on a shoulder can instantly calm an anxious patient’s nerves.
When the door closes behind us, Prichard looks at me seriously through his deep brown eyes and says, “I’m going to have a meeting with the family about a new ACL procedure that cuts the recovery time by half. Due to the timing and the season being almost over, I’m afraid Mr. Harris won’t be able to play the last match. But with this new surgery, he’ll be up and normal in about a week. We’ll have to do a follow-up surgery one month after that. Then he’ll be good as new.”
My brows arch excitedly. “The Wilson Repair,” I state, trying to keep my voice calm and professional. “I’m very familiar. Will I get to scrub in?”
“I’m aware of how familiar you are, Indie. I read your published article.” His eyes crinkle as they drop down to my mouth. “That’s why I don’t want anyone else to assist me.”