Uncovering Her Secrets. Amalie Berlin
He could feel it lurking in the tightening muscle.
Stepping to the side, he grabbed some paper towels and wet them so he could apply them to his infuriating left eye.
He couldn’t have been wrong about their friendship. Impossible. And he really couldn’t have been wrong about the sexual relationship. No one could fake the passion they’d shared.
And thinking about sex and Dasha was also a bad idea.
He wrung out the towel and wet it again.
This morning, the offer from the head of surgery at St. Vincent’s had felt like a reprieve. A stay of execution. He wouldn’t have to call in his father for favors—which was how it had been seeming. He’d never done it before, and the idea of starting now stuck in his throat. The fact that he’d even considered it galled him, let alone the idea of volunteering to suffer one of Davis P. Monroe’s epic lectures.
The only other option was starting over in a new town, far from the man’s shadow.
Now it just seemed like he was swapping one evil for another. And this evil, while undoubtedly better looking, couldn’t be trusted to have his best interests at heart. He wasn’t even sure he believed her claim that she’d arranged this because she owed him.
His eye twitched open beneath the wet towel then refused to close. He dropped the towel in the sink and focused. The eye had opened so wide it looked surprised.
Scratch that. He didn’t look surprised in one eye. He looked like Popeye.
He could definitely add stress to his triggers.
As if sensing a moment of weakness, his phone in his thigh pocket started to vibrate.
Preston fished it out and looked at the screen. Davis P. No way. He sent it to voice mail.
He couldn’t stomach a lecture right now. And, really, he didn’t see that he’d be able to suffer one and hold his tongue for the rest of the day. Not when he was questioning his past, his future...hell, even his value as a surgeon, as a man.
Better text something.
Just like that, the decision was made.
Can’t talk. At work. Took position at St. Vincent’s.
Home. He’d go home, give the injection in his left eye—the biggest offender. He’d been hoping to treat the problem with medication, the kind he could take with water. But another attack this soon made it injection time. Maybe switching to the botulin injection would be enough to counter the stress he expected Dasha to stir up.
Sixty days. He could handle two months to be at the hospital he’d always wanted. He just had to tread lightly around Dasha. Not get too close. Forget what had happened. Forget the feelings.
And when his probation was over, he could go back to forgetting her.
* * *
Mid-afternoon 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