Chapter 10 The Invitation #2
"This," I say, tapping the binder, "is the Dossier. If you are going to survive dinner with my parents, you need intel."
Jax laughs. He reaches for the binder. "Intel. Okay, 007. Let’s see what you’ve got."
He flips it open.
"Tab One: Catherine York," he reads. "Likes: Gin martinis (dry), silence, the opera Tosca. Dislikes: Tardiness, polyester, laughter." He looks up. "Laughter? She dislikes joy?"
"She considers it 'frivolous,'" I explain. "If you must laugh, do so quietly. A chuckle is acceptable. A guffaw is fatal."
"Noted," Jax says, flipping the page. "Tab Two: Alistair York. Likes: Scotch (single malt), war history, tax evasion."
"Tax optimization," I correct. "Do not use the word evasion. He considers himself a patriot who simply disagrees with the IRS."
"Got it. Patriot. Tab Three: Forbidden Conversation Topics. 'The price of gasoline,' 'Denim as a fabric,' 'People who own ferrets,' and... 'Joy'?"
"My mother finds public displays of happiness suspicious. She believes if you are smiling, you are either simple-minded or plotting a hostile takeover."
"And 'Acceptable Topics' is just... 'Orchids' and 'The decline of the Gold Standard'?"
"Stick to the orchids, Jax. The Gold Standard debate usually ends with my father throwing a brandy snifter."
Jax closes the binder. He pushes it back across the table.
"Okay," he says. "I’ve got the stats. But this isn't going to work."
"Why not? The data is comprehensive."
"Because it’s a script, Max," Jax says. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the sticky table. "If I go in there reciting facts about Tosca, they’re going to smell fear. But more importantly... they’re going to watch you."
"Me?"
"Your body language," Jax says. "You’re stiff. You hold yourself like you’re wearing a wire. If we’re supposed to be in love—or at least, in lust—you have to look like you want me within a five-mile radius."
"I am perfectly capable of simulating proximity," I say defensively.
"Are you?" Jax challenges. "Give me your hand."
I hesitate. "Why?"
"Just do it."
I slowly extend my hand across the table. I hold it out flat, palm open.
Jax looks at it. He raises an eyebrow.
"Max, you’re offering me a handshake. You look like you’re closing a merger, not a date."
He reaches out. He doesn't shake my hand. He slides his fingers through mine, interlacing them. His palm is warm, rough with calluses. He rests our joined hands on the table, his thumb brushing lazily against the pulse point of my wrist.
Current shoots up my arm.
"See the difference?" Jax asks softly. "A handshake is a contract. This... this is a claim."
I stare at our hands. My skin looks pale and smooth against his tan, scarred knuckles. It looks... right.
"You have to relax," Jax murmurs. He squeezes my hand, testing the resistance. "You’re locking your wrist. Stop fighting me."
"I am not fighting," I whisper. "I am... calibrating."
"Calibrate faster."
He shifts in the booth. He slides his leg forward until his knee bumps mine under the table. He leaves it there. A steady, warm pressure.
"If your mother says something mean," Jax says, his thumb still stroking my wrist, "you’re going to want to pull away. You’re going to want to retreat into the Ice Fortress. But you can't. You have to lean into me."
"Lean into you," I repeat. My mouth is dry.
"Yeah. Like this."
He tugs on my hand, pulling me slightly closer across the table.
"When I touch you," Jax says, his voice dropping to that low, scratchy register, "don't flinch. Don't stiffen. Just... let me have it."
I look up at him. The neon sign in the window reflects in his hazel eyes. He isn't looking at me like a colleague, or a co-conspirator. He is looking at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
"I can do that," I manage to say.
"Good," Jax says. "Because if you freeze up on me in front of the shrimp cocktail, I’m going to have to do something drastic to sell it."
"Drastic?"
"Like kiss you," he says. "In front of Alistair. And I don't think either of us is ready for that level of method acting."
He finally releases my hand. The loss of warmth is immediate and jarring.
"Okay," he says, picking up his beer. "Now that we’ve handled the physical therapy, we need the real intel. No binder."
"The binder is accurate," I argue.
"The binder is boring. I need to know you, Max. Not just your parents' quirks."
He takes a sip.
"So," he says. "No notes. No prep. Just us. What’s your favorite color?"
I blink. "That is irrelevant."
"It’s basic. Answer the question."
"Cerulean," I say. "It is the color of oxygenated blood."
Jax snorts. "Of course it is. Mine is green. Army green. Because it’s the only color that doesn't show dirt."
"Practical," I allow.
"Favorite movie?" Jax asks.
" Casablanca," I say. "The lighting is exquisite."
" Die Hard," Jax counters. "Because Bruce Willis fixes problems with duct tape and attitude."
"That explains so much about your surgical technique."
He grins. "Your turn. Ask me something."
I look at him. I realize I don't know much about him at all, other than the fact that he saves lives and eats garbage.
"Why Trauma?" I ask. "You have the hands for Neuro. You have the patience for Ortho. Why the Pit?"
Jax’s smile fades a little. He traces the condensation on his glass.
"Because in Trauma, you don't have to wait," he says quietly. "In Cardio, you plan. You consult. You prep. In Trauma... something breaks, and you fix it. Right there. No waiting. No time to doubt yourself. You just... act."
"Immediate gratification," I diagnose.
"Immediate redemption," he corrects.
I pause. The noise of the bar fades away.
"Redemption for what?" I ask.
Jax looks up. His eyes are guarded.
"For the ones I couldn't fix," he says. "The ones who didn't make it to the table."
He takes a long pull of his beer.
"Your turn," he says, deflecting. "Why Cardio? Why the heart?"
I hesitate. I have never told anyone the real reason. I tell them it is the most prestigious specialty. I tell them it is the most complex.
"It is a machine," I say softly. "The heart. It is valves and pressure gradients and electrical impulses. It is logical. If it breaks, there is a reason. If I fix it, it works."
I look down at my hands.
"People are messy," I admit. "Emotions are messy. But the heart... the heart is just a pump. I can understand a pump."
Jax reaches across the table. He covers my hand with his again. This time, I don't need to be told to relax. I turn my palm up, interlacing our fingers instinctively.
"You’re wrong, you know," he says.
"About what?"
"It’s not just a pump, Max," he says. His thumb rubs over my knuckles. "It’s where you keep the good stuff. The courage. The fear. The part of you that covered me with your own sweater when I was cold."
I look at him. My heart—my logical, mechanical pump—does a traitorous flutter.
"That isn't medically accurate," I whisper.
"Maybe not," Jax smiles. "But it’s true."
He finishes his beer.
"Okay," he says. "I think I’m ready. I know your favorite color, I know your daddy issues, and I know you’re a secret romantic who watches Casablanca."
"I am not a romantic."
"We’ll see." He stands up. "Come on. Let’s get out of here before you catch hepatitis from the table."
I stand up. I grab the binder.
"You really think we can pull this off?" I ask.
Jax looks at me. He winks.
"Max, we hacked a robotic surgery protocol in three hours. We can handle a dinner party."
He opens the door for me.
"After you, partner."
I walk out into the cold night air. I feel prepared. But not because of the binder.
Because of him.