Ten Day Affair (One-Night Billionaires #2)

1. Sam

ONE

Sam

The scrub room outside the OR is an icebox, but it’s nothing compared to Amara Grimaldi’s glare.

If looks could kill, I’d need my own trauma team.

I don’t flinch. My hands hover in the sterile air of the scrub room, waiting, just like we learned in med school. Kip’s already stationed beside Dr. Grimaldi like a golden boy soldier, while I’m stuck in the corner playing surgical statue.

Sometimes, continuing your family's legacy at a hospital has its perks.

Other times, it puts a target on your back.

“Taylor,” Grimaldi barks without looking up. “You’re observing this one. Suit up, but you’re not assisting. I’ll ask questions as we go.”

Right. God forbid I practice my surgical skills.

Kip glances at me from across the room. His brows lift, reminding me to keep it cool without saying a word. He knows me so well. My pulse picks up as I chew the inside of my cheek .

That’s when I see him, through the cracked door leading out to the hall.

A man in a navy suit strolls past, tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of clean-cut hotness that feels out of place in a hospital corridor. His hair’s that sun-drenched blond that’s either wildly expensive or annoyingly natural, and his stride is pure confidence.

He doesn’t look in, but I sure as hell check him out.

“Focus,” I mutter to myself, snapping back as the doors swing shut. As if I need one more complication today.

Kip follows Grimaldi into the OR while I stand here like an idiot.

I know this procedure. I’ve logged the hours. If she’d just let me?—

“Scrub, gown, glove,” Nicole, the scrub tech, mutters behind me. She doesn’t bother with a smile. When Grimaldi’s in one of her moods, it spreads through the OR like bleach fumes and leaves everyone on edge.

I keep my mouth shut and scrub my hands for the fifth time. By the time I step under the light, Amara’s already center stage, running the room. This is her arena, and we are the extras.

She’s good, and she knows it. She makes damn sure the rest of us don’t forget it. Every. Single. Day.

“Fifty-five-year-old male. Tracheostomy revision. History of complications,” Dr. Grimaldi says. Her commanding voice is sharp enough to cut through fog.

Kip murmurs a response, but I’m not listening to him. I’m watching her hands, tracking every motion like it’s gospel.

I wish, not for the first time, that I could fast-forward through this whole damn residency phase and take over the table instead of hugging the wall .

So I stand still. Gloved, silent, and ready if needed. But mostly I'm below the surgical reps in the pecking order.

“That doesn’t look healthy,” Kip says.

I shift focus to the site. He’s right. The trach is technically in place, but the surrounding tissue is inflamed, and the lower edge looks rough, possibly infected.

The swelling around the hub is angry and taut. Jagged tissue, maybe even granulation, glares at me. Something’s not right. But I’m not here to speak unless spoken to, so I watch.

Across the glass wall, a group of suits gather outside and peer in, observing the case. Surgery as stage play.

It’s him. The guy I saw through the scrub room door. It's the same broad frame, same perfectly disheveled blond hair that doesn’t look like it’s ever met a surgical cap.

He’s with the suits now, front and center. Not talking, just watching. And we catch each other's eye.

His gaze lingers, and mine does, too, for a beat longer than it should. Damn, he's good-looking.

Then Amara’s voice slices through the haze. “What’s wrong with this picture, Dr. Taylor?”

“Infection’s set in, it looks like,” I answer, bracing for the blow.

A pause.

Then she nods. “We’ll need to debride the site. Nicole, suction. Kip, retract.”

Just like that, we move. I stay quiet. But my pulse amps up again. This is what I love about surgery, even if Dr. Grimaldi treats me like a second-class citizen. You never know what will come up.

I glance back at the glass, wanting to see him again, unable to help myself.

Taller than the rest, he's younger than them, but probably older than me. His dirty blond hair, hazel eyes, and boyish good looks set him apart.

I almost blush. Almost.

I can tell he's watching me, too, even though I'm not doing anything noteworthy here.

If I’m being honest, it’s flattering. A chill runs through me under the gown when I catch his eyes with mine for the second time. Not bad for someone in boxy scrubs and a surgical cap.

Still, I refocus on the surgical field. Not the time. Not the guy. Definitely not the place.

He’s a board member, probably here to write a check and fly right back to wherever men with that jawline and that watch live. My dad’s played this game before, and I know these guys don’t stick around. They shake hands, say the hospital’s “in good shape,” and vanish like smoke.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, trying to reset. Because for just a second, I imagined pulling him into an on-call room and seeing if he kisses as good as he looks.

