Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Leena
“Hey, Leena.” Looking up, I try to smooth my face into a relaxed mask as Tasha, a scrub tech, approaches me just after our morning staff huddle.
“I just told Diego I could stay to finish his cases today, so you won’t need to send anyone to relieve me.
Unless you add another doctor to follow, then yeah, I will need relief. ”
She gives me a saccharine smile, no doubt in response to whatever my face shows. My mouth may not say what I’m thinking, but I’m cursed with an expressive face that definitely does. It usually reveals all before I can mask my thoughts, though I am getting better at controlling it.
I try really hard to not let Tasha’s personal relationship with Diego, aka Dr. Merritt, irritate me, but it’s extremely difficult, like a papercut I’m reminded of each time I rub hand sanitizer on my hands, constantly being rubbed in my face.
Back then, they tried to keep what was going on between them under wraps as he was married at the time.
They just did a really poor job of hiding their affair.
After months of “sneaking around,” they stopped any pretense of hiding altogether.
Now they flaunt it openly, going above mine and my boss’s head to always have Tasha assigned to his cases.
They’ve used his position as Chief of Surgery and repeatedly gone to the Director of Surgical Services to “request” that she staff his rooms when she was assigned elsewhere.
Getting those text messages or phone calls from my boss’s boss on multiple occasions would make my stomach turn.
Now when she’s scheduled, I assign her to his room or leave her free if he’s not working on the off chance he adds on an emergent case in the General Surgery Trauma block.
Nodding, I watch as she spins on her heel and saunters off toward her room.
Taking my phone out, I open my to-do list but stare unseeingly at endless tasks. Frowning as my mind strays to Julian for the umpteenth time this morning.
Was he blowing me off? Or should I have stuck around for his call to end?
Charlie hip bumps me, bringing me back from my spiraling thoughts. “Why do you look like that?” she asks with a hushed voice.
“What?! I don’t look any way,” I retort back with finger quotes. Trying to escape her uncanny ability to read my every thought, I attempt to rush off but am hindered by my limping hobble.
Damn rambunctious little boys and their scooters.
She easily moves with me but pulls me to a stop outside OR room two, staring at me skeptically, waiting for me to crack. “Okay! Fine. I was thinking about Julian again.”
“With that serious look—” she circles her finger around my face “—you're obviously not reliving the insanely hot moment where he swooped you into his arms.”
“Obviously,” I reply drily.
“But it makes for the beginnings of a steamy fantasy. Give you some inspiration for . . . self-care.”
“I’ll leave the self-care fantasies to you.”
“Maybe next time you won’t rush off from the super hot guy you want to bang.”
“I assumed he was blowing me off!” I defend.
“You know what they say about those who assume. I didn’t say it last night, but I think we both know you may have been a little too hasty in leaving.”
“Hey! Stop reading me like an open book!” I harrumph, trying to deflect as I turn for the substerile outer hallway.
“You make it too easy for me! And we’re talking about this later!” she hollers after me.
Shaking my head, I head to my office, attempting to put the possible missed connection with the handsome stranger out of my head.
Lucky for me, I have plenty of work to occupy my mind.
While I love having Mondays off, giving me three-day weekends, Tuesdays are always extra busy days.
I spend more time than usual gathering, logging, and filing four days worth of paperwork; cleaning up time cards; and checking the surgery schedule for major changes that may have occurred while I was off that can affect our staffing and productivity in the coming days. All really fun stuff. Not.
And to top it all off, I have to show some new surgeon around. I’m expected to drop whatever I’m in the middle of doing whenever he shows up.
At almost half past nine, I get a message from someone named Alisha from Recruiting letting me know she is on her way up with a Dr. Ian Jacobs. Something about her message rubs me the wrong way, like I had no idea this was happening and she better not be inconvenienced because of it.
How about next time give me some sort of idea of when you’ll show up, Alisha.
In an attempt to shake off my sour mood, I focus on taking deep breaths. I hope it's just my current distracted mind taking her text out of context.
That’s one thing that can occur with texting that I hate. Without emotional inflictions and nuance that help you read someone in person, it’s easy to interpret words out of context.
I head to the front desk to check in with the charge nurse, Joanne, and the surgery schedule board.
The buzzer sounds from the locked department door as I’m leaning against the desk to take some weight off my throbbing ankle. I look up to see a woman wave through the passthrough.
Releasing a large exhale, I head over to let them in.
I’m guessing this is Alisha Manning and the surgeon I’m supposed to be giving a tour to.
Joanne’s snort drifts after me. Stopping to swipe my badge to let the visitors enter, I glance over my shoulder to aim a withering stare at her while shifting my weight to my uninjured foot.
