Chapter 4 – Catalina
Jensen glares at me.
I blink back at him, feigning my most bored expression while taking another slow sip of wine. I don’t care if what I said was harsh. I'm used to people telling me I'm too direct to the point of coming across as rude.
Do you want your doctor to sugar coat your diagnosis or give it to you straight so that you know just how long you might have left? Would you rather your doctor treat you like a child or the adult that you are who needs to come up with a plan and handle your shit?
It wasn’t harsh. It was factual. Necessary.
It’s what every one of my patients needs drilled into their skulls.
You’ve had heart surgery; therefore, you need to take it easy for the rest of your life.
You're at a higher risk for complications, especially when you're not even a year out from it. That’s the rule. End of story.
Only fools ignore sound advice.
I expect him to tell me to fuck off, maybe toss his bar napkin on the countertop and storm out.
That’s what most people would do when I tell them the truth they didn’t ask for.
When I press on the broken parts of them that they try to pretend don’t exist. And why am I telling him the truth?
Perhaps it's because most people think I'm repeating a line from a manual.
That I'm so obsessed with science and case studies that I can't think for myself outside of a textbook.
The truth is that I know I care even when I shouldn’t.
You can't care about every patient who comes through your OR. I learned that early in my career. Regardless of how I learned that lesson, I still do. I always have. It's been my biggest blessing and curse and the one thing I’ve kept hidden in the back of my mind, pretending it doesn’t exist.
Jensen sits back, leaning a little on his bar stool. He’s studying me critically. And his stare isn’t lazy or disinterested. It’s focused, lingering, like he’s trying to peel me open layer by layer.
I hate that. I hate being read. Assessed. Parsed out like a puzzle. He won't find the answers he's seeking anyway. I've been taught by the best how to conceal and never reveal. I don’t let my discomfort show anymore. I’m excellent at keeping things locked down.
I’m the oldest of three daughters to immigrant parents—armor wasn’t optional. It was the only way through. It was about survival. My sisters got to stumble, experiment, break the rules and learn their limits. I had to set the example and model good behavior even if they didn't follow my lead.
I had to be perfect.
Every day, every breath, every thought had to have purpose. It was my duty to show my parents that their sacrifices weren't for nothing. That at least one of us would make their American dream come true.
My sisters have gotten there on their own timeline. It's just taken them a bit longer with a few more mistakes along the way. But not me. Mistakes aren't something I make.
Jensen leans in closer, and that’s when his scent reaches me—clean and masculine, like soap and heat. Nothing like my ex, whose cologne could knock someone out from twenty feet away. Overpriced nonsense meant to convince people he mattered just because he could afford something name-brand.
You're not supposed to wear any scents during surgery, but he broke the rules, and everyone let him despite the risk it posed to patients. Just like every other man I've worked with, no one said a thing.
Me, I never got to have my nails painted, hair was always kept neat, no perfume but my soap that I'd scrub my skin with religiously each morning.
I guess in some ways working the Series has allowed me to let my hair down a bit in that regard, but old habits die hard, which is probably why I'm still dressed in my comfort color, black.
It doesn't show the blood.
If my ex was complicated, Jensen’s the opposite.
Maybe a little rough like a cowboy who spends a lot of time in arenas.
But I get the feeling that what you see is what you get with him.
He’s probably had some wild rodeo nights working on the circuit.
Likely sleeps around with different women in different cities but probably keeps things casual and doesn't have dark secrets hidden in the rafters like my ex did.
I hate that I'm a little intrigued and miffed by him. He's so wildly different from any man I've ever been even in proximity to, it’s almost bizarre sharing his company over a drink even if we’re supposed to be discussing his shoulder injury.
Which reminds me, he’s completely deflected from that conversation.
“You think I’m not taking advantage of the second chance I have?” he asks.
“I didn’t say that. I said that I think you’re being foolish with the second chance.”
His glare sharpens and then one of his big palms drops onto my knee, sending a shock through my core.
Normally, I’d pull away from him on instinct alone.
Uninvited touch is an instant no for me.
Growing up, we didn't get a lot of hugs from our parents.
