"What you're saying is you could take on every specialty?" Sara asked him. "Is that a feature among trauma surgeons or a defect?"
Before I could stop myself, I said, "A defect, for sure."
I met her gaze from the other side of the room and held it while the conversation continued around us. I tightened my grip on the beer bottle and silently dared her to look away first. She would. She'd blink down at her drink or the man she was politely ignoring or over at the infantry of limes or to O'Rourke and the mask of apathy he wore so flamboyantly. She'd end it like she always did.
"Pretty sure plastics would be an easy hit," I said.
And that did it. She rolled her eyes, muttered "Asshole" under her breath, and shifted just enough to pivot her attention toward O'Rourke.
"Yeah, that's obvious," O'Rourke agreed. "Plastics, uro, neuro—"
"Wait a fucking second," Nick snapped. "You are not seeding neuro with urology. Not while you're drinking my beer."
O'Rourke glanced at the bottle in his hand. "Did I say neuro? I meant nephrology. Totally nephrology. Did I mention I was on call last night? And I haven't slept since I was twenty-three?" He glanced at the residents. "This is why you can't play the game. You need to reach and exceed this level of deprivation. You need to be broken. Then and only then will you be ready to play the game of surgical specialty fireball."
"Fireball?" Alex repeated. "Where did the fire come from?"
"And the balls," Riley added.
"Sounded cool," O'Rourke said with a shrug. "I'll workshop it some more this week."
"Ahhh. Dr. Hartshorn, right on time as usual," Nick called as the cardiothoracic surgeon stepped through the back door with his wife Stella in tow. "What can I get you two to drink?"
Hartshorn was good enough to give a bashful smile as he and Stella joined the group in the kitchen.
Stella gestured to the pitcher Nick was mixing. "I see a bottle of tequila and a whole bunch of limes. Whatever that's about, it looks good."
"That looks like I'll be on the floor tomorrow morning," Hartshorn replied, shooting a grin at Erin. "I'll have whatever the very tolerant and very kind Dr. Acevedo is having."
Erin, the volcanologist with a pair of doctorates to her name, lifted her beer bottle, saying, "Coming right up—but it's Walsh when I'm Doctor."
"How did I not know that?" Hartshorn asked.
"Because you're always late to the party," Nick muttered.
"Walsh earned the doctorates," she replied, handing him the beer. "I'm Acevedo on evenings and weekends."
"Unless she's on a volcano that weekend," Nick added as he squeezed another lime into the pitcher. "All bets are off when she's on a volcano."
"Now that's an actual fireball," O'Rourke muttered.
"I'm with you on the maiden name," Stella said to Erin. "Stella Allesandro built a reputation in sports publicity and communications. Stella Hartshorn is someone else entirely."
"Oh, for sure," added Alex. "Dr. Emmerling survived a brutal, soul-crushing residency and then a beast-mode fellowship. I won't care if my kids' teachers or friends call me Mrs. Walsh but I sure as hell won't erase Dr. Emmerling because he put a ring on it."
"But I didn't put a ring on it," Riley murmured. "You didn't want a ring. Do you want a ring? I'll get you a ring."
"That's not the point of this convo, babe," she replied.
For no rational reason whatsoever, my gaze drifted to Sara. She glanced between Erin and Stella as they groaned over the obstacles they'd face if they ever changed their names professionally. Her features were stiff and fixed, like she was working very hard at presenting her best idea of a neutral expression.
Worst of all, she looked hot enough to start fires with her fingertips. Her jeans functioned as a vicious reminder of exactly how thick and perfect her thighs were, and the pale gray sweater she wore only furthered the torment. I wanted to run my palm over the wool-covered contours of her body, and I wanted to be a little cruel about it. I wanted to curl a finger through one of those belt loops and drag her to me. Wanted to pinch and twist those nipples until her eyes watered. Wanted her hair wrapped around my fist and the helpless cry that always came when she knew I had her.
I always had her, at least for those rare, secret minutes we shared before one of us fucked it up.
With a stifled groan, I rolled my eyes at myself. I was such a fucking moron to stand here thinking about this woman. It didn't matter what happened when we were alone because it never lasted. It was one mistake after another. The visiting professor could pull her hair and twist her nips for all I cared. He could be my fucking guest. Hope he liked croutons and ceaseless shrieking.
I set my beer down on the countertop and headed for the doors leading to the backyard. Beckoning to O'Rourke, I said, "Come on. There's a basketball hoop out back."
