His Forbidden Love (Manhattan Billionaires #2) - Ava Ryan Page 0,10
don’t seem to care that you’re putting a target on your own damn back right out of the gate,” I say, generating around of sniggering among the other residents.
The smile slips away from her laughing eyes for the first time. “My best friend Kelly suffered from third-degree burns from a kitchen accident when we were kids. She had a target on her back. This, I can deal with.”
Whoa.
Another vulnerability revealed by young Dr. Harlow.
Another corresponding prickle of awareness across my scalp.
Another tug of longing inside me.
More importantly, another opportunity for me to reinforce my shields.
“Fascinating,” I say in my most scathing tone. “Any other true confessions? Or can we get to patient care now that you’ve wasted five minutes of our time?”
“You’re in charge,” she says without missing a beat.
But she’s wrong.
I’ve never been in charge of a single interaction I’ve had with her.
If I were in charge of anything, I wouldn’t have approached her in the hospital café at lunch that day, when I saw her studying the Greek yogurt selections with more concentration than I’ve seen some of my colleagues use during brain surgery.
“Just pick one, Harlow,” I say, sliding into place behind her in the world’s longest line and selecting a cup of strawberry. “You’re not defusing a bomb here.”
“Dr. Jamison,” she says, startled. “It’s not that easy. I’m trying to figure out my point situation.”
“Point situation?”
“I’m celebrating my fifth anniversary of trying to lose the same twenty pounds,” she says with a grimace, finally grabbing a cup of vanilla. “This yogurt selection is going to make all the difference.”
I can’t help but smile, which troubles me greatly. First, because I hate being pleasant to interns. Second, because I find her openness refreshing. Third, and this is the biggie, because the idea of her trying to tweak this body is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Where would she take the pounds from? Her stellar ass? Her generous boobs? Why would she do that? What if Rubens had painted over all his voluptuous nudes and thinned them down? Is that the kind of thing the world should be grateful for? I don’t think so.
“That’s stupid,” I say.
“What?” she says, frowning up at me. “Being healthy?”
“Obsessing over nonsense,” I say, selecting a banana as the line sidles forward.
“Well, thank you for that unsolicited opinion about my obsession, Dr. Jamison,” she says with a repressive sidelong glare. “Isn’t there a rule against the chief being abusive to interns on our lunch break?”
I can’t help but chuckle.
“Absolutely not. You’re lucky I don’t send you to track down some labs for me. Ruin your lunch altogether just for fun.”
“Wonderful. Don’t let me keep you from harassing my colleagues. They’re at the table over there,” she says, gesturing.
“In a minute.” I grab some bottled water and choose my words with care. “What happened to her? Your friend.”
She’d been selecting a fruit cup, but now she glances up at me, looking surprised.
I feel the connection in the pit of my belly. There’s something extraordinary about these brown eyes.
“Kelly. She had third-degree burns on her face and neck. She had surgeries. Grafts. More surgeries. She’s doing well now, but she really suffered.”
I nod with complete understanding because I’ve treated dozens of Kellys in my career. “Ah.”
“That’s why I want to be a plastic surgeon,” she continues. “To help kids like her. But also because we’ve got to do better for kids like her.”
“Better?” I say, arrested by this new fervency.
“Better skin grafts. Better reconstruction. Better pain management. All of it.”
Here’s another annoying thing about interns: their relentless idealism and optimism. It’s the solemn duty of older doctors like me to beat it out of them. Modern medicine can do a lot, but it can’t do everything. We can’t save every patient or even improve the life of every patient. Patients suffer. Some die. And the contributions of us doctors, even the great ones, of which there are far too few, won’t change that reality.
But there’s something about hearing this kind of thing from Harlow that touches me as much as it amuses me.
“Pace yourself. This is your first day. You won’t know what kind of surgeon you want to be until you’ve tried a few.”
Her jaw tightens as she stares me in the face.
“Here’s the thing about me, Dr. Jamison. I know what I want.”
I come out of my daydream to realize that the valet line has barely shuffled forward a couple of feet.