Well, at least I didn't. By the time my youngest sister Isla came around, my parents were huggers and kissers which was a mind-blowing thing to witness.
But they respected the fact that I never wanted that from them and so I didn’t get any. I've often wondered if I didn't want physical affection, or if I just wasn't used to it and my reaction came across as unwelcoming.
Sometimes I wonder if that's why Davis cheated. If it was too difficult for him to love me because when he showed affection to me, I gave off the impression that it was unwanted.
I shake that thought out of my head. I refuse to blame myself for his affair.
I look down at where Jensen’s hand has landed and then back up at him. That’s when I note that when he touches me... I don't recoil. Instead, I find myself leaning in slightly. My muscles aren’t tense; they melt just a fraction.
His hand is warm. Huge, even for a rider who all seem to have large hands. Probably from gripping ropes tight enough to keep him from getting thrown into the dirt and trampled to death.
Right. Remember that, Catalina. This man chooses to work a dangerous job despite you stitching his heart back together. He could die any night because he’s a fool, and the surgery I performed would end up being all for nothing.
“I’m not being foolish,” he says quietly. “I’m living my life every day because at any point, I could die, and I recognize that. I'm honoring that. There are a million different ways to die. Riding’s just one of them.”
“You’re impulsive,” I counter.
“I’m not denying that.” His mouth twitches upward. “My grandma always said impulsiveness would be my downfall.”
“Your grandma sounds like a smart woman.”
That pulls an honest smile out of him, one that lights up his whole face.
Dammit. He has a nice smile. Straight, white teeth. Probably from mouth guards, not orthodontics, but it fits him. And that only annoys me more.
Why is he still sitting here? Why isn’t he offended that I just called him foolish, twice?
I also practically said his job was stupid.
Not something the doctor of a whole Series should probably be saying to her athletes, but I don't like lying or mincing my words.
I do think bull-riding is nonsensical. Along with most other sports.
“My grandma is smart. She reminds me a lot of you."
Why would he say that?
He continues, “You mentioned the fact that I should care more about the people who are watching me ride, that would be her. She’s the only one who cares. She taught me how to ride horses.”
His grandma watches his rides?
"And I know what I’m capable of,” he finishes. “I’m not gonna let a heart surgery sideline me. What would you expect me to do? Sit at home and do nothing despite being able to move my body just fine?”
“No,” I say. “I’d expect you to stop riding a bull for a living and find a better job.”
His jaw flexes, tightening as he leans back. “You never asked me why I got into bull riding.”
“I don't need to know that. I don’t care.”
His eyes narrow, and he rolls his tongue slowly over his teeth. It’s infuriating that he hasn’t left yet. And distracting when he does that. He has a nice mouth. I'll give him that. Even if the shit that comes out of it is ridiculous.
“I have literally held your heart in my hands, Jensen,” I say, voice softer. “I know what it’s capable of. And the data says that after heart surgery, you take things easy. You’re at higher risk for stroke. For—”
He lifts a hand. “I don’t need to hear this shit again. I know the risks. I’ve been informed. I'm choosing not to focus on that. And therefore, I don’t care.” He tosses my words directly back in my face.
I sigh. “And I can’t make you care. All I can do is tell you I repaired your heart perfectly. But perfect doesn’t mean invincible, and if something happens while you're out there riding, well, now you've become my responsibility to save. Again.”
“I know,” he says it quieter this time.
I take another sip of my wine, feeling my spine shift uncomfortably against the stool.
Maybe I am being too harsh. Maybe I’ve crossed over from concerned into rude.
This whole situation is strange. I’ve dealt with so many patients over the years but never have I had them come back to me after their surgery to let me know they don't care about their life.
Never have I been put in a situation where I might have to watch them die from something other than complications related to the surgery.
My mind flashes to the teenager I performed heart surgery on a year ago.
It was the last surgery before I quit and moved to Whitewood Creek to take a temporary role at the community hospital there with Chief Hayes Walker.
The young girl had been so grateful for her second chance, she said she was going to become a doctor when she went to college.
People like that are why people like Jensen make me angry.
Jensen is wild. Reckless. Chaotic. Everything I’d classify as a walking red flag in a human and man.