Chapter 2
TWO
TAY
Adrenaline tapered off slowly, heart still thudding a bit too fast as I scrubbed my hands under the tap.
Managed chaos—probably the unofficial motto of every ER in the country.
Or maybe I was projecting. Either way, I’d just finished coaxing a feverish toddler through a febrile seizure.
While technically not my case, I’d been close when it hit, and pediatrics had been tied up.
“You handled that well,” the attending said on her way past, not even slowing down. “With the parents, too—good job.”
“Thanks.” I shot her a little smile, quick and easy. The soft exhale of relief from everyone in the room still lingered in my chest while my brain replayed how one of the senior nurses had double-checked my acetaminophen dosage. Had she clocked the half-second pause before I’d spoken?
No, it was protocol. Probably. She might have done the same with any other resident.
Basari icin calisirsin. You work for your success, and then you work harder to keep it—that’s how my nan always put it, only for my dad to joke about how I’d come out of the womb with a study plan.
In school, I’d been the quiet overachiever; in med school, suddenly everyone was, and half of them had surgeons for parents and Latin in their hobbies.
I’d smiled a lot, learned how to talk fast and look relaxed, like I wasn’t staying up half the night rereading guidelines just to keep pace.
I shook off the thought, tossing my used paper towel in the bin. This wasn’t the time to indulge my imposter syndrome. Not today, thanks. Not ever, ideally. Exhale, let it go.
With everything calm for now, I headed to the staff lounge for some lukewarm tea and the rest of my homemade granola bar that I’d dropped earlier.
A battered sofa caught me as I mimed a dramatic collapse, playing it up a bit for the sake of two colleagues already there.
One grinned at me, the other muttered, “Me too, kid.”
Kid. At thirty. Oh well.
I tipped my head back and took a couple of deep breaths, trying to settle the leftover flutter of adrenaline. On the opposite wall, a poster declared that you can’t spell hero without er. Might be Gregg’s doing.
Speaking of…
“Quiet day,” he said as he flopped onto the sofa beside me. It creaked ominously, worn thin by countless exhausted bodies.
I slid him a withering glare. “Dude. Do you want a tsunami to hit?”
It was one of the earliest lessons of my trauma rotation, which meant spending most of my shifts elbow-deep in the ER: The moment you declare it a quiet day, all hell breaks loose. Scientifically trained we might be, but really, we doctors were a superstitious lot.
Gregg’s laugh bounced along the bare walls; he was looking far too rested for someone who was well into his sixth hour. “C’mon, don’t be dramatic. Worst case, we get a gunshot wound and some guy who tried to deep-fry an Oreo—shirtless.”
Or a car pile-up.
I mirrored his grin as I bit into my homemade granola bar. Meh. Bit crumbly—I’d made the batch last Friday, trying to go all fancy by adding dried cranberries, but they were getting stale. Still better than Walmart protein bars on sale.
Gregg watched me with a critical eye. “Been baking again, huh?”
“Was getting a little tired of emergency bananas, yeah.” I held the granola bar out for his inspection. “Want a bite? It looks like a bake sale reject on a budget, but I’d say it’s mostly edible.”
“Your sales pitch needs work.” Still, he broke off a piece and held it between thumb and forefinger, studying me for a second as though trying to figure something out. “Budget, huh?”
I might have griped to him about my student lifestyle a time or five—in a mostly joking manner, I hoped, about how it built character and kept me faithfully attending Sunday family lunches with guaranteed leftovers.
A resident’s salary in New York went fast, especially when you were chipping away at a family loan that had helped keep your med school debt somewhat manageable.
“Budget, yeah.” I nodded. “It’s a vibe. Like, artisanal but on a shoestring, you know?”
“Cute,” he said. “Which reminds me… Didn’t you say last week you’re tight on cash and dying for a vacation?”
“Oh, ouch. You make me sound so dignified.” I glanced at the two colleagues across the room—both busy with their phones. When I turned back to Gregg, he was grinning at me, unrepentant.
“No, seriously. Because I’ve got a proposition for you.”
Uh? I bit down on a smile. As a senior trauma surgery fellow, Gregg easily outranked me, but he never acted like it. In a world where seniority often meant you got spoken at instead of to, he was the rare sort who made me feel like we were side by side.
“Thought you were taken? Also, you snore. Not that I’m not flattered or anything.”
“Sassy.” He looked delighted, checking on the room before he leaned in just slightly. “But, yeah, it’s not for me. It’s for a friend. Your reward: one week on a private island, overwater villa, all expenses paid.”