I plaster a smile on my face before I turn back to the opening doors. And freeze.
I’m so confused because standing with Alisha, according to her badge, is—
“I—Julian?” I stutter in surprise, but immediately wince when I unconsciously stand to attention, sharp pain radiating from the sudden weight on my ankle.
Eyes wide, Julian looks just as stunned as I feel. Flicking a look down at my feet as I shift, a grimace crosses his face, as if feeling guilty for the incident yesterday.
“Aleena Cavalli, right?” Alisha says. I slowly tear my gaze from his tall frame, filling out his scrubs in all the right ways.
I nod my head dumbly. “This is Dr. Ian Jacobs.” I don’t miss the slight emphasis on his title and name, or the sharp .
. . is that a proprietary stare? “I was told you would be showing him around Surgical Services and escorting him to join Dr. Walsh in surgery.”
“Umm . . . yeah. Yes, that’s right.” Confused and unsure what to do, I extend a trembling hand toward the man who has been on my mind since yesterday. “Welcome, Dr. Jacobs.”
With a tilt of his head, Julian scratches at his beard as he replies, “Thank you, A-leena.”
With a brittle smile, I drop my hand in embarrassment. Knowing my face must betray my inner turmoil, I correct him. “Actually, I go by Leena.”
My eyes dart to his bicep where Alisha just placed her hand, then I glance up to see her smiling at Julian—no, Dr. Ian Jacobs.
What the fuck?—“I look forward to seeing you later,” he responds with a noncommittal hum, never tearing his intense gaze off me.
I automatically swipe my badge to open the double doors for Alisha to exit, and when I do, I catch her mouth turn down at the corners before she leaves.
Jerking around, I ignore the pain and move down the wide hallway.
Limply indicating to my right, “Pre-op.” Pausing, I inhale through my nose then release it slowly before continuing, “Unless a patient is brought directly to the OR or it’s after hours, all patients will be taken to the back from here. ”
Julian’s hand reaches out to grasp my forearm, stopping me from proceeding into Pre-op. Gasping, the heat of his grip shocks me into looking down at his large hand. Seeing his tanned skin against my paler complexion and how his long fingers easily encircle my arm makes me shiver.
I drag my eyes up to meet his. “Leena, I—”
“Beep, beep!” Sarina, an OR nurse working in the ortho room with Charlie today, says as she hits the button for the automatic doors to open into Pre-op.
Realizing we are blocking the way, and flustered by the way she studies Julian and me standing together and the way his hand is holding my arm, I take a step back.
Passing Sarina, I motion for Julian to follow me.
My head is spinning, and I’m not sure where I’m going. I just know we need to talk in private. I lead him down a hallway to the older wing of the OR and our overflow operating rooms because I know there are no cases scheduled in those rooms today.
I stop him by pointing to the PPE cart. “You need a cap, mask, and shoe covers. Or boots if you prefer. You’ll be scrubbing in with Connor.”
His hand freezes in midair, and he whips his head around with a hard stare.
I find myself trapped in his storm-colored gaze.
In shock at Julian being the new surgeon who will at times be working with me, or at the very least regularly interacting with me when he’s on duty to coordinate his surgical cases.
The thing is, I do not get involved with fellow coworkers, employees, and especially not surgeons.
It has become a rule I put in place for myself after witnessing how the dynamics of romantic relationships play a role in this environment.
The political and power structure more often than not seem to cross boundaries that impact the flow and staffing of this department.
“What?” I ask as I break eye contact, looking everywhere but at him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head and turn back to the cart. He mutters, “Nothing.”
When he is appropriately garbed up, we move through another set of automatic double doors into the substerile hallway.
“You drove off before I could get your number,” he says behind me as I guide him down to the last alcove of scrub sinks.
So he was interested in me. But I let my fear of rejection get the best of me and fled. Not that it would have made a difference if I’d stayed now.
Partially hidden away, I stare down at the ground. I feel an acute devastation I refuse to examine too closely right now. Nothing can come from our meeting in the coffee shop and attraction now that I know he will be working here.
Miserably, I launch into my . . . “break up”—God, we aren’t even together, so can it really be a break up?—speech to cut off whatever this is.
“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make this weird—” I abruptly stop speaking as he steps into my personal space, crowding me. His wide shoulders block my view of the hallway behind him.
Being surrounded by him in this empty hallway, in this secluded alcove, feels daring. Staring up at him, into his eyes with dilated pupils ringed by the dark blue of his irises, makes me breathless and hot. I can feel the heat crawling up my chest and neck. My thoughts are jumbled and clouded.
I can’t look away.