Chapter 10
Hostile Negotiations
PRESTON
The air between Luke and me has been… complicated.
Since the "To Be Continued" incident in the hallway—where we barely began our kiss only to be rudely interrupted by the nurse on duty—we have been dancing around each other. It’s a lot of intense eye contact over patient charts and accidental arm brushing that feels increasingly like arson.
But Luke is a professional. He’s the Chief Resident. He can handle sexual tension.
What he cannot handle is my mother.
It happens on Tuesday in the cafeteria.
Max and Jax are eating lunch at a corner table. I am sitting with them, looking miserable. Luke is walking past with a tray of lukewarm lasagna when the atmosphere in the room drops twenty degrees.
The double doors swing open.
Catherine York glides in. She is wearing a pastel yellow suit that looks like an Easter egg designed by a dictator. She spots us instantly.
“Mother,” Max sighs, dropping his fork. “She found us. Quick, Jax, look busy. Intubate your apple.”
“Too late,” Jax grins, crunching into it. “Target lock engaged.”
Catherine arrives at the table. She ignores the cafeteria surroundings as if they are a hallucination she is choosing not to acknowledge.
“Maxwell. Preston,” she says. “And… Dr. O’Connell.”
She gives Jax a polite, tight smile. The kind you give a large dog that has stopped biting but still sheds on the velvet.
“Mrs. York,” Jax says cheerfully. “Nice shade of yellow. Very… optimistic.”
“It is ‘Buttercream,’” she corrects icily. “Preston, darling. We need to discuss Saturday.”
I shrink in my seat. “I thought we were skipping it? Dad said something about fleeing to the Caymans to avoid the pollen.”
“Change of plans. The weather is holding. We are hosting the Annual York Invitational.”
I choke on my water. “The golf outing? Mother, no. You know I don’t golf. I don’t like walking on grass. It’s uneven.”
“You are playing,” Catherine insists. “We need a fourth. And I have a surprise for you. I’ve invited Harrison Vane.”
I stare at her. “Harrison Vane? The guy who wears boat shoes to funerals? Mother, no.”
“He is a lovely young man,” Catherine insists. “His father sits on the Hospital Board. He is finishing his Art History degree. I thought he would be a… suitable partner for you. Since you seem determined to waste your youth in this… basement.”
I look frantic. I look at Max. Max looks away, studying the ceiling tiles with intense fascination. I look at Jax.
Jax leans over to Max and whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Man, it is so nice not to be the cannon fodder this time. I feel lighter. Do I look lighter?”
“You look smug,” Max mutters. "Now eat your apple."
My eyes dart around the room. They land on Luke.
He tries to blend into a pillar. It doesn't work.
“I have a partner already!” I blurt out. “I’m bringing someone else to the club.”
Catherine freezes. “Excuse me?”
“I’m bringing Luke. Dr. Silva.” I point a shaking finger at him.
Catherine turns slowly. She looks at Luke. She looks at his ID badge. She looks at the lasagna.
“Dr. Silva,” she says. “The… scheduler.”
“Chief Resident,” Luke corrects automatically.
“He’s very busy,” I lie, standing up. “But he cleared his schedule for Saturday. Didn't you, Luke?”
Luke looks at me. He looks like a man about to be fed to a shark wearing boat shoes.
“I… yes,” he says, because he is apparently a saint. “I love… golf.”
“Wonderful,” Catherine says. Her tone suggests it is anything but. “Tee time is 10:00 AM sharp at the Country Club. Don't be late. And Dr. Silva? Do try to wear appropriate attire. Collars are mandatory. Polyester is a felony.”
She turns and marches out.
Ten minutes later, I corner him in the Linen Closet on the fourth floor.
“I am so sorry,” I breathe, leaning back against the door. “I panicked. The boat shoes flashed before my eyes.”
“Harrison Vane?” Luke asks, folding a sheet. “Is he really that bad?”
“Luke, he once explained the cultural significance of the polo mallet to me for forty-five minutes. He calls his father ‘Papa.’ He owns a cape. An unironic cape.”
I step closer. The closet is small. He smells like soap and stress.
“I need you to come,” I say. “Please. I need a buffer. If I go alone, she’ll put me in a cart with Harrison and I’ll be engaged by the ninth hole.”
“I don’t golf, Preston,” Luke says, crossing his arms. “I’m from Queens. We play handball. I don’t own plaid pants.”
I flinch. “I’ll buy you the pants. I’ll buy you the clubs. I just… I need you there.”
I hesitate. I look at my shoes—expensive, Italian leather—and then up at him. The snark is gone. I feel vulnerable.
“I want you there,” I say quietly. “Because I like you. And because if I have to walk eighteen holes feeling like the family disappointment, I want someone there who actually… sees me.”
He looks at me with those dark eyes. He sighs. He’s a goner.
“Fine,” he says. “But if there’s a cape involved, I’m driving the golf cart into the pond.”
I pull the Porsche up to the valet stand. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. It is disgusting.
