Page 1 of Ten Day Affair

ONE

Sam

The scrub room outside the OR is an icebox, but it’s nothing compared to Amara Grimaldi’s glare.

If looks could kill, I’d need my own trauma team.

I don’t flinch. My hands hover in the sterile air of the scrub room, waiting, just like we learned in med school. Kip’s already stationed beside Dr. Grimaldi like a golden boy soldier, while I’m stuck in the corner playing surgical statue.

Sometimes, continuing your family's legacy at a hospital has its perks.

Other times, it puts a target on your back.

“Taylor,” Grimaldi barks without looking up. “You’re observing this one. Suit up, but you’re not assisting. I’ll ask questions as we go.”

Right. God forbid I practice my surgical skills.

Kip glances at me from across the room. His brows lift, reminding me to keep it cool without saying a word. He knows me so well. My pulse picks up as I chew the inside of my cheek.

That’s when I see him, through the cracked door leading out to the hall.

A man in a navy suit strolls past, tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of clean-cut hotness that feels out of place in a hospital corridor. His hair’s that sun-drenched blond that’s either wildly expensive or annoyingly natural, and his stride is pure confidence.

He doesn’t look in, but I sure as hell check him out.

“Focus,” I mutter to myself, snapping back as the doors swing shut. As if I need one more complication today.

Kip follows Grimaldi into the OR while I stand here like an idiot.

I know this procedure. I’ve logged the hours. If she’d just let me?—

“Scrub, gown, glove,” Nicole, the scrub tech, mutters behind me. She doesn’t bother with a smile. When Grimaldi’s in one of her moods, it spreads through the OR like bleach fumes and leaves everyone on edge.

I keep my mouth shut and scrub my hands for the fifth time. By the time I step under the light, Amara’s already center stage, running the room. This is her arena, and we are the extras.

She’s good, and she knows it. She makes damn sure the rest of us don’t forget it. Every. Single. Day.

“Fifty-five-year-old male. Tracheostomy revision. History of complications,” Dr. Grimaldi says. Her commanding voice is sharp enough to cut through fog.

Kip murmurs a response, but I’m not listening to him. I’m watching her hands, tracking every motion like it’s gospel.

I wish, not for the first time, that I could fast-forward through this whole damn residency phase and take over the table instead of hugging the wall.

So I stand still. Gloved, silent, and ready if needed. But mostly I'm below the surgical reps in the pecking order.

“That doesn’t look healthy,” Kip says.

I shift focus to the site. He’s right. The trach is technically in place, but the surrounding tissue is inflamed, and the lower edge looks rough, possibly infected.

The swelling around the hub is angry and taut. Jagged tissue, maybe even granulation, glares at me. Something’s not right. But I’m not here to speak unless spoken to, so I watch.

Across the glass wall, a group of suits gather outside and peer in, observing the case. Surgery as stage play.

It’s him. The guy I saw through the scrub room door. It's the same broad frame, same perfectly disheveled blond hair that doesn’t look like it’s ever met a surgical cap.

He’s with the suits now, front and center. Not talking, just watching. And we catch each other's eye.

His gaze lingers, and mine does, too, for a beat longer than it should. Damn, he's good-looking.