That… sounded too good to be true. Which meant it probably was.
I pursed my lips. “Okay, what’s the catch?”
“Nothing big. Just, y’see.” He paused to chew his sample of my granola bar, swallowed, and nodded. “Hey, not bad.”
“The catch?” I reminded him.
“Ah, right. Well.” He tilted his head to send me an impish smile. “You’d be my friend’s plus-one for a wedding. As in, pretend to be his boyfriend.”
I spluttered slightly. “Hold on. Like—as an escort? I’m not that desperate, man.
” Maybe fifty percent there because damn, I’d seen pictures of overwater villas, and that was definitely on my if-I-ever-win-the-lottery bucket list. Plus, no shade on actual escorts.
Time, charm, and orgasms in exchange for money?
Fair deal. I might be tempted if all clients looked like Richard Gere and I hadn’t already maxed out my older relatives’ tolerance by being gay.
“No obligation to put out,” Gregg said, like this was the world’s most casual offer. “Just a bit of friendly interaction and lots of smiling, should be a breeze for you. The occasional fib about how you met and how in love you are.”
Jesus, it didn’t sound like the worst thing I’d ever done.
That would be the three-week stretch where I’d flirted shamelessly with the Starbucks barista for free lattes until he asked me out on a proper date.
I’d panicked and told him I was moving to Houston, which was technically a lie and spiritually a mercy killing.
Really, I was just broke and didn’t do boyfriends.
At least not since my second year of college—he’d expected someone fun because I faked it well, and instead he got a guy who color-coded his lecture notes.
Anyway.
“If it’s that easy,” I asked, “why’s your friend single?”
“Married to the job, mostly.” Gregg brushed a crumb from his scrubs. “Honestly, he’s a good guy. Walked his way into a slightly stupid family pressure situation, though, so he’s in a bind—needs someone who can convincingly fake affection and look good in a suit. You own a suit, right?”
“Just one, but yeah.” Stubborn intrigue nudged at the edges of my hesitation. “You’re really serious about this? Is it someone I know?”
Gregg’s expression turned sly. “He asked me not to name names, would rather just meet you himself and talk it through. If you’re at least open to the idea.”
Holy hell—this had disaster written all over it. And yet…
“He’s not some crypto bro who’s allergic to people and coriander, is he?” I asked.
“No, no, and no.”
“Another doctor? Or nurse?”
“Meet him and you’ll see.” Gregg spread his hands. “Not a yes or no, just maybe and a cup of coffee. Worst case, it’s a free beverage served with a side of awkwardness, you shake hands, agree to never speak of it again, and part ways. Don’t think you’ll be exactly horrified, though.”
“Why are you so invested?”
Gregg widened his eyes in exaggerated earnestness. “He’s one of my best buddies, and you could use a vacation. Win-win.”
A good buddy. Gregg was friendly with just about everyone, it seemed, including plenty of people I didn’t know. But out of the ones I did know… excluding the ones who were straight or coupled up…
Huh. Something snagged in my mind—several instances of scuttling past Gregg and Dr. Hollis in the cafeteria, not sure whether I wanted to be seen or not.
I might have admitted to Gregg that I’d gone kind of tongue-tied around the man a couple of times, equal parts intimidated and awed by the reputation he’d built for himself at just a few years older than me.
I’d skipped the part about sharp cheekbones and a razor gaze, cool authority and scattered glimpses of kindness, but—well.
Maybe I’d been more transparent than I realized. Subtlety had never been my strong suit.
I narrowed my eyes. “It’s not that scary CT fellow, is it? Or—I heard he made attending. Anyway, I know you’re friends.”
Gregg huffed out a laugh. “Client privilege.”
“You’re not a lawyer.”
“Still bound by confidentiality.” He rolled to his feet, pausing for a lazy stretch. “I’ll check the meeting details and let you know, yeah?”
“Gregg, I swear—”
“Enjoy your bake-sale rejects,” Gregg threw over his shoulder, already on his way to the door.
I stared after him, suspicion sinking deeper.
What if it was Hollis? He hardly seemed the type to cave to family pressure, but…
what if? Would Gregg have run my name past him before setting this up?
Not like Hollis was likely to even remember me, or if he did, it’d be as that kid he had to send home once.
Or, even more flattering, as the idiot who forgot where the left recurrent laryngeal nerve ran because my brain had frozen up the moment he addressed me.
The embarrassment had damn near killed me while he simply moved on to the next junior, polite and professional.
No, surely not him.
But what if?