But that’s all it is: a second.

I shift into standby mode across from Kip, who’s glued to Amara’s side. Nicole hovers near me as she snaps on a second pair of gloves and has her tools ready. She always seems to know exactly what the surgeon wants before she even asks.

Amara’s deep into the throat now, fingers steady as she starts to work the hub loose.

I blink, then I look closer.

Wait, what the hell?

“Dr. Grimaldi,” I say, keeping my voice calm, even as my stomach tightens. Amara doesn’t tolerate theatrics. It doesn’t matter if someone’s flatlining, she's the director and producer of her OR, and improv isn't encouraged. Especially if people are observing.

“Not now,” she snaps.

I grit my teeth. She’s too busy peacocking to notice what I just saw.

And if I’m right, this is about to go very, very wrong.

Kip looks at me with a mighty frown, signaling me to shut it. But I can’t. From my angle across the body, I can see what looks like a small, jagged bit of the cannula used for insertion of the hub still there, attached to the tube shaft.

If Amara keeps her gentle tugging, it could lacerate the opening, which is already infected.

“Prepare the suction,” Amara says casually, as if she just asked for a refill on her iced tea at the yacht club.

Shit! She’s really about to pull the rest of the device out and then suction the area. If it’s lacerated, this surgery will quickly go from routine to catastrophic.

This is bad.

“Dr. Grimaldi, we need to stop the operation and reassess,” I say loudly and with confidence.

Amara’s gloved hands freeze, and the look she shoots me tells me I will pay for this.

“I’ve spotted a leftover section of cannula in the patient. There is a risk of?—”

Amara glares at me, silencing me. With daggers in her eyes, she nods to Kip, her hands still on the hub, securing it in place. At least she’s not pulling it out anymore.

Kip comes around the table and peers into the patient’s exposed inner throat, the dilators giving some space around the existing hub.

He looks at Amara. “She’s right, Dr. G. We need to suspend and reevaluate. ”

Amara’s haughty gaze eats into me. There's anger in her eyes, but I'm not sure that's at me for calling it out or at herself for not noticing.

This is our residency OR, designed for observing and listening.

The board just heard me call out Dr. Grimaldi.

There will be hell to pay for this from her later.

Swiftly and with showy movements, she barks at Nicole to angle the mirror, and then she orders an attending nurse to hold the hub. The poor guy jumps to do just that.

Amara walks to my side of the patient, making me hasten to step aside. She examines the issue and grunts.

“No need to stop surgery. I know what to do.”

With that, she’s back in control again, using the skills that come with experience to flawlessly execute the rest of the surgery. I watch as she secures the small piece, has Kip hold it away from the skin, and then continues to remove the hub and flange.

The throat is supported by the dilators, and within ten minutes, she has inserted the new device into the freshly sanitized throat pocket.

We all breathe a little easier once the scrub nurse takes over and the surgeon’s work is done.

A scratchy voice sounds over the intercom. “Well done, doctor. Well done.”

As usual, Amara delights in receiving the praise. She beams at the window as she walks out.

I follow her and Kip to the swinging doors, but glance back one more time.

He’s still there, this time deep in conversation with an older man. He turns slightly and claps the guy on the back. That’s when I catch his corded forearms peeking out of the cuffs of his shirt.

Veins trace the backs of his hands, disappearing beneath his blazer sleeves, just enough flex to make my mouth dry .

God, that’s unfair. Broad shoulders, a lean waist, hands that look like they could undo every rational thought I’ve ever had. Too bad he will only live on in my mind from here.

My mind flickers, uninvited, to what he’d look like out of that suit. I can imagine his warm skin and rough mouth on me.

It’s dumb. I don’t even know his name. But I’m single, undersexed, and apparently ready to mentally strip a man through glass. If I’m not getting the real thing, a little fantasy never hurt.

The door swings hard in my direction, snapping me out of it.

The only thing I should be craving right now is surgical experience, not whatever that man’s hiding under his custom-tailored suit.

Amara’s ripped off her safety garb and is already out the door, no doubt trying to chase down the men who were watching to rewrite the narrative of what just happened. That leaves Kip and me, removing our gowns and gloves.

“Well, damn, Taylor. If all it takes to get you to stand up to Grimaldi is a hot guy watching, I’d have hired a stripper months ago.”

I snort. “Whatever. Shut up.”

“You’re a great resident,” he adds, more sincere this time. “Seriously. You should speak up more.”