Uncovering Her Secrets. Amalie Berlin
“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 one in my class, Angie.” He winked at her.
“How do you know Dr. Hardin?” Angie mumbled.
“We were in school together.”
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