Page 11 of Crossing the Line (Phoenix Ridge Medical #6)

"The patient is Mrs. Rodriguez, sixty-three, presenting with arterial blockage requiring bypass revision," Carmen continued, falling into the familiar rhythm of medical instruction. "Can anyone tell me the primary considerations for this type of procedure?"

Hands shot up. Eager voices offered textbook answers about the surgical approach, complication management, and post-operative care.

Carmen nodded at appropriate intervals, but her attention kept drifting to Harper, who participated with intelligent questions that demonstrated genuine medical knowledge.

Not healthcare administration. Actual surgical training. Even her lies had been strategically close to truth.

"Dr. Langston," Carmen heard herself say, using Harper's real name like a challenge. "What's your assessment of the risk factors we should monitor during this procedure?"

Harper straightened slightly, her professional composure flawless despite the tension crackling between them.

"Primary concerns would be graft rejection, arterial spasm during anastomosis, and monitoring for arrhythmias during cardiac manipulation.

Post-operatively, we'd watch for bleeding, infection, and signs of inadequate perfusion. "

The answer was perfect. Comprehensive, technically accurate, delivered with the confidence of someone who genuinely understood cardiac surgery. Carmen felt something twist in her chest, a mixture of professional pride and personal betrayal that made no logical sense.

"Correct," Carmen said, her voice carefully neutral. "The procedure will take approximately three hours. I expect complete attention and appropriate questions."

She turned toward the surgical suite, but not before catching the slight relaxation in Harper's shoulders. As if Carmen's professional acknowledgment mattered to her. As if she cared what Carmen thought of her medical competence.

The irony was almost laughable. Harper had lied about everything else, but her passion for surgery appeared genuine. The same passion that had made their conversation at Lavender's flow so naturally and had made Carmen believe they might actually have something in common beyond physical attraction.

Carmen stepped into the surgical suite, knowing that three pairs of eyes would follow her every movement through the observation windows. Normally, she enjoyed the teaching aspect—demonstrating technique, explaining decision-making processes, watching young surgeons learn.

Today, she felt exposed. Watched. Judged by someone who had every reason to question her judgment.

Mrs. Rodriguez lay prepped and draped on the surgical table, her heart visible on the monitoring equipment.

Carmen's hands moved through their familiar dance of surgical preparation, but she was hyperaware of the observation deck above.

Of Harper's presence, her attention, the way she'd looked when Carmen used her real name.

"Beginning initial incision," Carmen announced for the benefit of her audience, her voice steady and professional.

But as the surgery progressed, she found herself explaining procedures with unusual detail and demonstrating techniques with extra precision.

Part of her analytical mind recognized what was happening: she was showing off and performing for an audience of one, trying to prove her competence to someone who'd already seen her at her most vulnerable.

The realization should have embarrassed her. Instead, it made her surgical focus sharper, her movements more controlled. If Harper wanted to see Dr. Carmen Méndez in her professional environment, she'd get the full demonstration.

Carmen could teach Harper about cardiac surgery. She could demonstrate excellence, precision, and the kind of competence that took decades to develop.

But she couldn't teach her about trust. And she couldn't demonstrate forgiveness for lies that had shattered something she hadn't realized she'd been desperate to protect.

The surgery continued with flawless technique and growing tension that had nothing to do with Mrs. Rodriguez's heart and everything to do with the woman watching from behind glass windows, taking notes in a pristine white coat.

Professional distance had never felt like such an impossible distance to maintain.

The surgery had been flawless. Mrs. Rodriguez's heart now beat with steady rhythm, her grafts positioned with textbook precision.

Carmen had performed with the kind of controlled excellence that made teaching hospitals recruit surgeons like her.

But all she could think about as she finished her post-operative notes was escape.

She needed Harper Langston transferred to a different supervisor. Immediately.

Carmen made her way through the hospital corridors toward Dr. Mars' administrative office, rehearsing her request. Professional language, logical reasoning, nothing that would suggest personal complications.

She was one of the hospital's most respected surgeons; Dr. Mars would accommodate a simple scheduling adjustment.

