His Forbidden Love (Manhattan Billionaires #2) - Ava Ryan Page 0,17

mature relationship. With Bruce. I need to focus. On Bruce. I can’t scuttle my plans for my life just because this Dr. McDreamy wannabe reappears unexpectedly.

But…the Sphinx is a great doctor. An amazing teacher, hazing aside. He’s got the wealth of knowledge and the willingness to share them. The most uncompromising expectations. The highest ethics. The best practices. The calmest demeanor. The most soothing and encouraging bedside manner. He is the platinum standard. Other docs I’ve worked with never measure up. They may have the knowledge, but it’s locked inside their head because they lack the communication skills to be an effective teacher. Or they’re so selfish and narcissistic that they don’t even bother pretending to care that part of their job consists of instructing the next generation of surgeons. But not Dr. Jamison. He’s got it all. Training with him is a huge privilege. The medical equivalent of a painter taking a personalized master class from Pablo Picasso.

If only I could shut off those blaring alarm bells in my head.

The problem is, they’re right. There’s plenty of reason for alarm here. This may be my dream opportunity, but the cost is too high. I can’t do it. I shouldn’t attempt to do it any more than a recovering alcoholic should attempt to work the graveyard shift at a bourbon distillery.

Why set yourself up for failure and, worse, disaster?

Thanks, but no.

Say it, Ally. Do the right thing.

“Harlow?” he says quietly.

“When do I start?” I ask.

Something palpable changes in him. It’s not a smile or a gasp of relief. Nothing like that. But the energy shifts in the room, and I could almost swear that it has something to do with his stern face and the secrets hidden behind his eyes.

“You can start— Fuck,” he says, breaking off when his phone buzzes and he gets a glimpse of the display.

He gives me a triumphant look as he surges to his feet and heads for the door.

I know that look.

I love that look.

“What is it?” I ask, already breathless as I get up and hurry after him.

“You can scrub in with me right now. We’ve got an emergency. Let’s go.”

6

Michael

“Trevor?” I say three hours later. I lean over the bed and squeeze the IV’d arm of my patient, a drowsy nine-year-old with a sleep-smashed Afro and a heavily bandaged neck. “You with me, buddy?”

Trevor swats my hand away and frowns without opening his eyes. “Sleeping,” he grumbles.

I exchange a quick and relieved grin with his mother, who’s hunkered over the other side of the bed with Trevor’s father.

And who’s standing next to me? Ally.

I experience a high every time I come out of a successful surgery. And now? With Ally’s assist and her presence at my right hand? That natural high is skimming the edge of euphoria.

“Wake up, Trev,” I say, squeezing again. “I’m going to need proof of life before I let you go home to Mr. Peanut Butter.”

Magic words. Trevor’s lids fly open and he springs to life, yanking the cannula from his nose.

“It wasn’t Mr. Peanut Butter’s fault,” he tells his parents with the same urgency I’d expect him to demonstrate if he were warning them about a house fire in the middle of the night. “He didn’t know what he was doing. It was an accident. You can’t get rid of him, okay?”

“I’m not getting rid of the dog. I’m getting rid of the tug rope,” his mother says darkly.

“Agreed,” says Trevor’s father, eyeballing the side of his son’s neck. “I just never thought a golden retriever could do that kind of damage.”

“Ah,” I say, using my tablet to type a note in Trevor’s chart. “So you were able to adopt one of those elusive toothless golden retrievers. Or was it a vegetarian golden retriever that doesn’t have the sharp teeth like other dogs?”

“The doc’s got jokes,” Trevor’s dad says, swapping a sheepish grin with his wife.

“Those were actually halfway decent,” Ally says with an amused sidelong glance at me that makes my skin hum with pleasure. “You should’ve heard what I had to listen to in the OR. I can’t decide what was worse. His music choice or his jokes.”

“Leave my peaceful piano music out of this,” I tell her, finishing with the tablet.

“Peaceful piano? Yeah, that’s tragic,” Trevor says to a round of laughter. “Am I going to have a cool scar?” he asks, touching his bandages as things quiet down. “Like a vampire or something?”

“Don’t get greedy,” I say. “You’re lucky to be alive. If