Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Doctor, I keep seeing into the future.
Really? When did this start?
Next Tuesday
—From Bash’s dad joke collection
Bash
As Brinder and Remy quietly wrapped up their conversation, Brinder marking something in his phone, Bash seized the opportunity.
“You know, this reminds me of one of my favorite jokes.”
Amani’s eyes flared comically, and Remy turned toward him, her face completely blank.
“I played hide and seek in the hospital,” he began, using his acting skills to apply the perfect beat of silence before continuing, “but they kept finding me in the ICU.”
To his left, Amani released a deep groan and pinched the bridge of her nose.
And to his right? Glacial sapphire eyes pinned him with the force of a sumo wrestler slamming his opponent into the mat, her don’t fuck with me message clearly conveyed.
Bash’s blood pumped through his veins. His angel was at Titanic-level iceberg status.
Outstanding. Game respect game. He wouldn’t be cowed like a trainee doctor.
Instead, he shared his own unspoken message.
Bring it, he offered nonverbally, a smile he couldn’t quite stifle tilting the corner of his lips.
Scrub Angel—Remy—narrowed her eyes at him.
Now he fully grinned.
“How long have you been saving that joke up to use?” Brinder’s low chuckle interrupted their stare off.
Thank God, because this was some outstanding non-physical foreplay. And despite his interest in the surgeon, he really didn’t need to sport fully engorged wood in his brother-in-law’s hospital office.
“Never know when the perfect moment for a good joke might arise.” Bash winked at Remy, who merely tilted her head ever-so-slightly, those cool, dark blue eyes assessing.
She hadn’t said a word, which—admittedly—was a tad disappointing. And discombobulating. Usually, if he was faced with a particularly tough flirtation situation, one where he was crashing and burning, a corny dad joke paired with The Smolder would break the ice.
Not so much here.
Nope.
He pushed his hands further in his pockets and shuffled his feet, forcing away the vibration of unaccustomed awkwardness that pulsed within him.
Ok. Scrub Angel was going to test all his skills.
Challenge fucking accepted!
He racked his brain for something witty. Or even a bit devilish. Something to bring the verbal heat to melt the ice.
Anything.
Aaaaany time now…
Where the hell was his suave, smooth poise that was core to his brand?
Missing in fucking action. And at the worst possible time.
Before he could hit a panic status he’d not experienced since his early teen years and beg Remy to spend the rest of her life as his love goddess, Brinder chimed in, breaking what was rapidly turning into a shitshow crisis of confidence for Bash.
“Remy, I’m very sorry you lost your brief lunch break.
I keep protein shakes in my office fridge.
May I offer you one to drink as you head to the OR? ”
Remy turned to Brinder, cool sapphire warming. “That would actually be appreciated. Thank you, Brinder.”
“My pleasure. And I’ll be sure we refresh the food in the surgeons’ lounge so you can grab something more substantive between your afternoon cases.”
His angel offered a regal head nod and a small smile. No teeth visible—he’d bet his 1966 Shelby Cobra she flossed regularly—but…holy fuck she was gorgeous.
“Thank you, again, Brinder.”
Yep. Velvet. Her voice was like running your fingers across the most sumptuous fabric. Smooth. Flawless.
“Doc, if the whole surgeon thing doesn’t work out, you could totally do voiceover work,” he blurted. Amani cringed at this total absence of chill, quietly sucking in air through her teeth.
Now both Brinder and his maybe-not-future-bedmate fully turned their heads. Incredulity was written on his brother-in-law’s face.
And Remy? There wasn’t a word to describe the blend of lukewarm indifference and disinterest on her stunning visage.
Ladies and gentlemen, today’s visit to Brinder is sponsored by the phrase What the Fuck.
Brinder released a low chuckle. “Negatory, Bash. I’ll fight you, and I’ll win. Remy is one of the best surgeons I’ve worked with in my career. I’d throw hands to keep her.”
A tiny smile tipped up the corners of Remy’s lush, unvarnished lips, which he was now positively dying to sip and taste with his tongue.
Clearly she respected and liked Brinder.
Perhaps he would be Bash’s ace in the hole.
Yes, excellent plan. Let her see how much his brother-in-law liked him.
Give her a chance to see him in action. This interaction was too fleeting. He needed time to woo her into bed.
Inspiration struck.
“You could join us for lunch.” Why did he sound like a desperate fourteen-year-old asking the prettiest girl in school for a date?
Again, the small frown emerged on a face he couldn’t stop drinking in. “No thank you, Mr. Wheatley. As I’ve just said, my next case starts in fewer than fifteen minutes.”
The utter absence of warmth in her voice froze his mojo.
That could be the only explanation for what dribbled out of his mouth next.
“I played a doctor once,” he heard himself babble to her.