The Chief Medical Officer's office occupied a corner of the administrative wing, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Phoenix Ridge's harbor district.

Dr. Mars sat behind a desk that spoke of decades of successful medical leadership, reviewing what looked like quarterly reports with the focused attention Carmen recognized in fellow surgeons.

"Carmen," Dr. Mars said, looking up with genuine warmth. "Excellent work with Mrs. Rodriguez this afternoon. The interns were impressed with your teaching approach."

The compliment should have felt satisfying. Instead, it reminded Carmen of Harper's intelligent questions, her obvious surgical aptitude, and the way she'd absorbed every detail of the cardiac procedure with genuine fascination.

"Thank you," Carmen managed. "Actually, that's why I'm here. I'd like to discuss the intern assignments for the upcoming cardiac rotation."

Dr. Mars gestured for Carmen to sit in one of the leather chairs facing her desk. "Of course. What did you have in mind?"

Carmen had practiced this conversation during her post-surgical cleanup, crafting reasonable explanations that had nothing to do with personal complications.

"I think Dr. Langston might benefit from exposure to different surgical approaches.

Perhaps trauma surgery with Dr. Parker or general surgery rotations. "

"Harper specifically requested cardiac surgery," Dr. Mars said, her tone mildly curious. "Her academic record shows exceptional aptitude for the specialty. Natalie mentioned she's been interested in cardiac work since medical school."

Of course she had. Carmen felt something twist in her chest, the same mixture of professional pride and personal betrayal that had been plaguing her all day. Harper's passion for cardiac surgery appeared genuine, which made her other lies even more devastating.

"I understand her interest," Carmen said carefully. "But I think she might benefit from broader exposure before specializing."

Dr. Mars studied Carmen with the particular attention she usually reserved for complex medical cases.

"This is unusual for you. You've always been enthusiastic about mentoring promising students.

Harper's qualifications are exceptional: early graduation, outstanding residency performance, natural surgical instincts. "

Each compliment felt like a small knife between Carmen's ribs. She knew Harper was exceptional. She'd seen it during the observation session, recognized it in her questions and responses. That was part of what made this situation so impossibly complicated.

"All surgical rotations have value," Carmen said, maintaining her professional tone despite the growing desperation in her chest. "I just think?—"

"Carmen." Dr. Mars' voice carried gentle but unmistakable authority. "Is there something specific about Harper that concerns you? Professional competence, attitude, work ethic?"

The direct question hung in the air like a challenge. Carmen could lie and invent professional concerns that would justify the transfer request. But Dr. Mars had known her for years, respected her judgment, and trusted her assessment of students and surgical candidates.

Lying would compromise the professional integrity she'd spent decades building. And for what? To avoid working with someone whose medical competence she couldn't actually question?

"No," Carmen admitted. "No professional concerns."

"Then I'm afraid I can't accommodate your request." Dr. Mars' tone was kind but final. "All supervisory positions for this rotation have been assigned. Harper's scheduled to spend the next eight weeks in cardiac surgery, and frankly, she couldn't ask for better mentorship."

Eight weeks. Carmen felt the number settle in her chest like a stone.

Eight weeks of forced professional interaction with someone who'd seen her most vulnerable and then disappeared without explanation.

Eight weeks of teaching surgical techniques to hands that had touched her with surprising tenderness.

Eight weeks of maintaining professional distance from someone who'd made her forget why distance mattered.

"I understand," Carmen said, though understanding and accepting were entirely different things.

"Is everything alright?" Dr. Mars asked, her tone shifting toward genuine concern. "You seem...unsettled today. Not like yourself."

Carmen almost laughed at the understatement.

Nothing about today had been like herself.

The controlled, competent surgeon Dr. Mars knew didn't make impulsive decisions about strangers.

Didn't bring women home without knowing their real names.

Didn't sit in administrative offices trying to avoid the consequences of one night that had felt more real than months of careful emotional management.

"Just adjusting to the new teaching responsibilities," Carmen said. "I'll make sure Dr. Langston receives appropriate supervision."