All the way down the hall, I managed to keep my thoughts from straying to the fact that I would be working with Dr. Reynolds. He was just a man. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Hello, Mrs. Churchill,” I greeted, knocking lightly on the door to the room of the patient being operated on.
“Hello,” a woman who appeared to be in her early to mid-fifties smiled and greeted from the bed.
“Looks like we’ll be performing a surgery on you today,” I joked.
“I sure hope so.”
Smiling, I peered down at the chart I’d grabbed from the wall-mounted box, right outside of the patient’s door. I checked over Mrs. Churchill’s vitals and recorded them, satisfied that everything looked great.
“Dr. Reynolds should be in soon to go over any last minute questions you might have about the surgery, and then we’ll begin prepping you, all right?”
“How long will my mom’s recovery time be?”
I blinked, looking across the room at the man who’d just abruptly interjected. I noticed him when I first walked in the room, as he frowned from the corner. I kept my smirk to myself. I’d seen similar scenarios before, where a patient’s family member, namely their child, found it appalling that their parent would want any type of cosmetic surgery.
“I’m sure Dr. Reynolds will be better able to answer those types of questions for you, Mr …”
“Churchill. Same as my mother’s.”
“Mr. Churchill.”
“Well, where is he? I’ve heard he’s supposed to be one of the best. Tuh,” he tutted, and pushed out a breath, his face looking doubtful. “Hard to believe he’s that good and not working in private practice—”
“Not every physician worth their weight in gold desires to open a private practice.” The words slipped from my lips before I knew what was happening. “I’ve worked with Dr. Reynolds and he’s one of the most skilled surgeons I’ve ever seen in the OR.” Again, the compliment flowed freely, without any hesitation. And the worst part was, it was the honest to God truth.
At that precise moment, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. My back was to the door as I spoke to the patient and her son, but I knew as soon as I turned around, he would be standing there.
Against my better judgment, I turned around, and as I’d predicted, there he was, staring at me through narrowed eyelids. The same look that’d covered his face in the grocery store the previous week as he watched me sing and dance to Whitney Houston, was on his face now.
“Thank you for the compliments, Nurse Grace.”
I could’ve sworn I felt the slightest belly shiver at hearing my name coming from his mouth.
Clearing my throat, I looked down at the chart in my hands and back to the machines at the right side of Mrs. Churchill’s bed.
“As she said, I am one of if notthemost highly skilled surgeons in this hospital. Possibly the city, but I’ll let others debate that. And no, I’m not in private practice, and yes, that is by choice. Do you have any other questions, Mr. Churchill, or shall I tend to your mother’s inquiries?”
Daaamn.
I bit my bottom lip to keep the smirk off my face. He didn’t have to put the son in his place like that. The confidence in his voice was so evident it silenced any other lingering doubts, I’m certain. Even if I hadn’t been in the OR with this doctor before, I would’ve been half convinced of his abilities by his statement alone. But I had worked with him, and I knew he wasn’t just fluff. The man lived for the OR.
He was cocky, yes, like most surgeons. They’re the bad asses, the jocks of the hospital, but he wasn’t all bravado. He walked the walk as much as he talked the talk.
“Everything looks good, Mrs. Churchill. I’ll see you in there.” Reynolds nodded, and I watched as his gaze moved from the patient over to me.
I was expecting him to remind me of what my responsibility to prep the patient was, but he didn’t. For whatever reason, his eyes lingered on me for a second longer than necessary before he nodded and turned for the door. I didn’t have time to give it much thought as a couple more staff members piled into the room to help ready Mrs. Churchill for surgery.
About forty minutes later, as I stood over Mrs. Churchill in the OR, Dr. Reynolds entered the room, with the customary hands in the air after having just thoroughly scrubbed. His gaze caught mine as his gown was tied behind his back and his mask tied in place.
I cast my gaze lower, onto Mrs. Churchill as Dr. Reynolds made his way over to her.
“It’s time for you to go to sleep now, Mrs. Churchill,” he stated.
“I’ll have the breasts I’ve wanted for a long time when I wake up.” She smiled.
Reynolds didn’t comment on that. Instead, he lifted his head and nodded at the anesthesiologist, who then inserted the medication that would send Mrs. Churchill off into a dream world while we operated on her.