“In an action movie. I saved the hospital from an active shooter with a grudge. It was quite an experience—people said I did a good job playing a doctor. Very, uh, doctorly.” Abject horror coiled in his stomach at his own word vomit.
What. The. Fuck?
Innards that had never before churned with embarrassment were tying themselves in knots. Bash longed for a chance to hit rewind. To erase the mortifying words that continued to escape his traitorous mouth.
He darted a pleading look at Brinder. Save me!
His brother-in-law was no help, simply regarding him with the ghost of a smirk. The eyebrow raised high on Brinder’s forehead indicated he clearly wasn’t going to pull the Save Bash Emergency Chute.
Bastard. He might take back that expensive, peaty whiskey he’d bought Brinder as a host gift. But Honor could keep the spa gift card he’d procured for her.
With no reprieve imminent, he had no choice but to continue his babble.
Be charming. Be funny.
“Yeppers. Won a People’s Choice for that role. And, uh, an MTV award. Best performance. Got one of those golden popcorn trophies. RIP MTV, right?”
That was neither, dumbass! Shut up. Just shut the fuck up, Sebastian Judah Wheatley.
Bash wanted to claw at his own mouth to remove the extreme, not-charming grin he was quite sure had spread across his face.
While he contemplated nearby tools to facilitate said clawing—Amani’s letter opener was handy—his Scrub Angel scanned him head to toe.
As dispassionate an assessment as he’d ever experienced.
“Congratulations. I’m sure you did a great job pretending to be something most of us spend at least a decade learning to master.” This was all said with zero affect.
Fucking fucknuts of fuckery.
As a graduate of a ton of therapy, Bash was self-actualized enough to recognize he loved attention.
Thrived on it. He lived to make people laugh—got a total rush from it.
He’d tolerate annoyance, only because he could usually charm his way out.
Even anger was easy enough to defuse—often catalyzed by some self-deprecating joke at his own expense.
But utter absence of emotion? That was…new. He’d effed this one up right out of the chutes. Why was he being a hyper golden retriever?
Where the hell was the smooth Hollywood leading man?
He could almost hear “Taps” playing, as a golf announcer-like voiceover commentated sotto voice, “As we all can see, Bash Wheatley has whiffed mightily. And there goes his shot with the gorgeous Scrub Angel. Will he be smart enough to shut up?”
Ignoring the inner voiceover, he focused his gaze on Remy.
Her name was as unique and lovely as she was. She’d also clearly immured herself in ice so thick, Yukon Cornelius with an ice pick would be thwarted.
Despite that, or maybe because of it, he was genuinely fascinated by Remy. By her defensive armor. By the obvious respect Brinder had for her—and Brinder didn’t suffer fools.
Except maybe Bash himself—the ultimate fool.
Tamping down his embarrassment, Bash did the only thing he could to try and salvage things.
His voice ringing with authentic sincerity, he reached a hand out toward her and then let it drop when she remained motionless.
“I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean to imply I could in any way hold a candle to your actual expertise, Rem—Dr. Remington.
I am in awe of medical professionals and what you do every day.
I may have worn a cape in a role—simple play acting.
But you and your colleagues truly are heroes.
Please accept my sincere apologies for in any way inadvertently minimizing or oversimplifying your work and your contributions to medicine. ”
There. That was better. Right?
Please let it have worked.
Remy merely nodded—it was almost queenly—then turned to Amani, who had briefly disappeared into Brinder’s office and emerged with the promised protein shake.
“Thank you, Amani. You’re a treasure.” Remy’s eyes smiled even if her mouth didn’t.
“Now I only have”—she consulted her phone—“eight minutes until I visit my patient in pre-op and scrub in.”
His brother-in-law fake pouted. “Why is she the treasure?” He motioned to Amani. “I’m the one who offered sustenance from his own precious shake supply.”
The ice cracked a bit. “You always have my gratitude, Brinder. You’ve gone from being one of my favorite residents on rotation to now being my boss. And a really good one at that.” She gifted his sister’s husband a close-lipped smile.
Bash studied her. No, she wasn’t beaming.
He had a sense Scrub Angel didn’t do that often—or ever.
Still, though small, it held real warmth behind it.
Freaking Brinder gets a smile and he doesn’t?
He wanted her to smile at him like that.
Or bust out laughing, so he could hear that captivating velvet tangoing with amusement. See sapphires light up and sparkle.
Brinder guided her toward the door. “I’ll walk you out.”
Last chance. Last chance. Don’t fuck it up.
“Happy surgerying!” he called after them.
The only response? Amani’s stifled laughter behind him.
Bash banged his head softly against the wall.
“I thought you’d be smoother.” Amani smiled at him, only teasing kindness in her eyes.
“Me too, Amani,” he sighed as his brother-in-law returned for their lunch. “Me fucking too.”