Uncovering Her Secrets. Amalie Berlin

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      And residency. Hopefully Angie was too out of it to realize that Preston had just taken a roundabout way of saying she wasn’t as good a surgeon as he was.

      “Dr. Hardin said it’s a difficult surgery,” Angie garbled.

      “She likes to say stuff like that. Makes it seem more impressive later.” Preston smiled down at the woman and nodded toward the anesthesiologist at her head. “Time to take a nap.”

      A little goofy chuckle slipped out of her patient, but the anesthesiologist was there with the gas, saving her from a showdown with Preston that Angie would hear.

      “I like to be honest with my patients,” Dasha muttered. “One hundred percent.”

      “You were honest.”

      “And I don’t need you cutting me down to them either. They should feel confident in—”

      “I wasn’t cutting you down,” Preston cut in. “It was banter, and it put her at ease. She was confident.”

      “You charmed her. And you lied,” Dasha said, then leaned over and whispered, “which you should do with the staff, not just the patients. Charm them. You know how.”

      “Relax. If you’re worried about the staff liking me, maybe you could act like you do. Set an example,” he whispered back.

      “Fine,” Dasha whispered through gritted teeth, and stepped around to her preferred side for this procedure.

      “Malrotation and gastric bypass?”

      “Malrotation and sleeve gastrectomy,” she corrected in her most cheerful voice, and tried really hard not to consider the irony of the condition for their first scheduled surgery.

      Malrotation. Badly twisted-up insides.

      Sounded about right.

      * * *

      Preston pulled his cap off as he exited the OR and made a beeline for the nearest bathroom—his usual routine. Part necessity, part just needing to be alone for a few minutes.

      He’d lied to Angie. It was a hard procedure. Long. And he needed to stop fighting with Dasha. It didn’t gain him anything. She was right, everyone liked her. No good could come from the antagonism he felt around her. He wanted St. Vincent’s. As much as he’d like to pretend otherwise, his surgical skill alone wouldn’t get this job for him. And time had repeatedly proved that his skill couldn’t keep jobs when his mouth interfered.

      On the plus side, at least at the end of day two, he felt firmly reassured that Dasha had the skills to avoid sullying his reputation, or using him to boost her own.

      It also felt good to know he’d helped someone. The woman’s life would improve. They’d mitigated the danger of an emergency situation in the future.

      And his eyes hadn’t so much as twitched the whole time. Maybe the injection was going to do the trick. Even if it caused that eye swelling Dasha had grilled him about.

      On the way back out, he spotted Dasha and a male surgeon standing in front of the OR door, speaking in low, heated tones. He leaned and listened, not wanting to interrupt yet. Eavesdropping might not be cool, but this was a public area. If they’d wanted privacy, they should have sought it. It wasn’t his fault if they didn’t notice him listening.

      “You don’t have to deal with him,” Dasha said, her brows pinched in that way they always had before she got into it with someone.

      “I will eventually,” the man said. He looked familiar. Maybe. Preston tended to forget any but important faces, and even then sometimes...

      “Leave Preston to me. I can manage him.” She shifted her weight to her back foot, planting herself. If she hadn’t just said she’d manage him, he might be amused at her fighter’s stance over a conversation. Someone she actually looked like she might fight with? That didn’t fit with her Be Nice, Make Friends motto.

      It was the first time he’d seen that look since arriving. The man must be annoying her. If he hadn’t been talking about him, Preston might have decided to like the man.

      “You only think you can manage him,” the man said. “What about everyone else?”

      “He’s going to do fine. Better than fine. You’ll see. You’ll be glad he’s here,” she said.

      Dasha was defending him. It took a second for that realization to really penetrate.

      “Doubt it,” the man said.

      “This will all work out.” Dasha sounded as put out with this man as she regularly did with him. “Just drop it, Jason.”

      “His father can’t even manage him.”

      Jason? And knew Davis P.? Oh, hell. Time to interrupt.

      “My father stopped managing me when my voice dropped.” Preston leaned off the wall and approached. “Preston Monroe.” He stuck out one hand, a gesture that was hard for a man to ignore. “You must be Frist.”

      “I am.” Jason Frist, neurosurgeon and golden boy, as far as Preston’s father was concerned. The son he’d always wanted. The ideal held up to him when his father lamented his choice of specialty. That Jason. Friends with Dasha too. Or maybe more than that with Dasha. It took a certain kind of closeness to lecture someone.

      Frist took Preston’s offered hand and gave it a shake. “No offense, man.”

      Words surged into his throat, but he remembered his pep talk of minutes ago and stopped the verbal eruption with a choke. He cleared his throat. “You’re worried about the department. I get it. You don’t need to worry.”

      “Good to know. I have to be off. Appointments this afternoon. Hardin. Monroe.” Frist exited fast, which was something at least. He didn’t harp on the subject, and he didn’t call Preston on the lip service.

      Preston felt Dasha’s gaze before he actually saw it, prompting him to turn back to her. “You know, I was coming back here to congratulate you on your performance in surgery and apologize for the situation with Angie, then I heard the conversation and wanted to choke you. You think you can manage me.” He folded his arms and leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb.

      “You can—”

      “And then I saw you defending me,” he cut in before she really got going. “Now I don’t really know what to think. You looked like you were about to sock Frist in the nose. Did you know I was there?”

      “I didn’t. But would it make you feel better if I said yes?” She lifted her chin and stared him in the eye. “I’m setting an example.” Just when he thought she was gearing up to fight, she smiled at him. A real smile—alight with mischief and challenge. And if he hadn’t known what to think before...

      She was still in there, beneath all the polish and tact... Before he could think of anything to say, she headed off down the labyrinthine corridors to the stairs she’d taken down from her office. Still a creature of habit. Still someone who could make his belly flip over.

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