“You’re both bloody amazing,” Sophia slurs, waving her wineglass dangerously close to disaster. “Real-life superheroes.”
“Superman with a scalpel,” Daisy says softly. I can’t tell if she’s mocking me. “Itisimpressive, what you do.”
“Superman?” I frown. “Hardly.”
I’ve been fortunate—born into the right family, given access to the right schools, the right opportunities. I’ve never had to worry about much beyond maintaining academic excellence. The Cavendish name opened doors before I even learned how to knock. That answers for a lot.
“You’re saving lives,” Daisy presses. “Performing actual miracles while the rest of us are just proud of ourselves for getting out of bed in the morning.”
I shift, rubbing the back of my neck. For every life saved, there are cases that haunt you. The ones that don’t go as planned. “I cut people open for a living and spend more time staring at intestines than is remotely appropriate. If you’re looking formiracles, you might want to try Lourdes.” I arch an eyebrow. “Now, shall we move on?”
They laugh. Conversation successfully redirected.
Or so I think.
Because Daisy purses her lips in that way that always precedes trouble.
I sigh. Maybe not quite diverted.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, leaning forward, clearly over whatever momentary fluster she’d been dealing with before I mentioned intestines.
“Daisy, let’s not pretend this is an actual request for permission. You’re going to ask regardless of my response.”
“Fine.” She takes a slow sip of her beer, dragging out the moment just to test my patience. I already know I’m going to regret this.
“So,” she says, eyes glinting, “when you’re operating on attractive patients—because they’re essentially naked under those gowns—do you ever think, ‘Well, she’s lovely. Perhaps she’d fancy dinner once I’ve finished reorganizing her internal organs’?”
“Daisy!” Sophia gasps, failing miserably to stifle her laughter.
“What?” Daisy shrugs. “I’m just saying, it’s got to cross your mind. Surgeons are only human—well, some of them.”
I level her with a flat look. “That would be highly unprofessional. The hospital has very strict policies about fraternizing with patients.”
“So . . . that’s a no?”
I take a slow sip of my drink. “That’s a ‘this conversation is over.’”
“That’s not a no! You totally have! Very sus response, Dr. Cavendish. Very sus indeed.”
I set my glass down with a firm clink.“Eat your tofu.”
Her lips twitch. “Is that what you say to all the pretty patients? ‘Eat your tofu and call me in the morning’?”
“I’m not going to entertain that question.”
“Fine.” She leans back, tilting her head as if she’s debating just how far she can push this. “If that one’s too much for your delicate sensibilities, just answer me this: does your mind ever wander during surgery? Not even naughty thoughts—heaven forbid—but, I don’t know, dinner plans? Like, you’ve got five fingers in some bloke’s gallbladder and suddenly you’re thinking, ‘Hmm, I could murder a curry right about now.’”
I give her a look that should make her reconsider this nonsense.Should.
“Dinner, drinks, oranything elseis irrelevant when I’m in theater. Nothing exists except the task at hand. I maintain absolute focus at all times.”
Her eyes flick down to my hands and then back to my face.
“That you do,” she murmurs.
Her lips press against her glass again.
I raise a brow. “Meaning?”
