wave and a “Have a nice day” thrown in for good measure.
As it was, Tessa was the only one with the slightest chance of that happening. Because, between his first ex and his second, his day was well and truly shot.
The foot connected with her cheek with a sharp smack.
Down Tessa went in a tangle of arms and legs.
Marcos was immediately kneeling beside her. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. Where is your head, moça?”
Her head was where it had been for the past two days. On Clay and the thought of him showing up at the studio unannounced, maybe even with his daughter in tow. Or, worse, with his gorgeous-enough-to-be-a-model ex-wife. The one who fashioned clothes like the ones she’d been given all those years ago. That would be the worst. She’d felt like a field mouse next to an exotic cat as she’d sat there in the hospital cafeteria. Surely Clay had compared them as well and wondered why the hell he hadn’t stuck with his wife. Or wondered what he’d seen in Tessa in the first place.
She shook the thoughts away, angry with herself. She was supposed to be training for the hospital festival. And this was geared to be a demonstration that showed off capoeira’s romantic side, from its circle of constantly switching partners to the cartwheels, spins and beating drums that made the martial art both beautiful and different. It was more about skill than combat nowadays, but it still clung to some of its former roots. As she’d found out on several occasions. Today being one of them.
One wrong move—or right move, depending on your perspective—and you could take an opponent down. Just as she’d done when she and Clay had been dating, and she’d sent that invitation asking him to come to the studio.
He’d soon been hooked. In fact, she’d done the batismo ceremony on him—a match where a more advanced capoeirista took down an inexperienced student, formally inducting him into the studio. She’d even presented him with his white cord—the ranking system used by the sport—helping him tie it around his waist. Memories of sweeping his legs out from under him still haunted her dreams on occasion. As did the memory of leaning over him in victory once he’d been flat on his back. His response had made her shiver. With a single raised brow he’d promised retribution later that night.
And he’d kept that promise. Sweet, sweet retribution that had had her begging for more.
“Tessa?”
She blinked back to the present. “Sorry. I just lost my concentration for a second or two.”
“A second or two?” Several Portuguese swearwords accompanied the question as the owner of the studio stared down at her. “It’s been more like the entire match.” He touched a finger to her still-stinging cheek. “I don’t want you bruised up before the festival. It defeats the purpose of emphasizing the workout benefits of capoeira. Intende?”
“Yes, I understand. Let’s try again.”
Marcos helped her up and then motioned for the next person in the circle to join her. “Begin.”
The percussion instruments set the rhythm once again as Tessa concentrated on the ebb and flow that accompanied her current partner, the feinting and parrying looking almost choreographed. Two minutes later, she was standing back in the ring of participants as someone else danced in to take her place. When it was once again her turn she slid forward, only to find herself on the wrong side of a foot for the third or fourth time. Mortified, she crashed to the mat, wondering if Marcos was going to take away her purple and green cordão and demote her to a lower level.
He knelt beside her once again. “I think that is enough for today, Tessita.”
She grimaced. Marcos only resorted to calling her “little Tessa” when he was upset with her. And he had every right to be. She’d trained with him for years and years. He knew exactly what she was capable of. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I do not, either, but when you come back next week, try to make our capoeira look a little less… brutal.”
Everyone laughed, including Tessa, and the tension eased as he helped her to her feet. She sighed. “Point taken. I’ll work on it.”
“Good. The festival will be here before we know it.”
She grabbed her towel from on top of her bag and blotted the sweat from her face and neck. “Four weeks. I know. Maybe I’ll find a few extra hours this week and come in for a private session.”
“I think that would be good, Tessita.”
Ugh. Still upset. Well, Marcos wasn’t the only one. She was upset at herself. Ever since her encounter with Clay in the cafeteria she’d been on edge. Something about the way his ex had looked at her, the acid in her gaze making Tessa feel like a criminal of some sort, even though she’d done nothing wrong.
Well, it was time to put Clay and his ex—and most especially his cute little daughter—from her mind. Once and for all.
How she was going to do that, though, remained to be seen.
HE WAS WATCHING HER.
Tessa had caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye as she continued to section the diseased skin tissue, teasing it away from healthy cells. The Mohs surgery had been put off for three days due to a cold her patient had developed.
How had Clay found out when she would be operating? Maybe Brian Perry, her attending cutaneous oncologist, had clued him in. But why would he have done that? Clay was an orthopedic surgeon, a whole different realm than cutaneous surgery.
She had already marked the surgical site before proceeding and when she lifted the thin layer of tissue and placed it onto a glass slide, she made sure to match the marks so they would know where to continue cutting if the margins weren’t completely clear. Brian glanced down at the site and nodded to the lab assistant. “Once you’re ready, let us know.”
They would section the tissue sample and stain it, looking for areas that still contained cancer cells. Either Tessa or Brian would then remove more tissue just at the specific location. That way they conserved as much healthy tissue as possible.
“How are you doing, Mandy?” Her patient was lying on her stomach with her head to one side, but was wide-awake. Mohs surgery was generally done under a local anesthetic. The only hard part was that there was quite a bit of waiting involved if the tumor had roots that went deeper than expected.
“I’m okay. How’s it coming?”
“We’ll know in a few minutes.”
The buzzer at her waistband went off, as did Brian’s. The lab was ready for them to view the slide.
Tessa was glad to get out from beneath Clay’s stare. She still had no idea why he was there.
The results under the microscope showed that there was still one area that contained tumor cells. Brian marked the graph they’d been charting to match what they saw on the slide.
After shaving off two more layers of skin in that area, they finally got the results they were looking for: clear margins. This wasn’t melanoma but a squamous cell tumor on the patient’s lower left back. While not as dangerous as the type of cancer that had killed Tessa’s mom, it could still grow out of control, dividing and penetrating to other organ systems if not caught in time. Fortunately this patient had a known history of skin cancer and had screened herself on a regular basis.
Sucking down a breath, she peered again at her patient as they got ready to close the surgical site. In a calm voice she explained what they’d done and what to expect, thankful they wouldn’t need to do a skin graft. Even as she hoped Clay had gotten bored and left, he probably hadn’t. She was still stumped as to his presence. Didn’t he have his own