To scrub in on a procedure like this after all of my hard work is a huge opportunity. I’m hopeful this will prove to the other residents that I’m not only a skilled researcher; I’m also a skilled practicing surgeon who deserves to be here.
Since there’s only one more game left in the season, Camden is done for the year. Regardless, the fact that he’ll be able to start rehabilitation right away seems to please his family. I fill in all the blanks that Prichard volleys my way. The hospital’s PR person and a member of the press are present so he’s definitely show-boating a bit. But the Harrises are all gobbling it up as they look at us with bated breath every time we speak. Even Camden’s dad, Vaughn Harris, eyes me as if I alone am going to be the one to save his son’s life.
As I’m explaining to Camden that he’ll be up and walking normally in less than a week, another incredibly good-looking male comes strolling in.
“Hi, guys. Sorry it took me so long to get here. There was an accident on the Tube, and it’s a nightmare out front with TV crews.”
The blonde girl leaps off the bed and dives into the bloke’s arms. They embrace in an intimate hug. Her voice trembles against his chest, “It’s fine, Hayden. I’m just so glad you’re here.”
He pulls back, cupping her face and dropping a soft kiss to her lips. “Man, the way you’re acting, I’d swear it was you injured instead of Cam.” Hayden’s voice is laughing as he sweetly strokes her cheeks with his thumbs.
“Our Vi has a flair for the dramatics,” Tanner grumbles in a teasing tone.
“Shut it,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye. “It’s the bloody pregnancy hormones.” She swats Hayden’s chest playfully and adds, “And it’s all your fault.”
It’s then that Camden’s cocky eyes find my shocked ones. A lopsided grin tugs on his lips as he mouths, “Sister.” Then a full-blown, satisfied smile spreads across his face.
Sister.
Pregnant sister.
Not pregnant girlfriend.
And just like that, Penis Number One is back in the game.
A few minutes later, Prichard gets paged and leaves me to continue fielding any other questions they have. We schedule the first surgery for two days from now; however, to prevent any risk of further injuring himself and taking The Wilson Repair off the table, Prichard wants Camden to remain in the hospital. I’m sure the hospital also wants to capitalise on his presence here any way they can. With private ownership, this kind of press can greatly help with investor interest.
“So you’ll actually be in the room when they cut into my knee?” Camden quietly asks me as his family continues filling Hayden in on the other side of the room.
I nod, walking up to his bed and standing closer to him. His voice is low with a seriousness to his tone. Looking at him now, I see that he’s lost that roguish alpha air. Lying before me is a softer and more boyish version of him. Maybe even a little scared.
“I’ll be right beside Dr. Prichard,” I reply, fighting the urge I have to touch his arm in comfort.
Exhaling, he asks, “Will you be doing any of the cutting?” He swallows hard, and I watch his Adam’s apple slide down and back up his thick neck.
I note the pensive look on his face. “It’s a scope, Cam. They’re tiny incisions. You probably have football scars from tackles that are bigger than these will be. Truly, you’ll be up to your old tricks in no time. I promise you.”
A pleased smile spreads across his face.
“What?” I ask, pushing my glasses up and frowning in confusion.
“You just called me Cam.” The twinkle in his eyes leaves me no choice but to smile back.
I laugh softly and punch some pointless buttons on his monitor to distract myself from his face. “Slip of the tongue, Mr. Harris. Don’t get all cocky on me now. You were doing so well.”
“I was thinking I could call you Specs for a nickname instead of baby or Red, but Indie is just too sexy of a name I’m afraid. It’s beaten everything I’ve been workshopping in my head.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You’ve been workshopping pet names for me?” I chuckle, secretly chastising myself for loving the nickname Specs more than I should.
He shrugs and tweaks his eyebrows while eyeing my completely scrub-covered cleavage. Honestly, the way his eyes are staring, you’d think I am wearing a wet T-shirt.
“I’ve had a lot of time on my hands,” he says, his voice deep and husky. “And you’ve sort of been consuming all my thoughts since you buggered off so quickly before.”
I clear my throat nervously. “I had things to do.”
He growls with a speculative twinkle in his lash-framed eyes. “You thought she was my girlfriend, didn’t you?”
I remain silent. The discomfort I felt in those brief moments at the loss of opportunity a girlfriend would have presented is not something I care to revisit. Him having a girlfriend should have come as a relief to me. Instead, my stupid, tortured soul was more disappointed about the loss of Penis Number One.
“My sister is more like a mum at times,” he adds. “She’s great. You’d like her I’m sure. Everybody does.”
“She’s lovely,” I reply, my chest pounding with anxiety as that heated look in his gaze blossoms. “My shift is about over so I need to be going.”
All cockiness drains from his face. “You’re leaving?”
I shake my head. “Well, not technically. I sleep here. I only get six hours off, so I get more sleep if I stay in the on-call room.” Which is mostly true. He doesn’t need to know I don’t go home because it’s too lonely there.
“So can I have them page you in the middle of the night if I need a sponge bath?” he drawls sexily. The corner of his mouth tilts up with an impish grin.
“No,” I baulk.
“Why ever not?” He actually has the nerve to look offended.
“It doesn’t work like that, Cam—Mr. Harris. The resident on call is whom they’ll page. Plus, sponge baths aren’t resident jobs.” But, come to think of it, if anyone is touching him, I want it to be me.
“I don’t want just any medical person. I want you. They put me in the VIP wing. Don’t I get some say?”
“This isn’t appropriate,” I whisper, but even I can tell my voice sounds weak. I bite my lip and look around nervously, grateful to see his family oblivious to our current exchange.
“I’m not asking for anything major. Just a simple way to get ahold of you if I have questions about the surgery. I don’t do well with this…stuff.” His expression morphs from cocky player to pensive patient. My instinct tells me that it’s not an act, and my professional training wants to put his mind at ease. Not to mention, my heart lurches when someone looks at me the way he is, all wounded and scared, especially when I know I can make him better.
I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do. But a deep, quiet part of my mind says he needs this and this is my chance. This is where I take the plunge. This is where I stop letting my professional life trump my personal life.
I reach into my pocket for my yellow Post-it notes. With shaky hands, I scribble my mobile number down and hand it over to him. His fingertips brush against mine, but he continues to watch my face for the answer to what I’m handing him.