was to behave wasn’t one of those changes she could just float with. If she wasn’t supposed to ask questions, did that mean she should just do what she thought was best? Mr. Elliot was Ootaka’s patient now, not hers.
He did glance up long enough to look her in the eye. “Yes?”
“Does that mean for me to go ahead with what I think is the right decision, or—”
“No. Announce first with clear intentions and reasons. Always reasons.” He’d started to sound a little annoyed, so she was happy when he immediately switched back to the subject. “Why packed red cells?”
As far as reprimands went, it wasn’t much of one, but all corrections made her cheeks burn. Luckily, the surgical mask kept anyone from noticing, even if the inside of her mask was getting a bit stuffy.
Before moving to carry out the task of replenishing the man’s blood, she answered Ootaka. Minimize chance of rejection or reaction. Saline could do the job of plasma for now. Oxygen depletion to traumatized tissue was best avoided, so red cells were her choice. Reasons anyone in medical school would know, let alone a fifth-year surgical resident.
But at least there was some comfort in the sameness—questions and answers accompanied all lessons, no matter what hospital or surgeon you were with. She looked up at the galley again, and this time Enzo was looking at her. Not just watching the table. When she looked up, his gaze was locked on hers. Her belly trembled.
How was she supposed to keep her eyes on the patient with him staring? Correction: staring and smirking? Or was that a grimace?
Ignore him.
With the Q&A finished, she ordered the packed cells and another bag of saline.
So he could hear them. Whatever. Not that she expected any less from her competition. Caren had warned her he could be a jerk. He’d wanted to assist. She’d seen it in his eyes when Ootaka had invited her into his OR. And what was that about him being right about the need for surgery? She had to wonder what else he’d told Ootaka after running to get there first. She should’ve run with him. Only that would’ve meant leaving Mr. Elliot—and even for a couple of minutes she couldn’t have made herself do so, knowing that neither of them would be with him.
What she needed to do was not think about him as an attractive man. Focus on the jerk, not the jaw. The arrogance. And all that jaw did was frame a smirking mouth.
Jerky, not to mention manipulative. Keep our patient alive indeed. Those words had assured she’d stay put.
But, worse, they’d made her feel important enough that she’d hardly questioned why he wasn’t riding with them in the ambulance.
They’d made her underestimate him…
Later she’d send Caren a crankygram—an email she’d no doubt check in a couple of weeks. Maybe she could find Tessa after the surgery ended to get information. See if her new friend knew Enzo’s tactics. Plot some ways to outmaneuver him, or at least figure out his usual manner of manipulation. It would certainly behoove her to know what his weaknesses were. Aside from arrogance.
Or maybe just vent. His attempt to maneuver the situation hadn’t worked out so well for him this time. Maybe she didn’t need to try to learn to do that. Maybe it was just a case of where the cream rose, and she just needed to focus on herself and… stuff. That’s what she’d like. Avoid confrontation. Be pleasant and easy to work with. Be the person that everyone liked, or at least felt no overt hostility toward.
Be exactly who she’d been before the accident. That’d be awesome.
And impossible.
Think later. Pretend Caren had been overreacting when she’d focused on how hard Kimberlyn would have to fight for the fellowship.
SIX HOURS OF surgery later, Kimberlyn edged onto a stool that one of the post-op nurses had been kind enough to place beside Mr. Elliot’s gurney.
This wasn’t her usual routine. She usually avoided Post-op due to the confined quarters, activity and motility required for the staff to attend all the patients. Although her feet and back ached from the long day, and although she could swear the screws she would always carry in her femur buzzed and itched from standing in one position for hours, the manner of their meeting made it impossible for her to leave his side yet.
Distance was already an issue with this patient. Something she should work on.
Within the past year there hadn’t been many patients who’d delivered gut punches like this, but she could still recite the names of each one, along with the big facts. How they’d presented. How they’d been injured. Procedures required to save them. Major complications. Length of hospital stay…
And she could recite even tiny details from the chart of the patient who hadn’t made it.
“So, you were at Vanderbilt before transferring here?”
There was so much activity in the ward she hadn’t even noticed him entering. The surgery had become like that at around the two-hour mark, when Ootaka had given her bigger tasks. They’d taken up more space in her brain, letting her stop worrying whether she was going to make some etiquette mistake or what Enzo thought about her performance.
Part of her wanted to know why Enzo had come to Post-op now, the other part just wanted to sit and rest. And stop thinking. Stop comparing. Stop bracing for impact…
Sometimes people pulled through open-heart surgery only to die in Recovery or the surgical ICU—the reason she sat there. The first few days were the most tenuous. But here he was distracting her—her new and annoyingly attractive nemesis. Or possible nemesis. Working that out right now required too much brainpower.
“Yes.” There. She’d answered. Maybe he’d go away if she wasn’t chatty.
Obviously he could find out information about her from other places, much as she’d done before arriving. He’d known who she was on first meeting, after all. And now he was spouting questions about procedure at her alma mater. He knew she had her sights set on Ootaka’s fellowship. The grapevine didn’t just extend from Caren and Tessa to her. It went the other way, too. Enzo had a grape on the vine.
And he could just go squeeze that grape for juice.
He rounded the gurney to stand on the other side of Mr. Elliot, giving the monitors a look, though he continued speaking quietly to her. “And you’re Caren’s friend.”
“Cousin,” she corrected. Correcting him was surprisingly satisfying. No doubt a holdover from the irritation she’d been nursing about his run ahead and smirky looming stuff.
He turned his eyes to her. “Did she give up her spot in the program specifically to free up space for you?”
“Of course she didn’t.” The hotly whispered denial sprang from Kimberlyn’s lips so fast she hadn’t even really considered whether he was correct before speaking.
Had Caren done that? It was like her cousin to do something altruistic and then lie about it to salve people’s pride, but… “She said she wanted the opportunity to go into the field with that professor and his mission to Cameroon.”
A nurse approached to get vitals—as she must every fifteen minutes—and Kimberlyn became all too aware of how crowded Mr. Elliot’s bedside had become. Her being there had been fine, but two surgeons bickering definitely wasn’t fine.
With energy granted by indignation, she stood, pushed the stool back out of the way and headed out of the ward. If he was going to grill her, he could do it somewhere else. The patient needed rest, and the nurses didn’t need the distractions in the already tight quarters.
He followed her out.
Once the