Page 2 of Ten Day Affair

Then Amara’s voice slices through the haze. “What’s wrong with this picture, Dr. Taylor?”

“Infection’s set in, it looks like,” I answer, bracing for the blow.

A pause.

Then she nods. “We’ll need to debride the site. Nicole, suction. Kip, retract.”

Just like that, we move. I stay quiet. But my pulse amps up again. This is what I love about surgery, even if Dr. Grimaldi treats me like a second-class citizen. You never know what will come up.

I glance back at the glass, wanting to see him again, unable to help myself.

Taller than the rest, he's younger than them, butprobably older than me. His dirty blond hair, hazel eyes, and boyish good looks set him apart.

I almost blush. Almost.

I can tell he's watching me, too, even though I'm not doing anything noteworthy here.

If I’m being honest, it’s flattering. A chill runs through me under the gown when I catch his eyes with mine for the second time. Not bad for someone in boxy scrubs and a surgical cap.

Still, I refocus on the surgical field. Not the time. Not the guy. Definitely not the place.

He’s a board member, probably here to write a check and fly right back to wherever men with that jawline and that watch live. My dad’s played this game before, and I know these guys don’t stick around. They shake hands, say the hospital’s “in good shape,” and vanish like smoke.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, trying to reset. Because for just a second, I imagined pulling him into an on-call room and seeing if he kisses as good as he looks.

But that’s all it is: a second.

I shift into standby mode across from Kip, who’s glued to Amara’s side. Nicole hovers near me as she snaps on a second pair of gloves and has her tools ready. She always seems to know exactly what the surgeon wants before she even asks.

Amara’s deep into the throat now, fingers steady as she starts to work the hub loose.

I blink, then I look closer.

Wait, what the hell?

“Dr. Grimaldi,” I say, keeping my voice calm, even as my stomach tightens. Amara doesn’t tolerate theatrics. It doesn’t matter if someone’s flatlining, she's the director andproducer of her OR, and improv isn't encouraged. Especially if people are observing.

“Not now,” she snaps.

I grit my teeth. She’s too busy peacocking to notice what I just saw.

And if I’m right, this is about to go very, very wrong.

Kip looks at me with a mighty frown, signaling me to shut it. But I can’t. From my angle across the body, I can see what looks like a small, jagged bit of the cannula used for insertion of the hub still there, attached to the tube shaft.

If Amara keeps her gentle tugging, it could lacerate the opening, which is already infected.

“Prepare the suction,” Amara says casually, as if she just asked for a refill on her iced tea at the yacht club.

Shit! She’s really about to pull the rest of the device out and then suction the area. If it’s lacerated, this surgery will quickly go from routine to catastrophic.

This is bad.

“Dr. Grimaldi, we need to stop the operation and reassess,” I say loudly and with confidence.

Amara’s gloved hands freeze, and the look she shoots me tells me I will pay for this.

“I’ve spotted a leftover section of cannula in the patient. There is a risk of?—”