I am wearing lavender. Specifically, lavender linen trousers, a white polo, and a cashmere sweater tied around my neck in a way that screams "My father owns a yacht."
Luke steps out of the car.
He is not wearing lavender.
He is wearing navy chino shorts that hit just above the knee, revealing legs that are… significant. Muscular. Tan. And a crisp white polo shirt that fits him a little too well across the chest. He looks like the pro who gives lessons to bored housewives in romance novels.
I swallow hard.
“You said collars were mandatory,” Luke says, adjusting his sunglasses. “Is this okay? It’s the only polo I have. I usually wear scrubs.”
“It’s terrible,” I lie, my voice strangled. “You look awful. My mother is going to hate how good your calves look. Let’s go.”
We walk to the first tee.
The York family is assembled like a military tribunal in pastel.
Alistair is wearing plaid knickers. Actual, 1920s-style knickers. He is swinging a driver that looks like it was designed by NASA.
“Fore!” Alistair shouts at a squirrel.
“Father,” I say. “This is Dr. Silva.”
Alistair stops swinging. He looks Luke up and down.
“Dr. Silva,” Alistair booms. “Preston tells me you’re an aspiring trauma surgeon. Good hands. Do they translate to the short game? Or are you a slicer? You look like a slicer.”
“I’ve never played, sir,” Luke admits.
Alistair’s eyes light up. It is the look of a predator spotting a wounded gazelle.
“Never played? Marvellous! We’ll play for skins. Five hundred a hole?”
“Alistair, stop trying to bankrupt the staff,” Catherine snaps. She is sitting in a golf cart, wearing a visor large enough to block out the sun for a small village.
She turns her gaze on Luke.
“Dr. Silva,” she says. “So brave of you to join us. And in… shorts. How… athletic.”
“It’s hot, Mrs. York,” Luke says politely.
“Mmm. Harrison is wearing linen trousers,” she notes, gesturing to the putting green.
And there he is. Harrison Vane.
He is wearing beige. Beige pants. Beige shirt. Beige cap. He looks like a human band-aid. And yes, he is wearing a cape-like windbreaker draped over his shoulders.
“Preston!” Harrison calls out, waving a putter. “I was just telling your mother about the provenance of this club! It’s hickory! From 1910!”
“Kill me,” I whisper to Luke.
“He’s wearing a cape,” Luke whispers back. “You weren’t lying.”
“Let’s play!” Alistair yells. “Harrison, you’re with Preston. Dr. Silva, you’re with me. Try not to slow us down.”
The tragedy begins immediately.
Harrison Vane does not play golf. He performs golf. Every shot involves a three-minute monologue about wind resistance and "chi."
I am miserable. I am sweating. My lavender linen is wilting.
Luke, however, is annoying.
“It’s just physics,” Luke says on the third hole, looking at the ball. “Fulcrum. Lever. Velocity.”
He steps up. He swings.
It isn't a pretty swing. It’s brute force. But he connects. The ball rockets off the tee, soaring straight down the fairway, outdriving Alistair by fifty yards.
“Beginner’s luck!” Alistair shouts, his face turning red.
On the fifth hole, Luke sinks a twenty-foot putt.
“Geometry,” Luke shrugs. “Reading the slope.”
Alistair is vibrating. He hates losing. He especially hates losing to someone wearing off-the-rack chinos.
“The boy is a hustler!” Alistair hisses to me as we walk to the seventh tee. “He claimed he never played! He’s a shark, Preston! A sleeper agent!”
“He’s a trauma surgeon, Dad,” I say, watching Luke lean on his club, looking effortlessly cool. “He understands mechanics. And he’s not intimidated by you. He cuts people open for a living.”
“I don’t like it,” Alistair grumbles. “I’m going to use the Big Bertha.”
He pulls out a driver that looks illegal in forty-eight states.
We reach the ninth green. The clubhouse is in sight. Freedom is close.
“So,” Catherine says, pulling her cart up next to mine. She looks at Luke, who is helping Harrison find his ball in a sand trap.
“He’s very… rough around the edges, isn't he?” Catherine observes.
“He’s polite, Mother,” I say.
“He’s a scholarship boy, Preston,” she sighs. “I had his file pulled. State school. Single mother. Nurse.”
She says "Nurse" like it’s a contagious disease.
“I know,” I say stiffly. “His mother is Rosa Ortiz. She’s the Charge Nurse.”
“Ah,” Catherine nods. “Staff. It explains the… lack of polish. The shorts. The way he holds the club like a baseball bat.”
She turns to me.
“Harrison fits in, Preston. He knows the rules. He knows the dress code. Dr. Silva is… he’s a temporary amusement. A tourist in our world.”
I grip my putter. “He’s not a tourist.”
“Isn't he?” She gestures to Luke. “Look at him. He doesn't belong here. And you know it.”
We are sitting on the terrace for lunch. The view is spectacular. The tension is thick enough to cut with a steak knife.