Beautifully Awake(9)

“We’ve got this. You need to trust my team. I’ll let you know if we get to the point of being worried. As of right now, I’m not worried. Okay?” His face and body language spoke novels. He wasn’t just telling her what she wanted to hear or singing his own praises. There was no arrogance, just an unmistakable confidence in his voice. A sincere resolve.



Calm washed over Kelly while she listened to Chase. How was this the same man who intimidated the shit out of me five minutes ago with his intensity? But now I was awestruck. Poor Kelly was getting her skull cracked open tomorrow, a concept I couldn’t even begin to fathom, but suddenly my fear for her lessened.

Chase dropped her hand, stood back up and spent the next five minutes or so answering Kelly’s questions and reviewing details of tomorrow’s procedure. Slowly and clearly, in English. Even I got the gist of what she was up against. It sounded horrible and unfair. No one should have to face this. Words like tumor, margins and consciousness permeated through the internal static playing in my ears, trying to drown out the harsh reality of this woman’s condition. My heart broke a little more for Kelly.

“Try and get some rest. We have a five-hour date tomorrow afternoon,” Chase said before walking out the door.

Kelly smiled, a real smile for the first time in probably a long time.

Like obedient soldiers we followed Chase out of the room. In a familiar team play, the four of us huddled close to review her case before moving on to the next patient. His scent permeated my senses, and I was entirely too aware of his close proximity. After a twelve-hour day operating under layers of sterile gowns and masks, he still smelled good. Not like cologne, but a mix of clean sweat and whatever body wash he used that morning. It should be bottled; it was intoxicating. All man. All this man.

“Ahem.” Chase forced his throat clear, demanding attention.

It broke my trance and pulled Sam and Guy’s focus from their e-tablets. His hands were snaked back into his trousers, displaying the broadness of his shoulders. He was glaring right at me. Intense eyes were back. If I didn’t know any better, his eyes told a story as screwed up as my own. Was this the same man from two seconds ago? If so, I liked Dr. Compassionate a little more.

Another hot flash detonated. If it wasn’t a stroke it was early menopause. Maybe three years of self-induced hormonal shut down backfired and left me even more screwed up.

“I want repeat labs in the morning and all her scans uploaded in the OR before I get there. This goes off without a hitch. Got me?” he barked.

Guy took the hit for the team. “No problem.”



Silence. More silence. I didn’t have to look up to know I was in his crosshairs. Welcome back, nervous stomach. I needed a margarita, like right freaking now.

“Ms. Porter. Do you want to add anything?” His storm greys traveled down the entire length of my body, only to slowly rebound back up to my own eyes. Our close huddle was getting too claustrophobic.

“Umm. No, she’s all good from my end. Her insurance coverage gives her five days in-patient and she should be eligible for rehab too.” I pulled that answer out of my ass.

“Good to know.” More silence. Was he checking me out? Because his eyes nailed me to the wall. No, that’s crazy talk. “Who’s next?” he asked.

Guy answered while pressing his hand to the small of my back. “We’re done on five. Rest of the patients are up on the sixth floor. Let’s go.” Without delay, we joined Sam at the stairwell.

“Fine. Let’s move.” Chase snapped, sounding pissed for some reason. He snaked his hand from his pocket and raked it through his already disheveled hair while gazing down at my legs. His expression was one of annoyance. Was he pissed at me? What the hell did I do?

“And Ms. Porter ... you might want to rethink your shoes, I don’t want to be here all night.” He pushed through the steel door and took two steps at a time.

Mortifying. What was wrong with the freaking elevator?





“Hey, what took you so long?” Sierra stood with her adorably popped belly to wave me over to where she and Kate were sitting. After the most humiliating forty-five minutes of my life, I was beyond ready for a margarita. Make that a pitcher of margaritas. Intravenous tequila infusion sounded even better.

“Hey girls. Sorry I’m late. Rounds were-” No appropriate description came to mind, so I abandoned the thought mid-sentence. I gave them each a quick peck on the cheek, while simultaneously lifting Kate’s half empty margarita glass off the table. The waiter in the distance waved. He got the point. That’s right, I needed a glass. STAT.