Uncovering Her Secrets. Amalie Berlin

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ on any given Middle Tennessee October day closely resembled summer. Hot during the day but cold at night.

      Dasha hated October, and had since she was a child. Her father had left in an October. Her mother had died in an October. And now Marjorie’s illness was just another reason to hate it. Lord, was it stupid for her to get embroiled with Preston in an October.

      Another look at the clock. Clock-watching wouldn’t make him arrive earlier.

      Once in the OR, she’d be standing still for hours. She should sit. Or tidy. Yes, tidy some more. There was always something to tidy up. Life got even messier if you let your environment get out of order because uncontrollable forces collided with you.

      Of course, all the uncontrollable forces colliding with her meant she didn’t have much to tidy now. She grabbed her scrub cap and stood waiting as the second hand passed the twelve.

      Time to go down. He’d probably changed his mind. Good. She’d tried, given it a day. If he decided against the position now, she wouldn’t chase him. She was making up for screwing him over five years ago, not trying to make him like her again. She still didn’t need that.

      Shaking the right key out of the ring, she exited her office and locked up behind her.

      Preston met her at the door.

      “You’re almost late,” Dasha muttered, then remembered she was supposed to be the good one this morning.

      “It’s called being on time,” he drawled.

      “I just thought you were an early arriver usually.” She clicked the lock and stuffed her keys into her pocket.

      His eyes called her on that lie. “Only when you made me be.”

      “Okay, I thought you’d changed your mind,” Dasha said, sighing.

      “Were you relieved?” He had his scrub cap in hand. He also had a slight swelling on his left eyelid. “That sounded like disappointment.”

      “Honestly? A little.” Some time last night, while reflecting on her day, Dasha had decided she needed to be honest. Detached and honest. Preston was used to Old Dasha, he didn’t appreciate New-and-Improved Dasha much. “What’s wrong with your eye?” Someone had hit him, she knew it. She just hoped it wasn’t Nettle.

      “Nothing you need to worry about.”

      “Preston, if we’re going to do this—”

      “Stop. Let me make myself clear.” He turned to face her, stopping everything else until he’d spoken. “There is no we. We’re not doing anything together. We’re not friends. We’re not rivals. We’re not ex-lovers in for a sappy reunion. This is not us building a happy highway into the future together.”

      She held his gaze, waiting for the rest.

      “At the end of the probationary period we’ll be people who occasionally stumble across one another at work. If your motives don’t jibe with this scenario, tough.”

      “I have no other motives.”

      “Fine, you have no other motives.”

      “You have no reason to believe me, I get it. But for your own benefit, stow the sarcasm. Stow the aggression,” Dasha said. “Make friends, not enemies. No matter what you think of me, if the staff catch you throwing barbs at me, you won’t win any points. And just so you know, I’m not the girl I was five years ago. I’ve grown up. Take my advice. I honestly want you to succeed.” She stepped around him and made tracks for the nearest stairwell—moving target, harder to hit.

      But that only mattered if he didn’t take her advice to heart and didn’t throw barbs at her in a public setting where others could hear him. They really wouldn’t care for it.

      They walked in silence, but no matter how soft his shoes kept his footfalls, she was still unpleasantly aware of the man following. When they reached the room, she held the door for him, as if kind gestures would make him believe she was legit.

      He reached the sinks, tied his cap on and turned on the water to start the long process of scrubbing his hands.

      She scrubbed in silence, sneaking looks at him in the glass that separated the scrub area from the operating room. Lead by example. Help him build the new paradigm he needed.

      “I need to know what happened at Davidson West. I need to know why you fainted.” She tried to keep her voice level, emotionless. Or at least nonjudgmental.

      “It’s complicated.” He glanced at her reflection in the glass.

      “So is every surgery ever. I can keep up.” And please don’t say it was booze, drugs, or something else bad.

      “And personal,” Preston said, his words careful and measured. Careful enough to raise red flags. Swollen eye. Personal fainting issues. It couldn’t be drugs.

      “Sleep deprivation from something?” She hoped, and scoured her brain for any illnesses presenting with those symptoms, but they just didn’t go together. Syncope and swelling... Heart disease?

      “Yes.” He met her eyes in the reflection, scowled and turned to look at her directly. “Stop it.”

      “No. What caused it?” She stomped the faucet pedal and with her hands aloft faced him.

      “Something. Personal,” he reiterated, and then added, “Stop diagnosing me. I know that face.”

      “Is it your heart?” she asked, and when he started walking tried a different tack. “Are you sleeping better?”

      “Like a baby.” He flashed a toothy smile at her.

      He wanted to drive her nuts. So secretive. “It’d really help me to know what’s going on with you.”

      Apparently Preston had decided he was done talking about it. And now was a really bad time to hit him. Her hands were clean. Her patient was waiting. She followed him out. After getting gowned and gloved, she approached the table and smiled at the large woman lying on her back, staring up at unlit lights.

      Time to take her own advice and stow it. She had a patient to put at ease. “Morning, Angie. How’re you feeling? Excited?”

      Bariatric surgery often made the overweight excited. If the woman hadn’t needed surgical help with her weight, they might never have discovered the problem with her twisted and backward intestines until the day it became a life-threatening emergency.

      “And nervous,” Angie admitted, though her words were a tad slow from the pre-op medication.

      “Everything’s going to go great,” Dasha said, smiling down at her and then nodding to Preston, who’d joined her on the other side of the table, all smiles and charm. “This is a colleague, Dr. Preston Monroe, and he’s going to assist in your surgery today.”

      “Are you a good doctor?” She may be nervous and drugged, but even in that state the woman reacted to Preston’s crazy blue eyes with a groggy smile.

      Dasha would have laughed if she wasn’t irritated with him.

      “Number СКАЧАТЬ