As his mouth slants over mine, I melt into his touch. No one has ever made me feel as seen as Grayson Garrison, and I have a feeling no one ever will.
“Dr. Thompson, I tried calling you,” Sara, my physician’s assistant, greets me as I enter the operating wing.
“Sorry, busy morning. What’s going on?”
“Schatney is running behind on another joint replacement. It has everything pushed back forty minutes at least, and your assistant added on an emergency knee scope.”
“For?” I question.
“Locked bucket handle tear. ER doc did a MR yesterday after the mother threw a fit.”
My eyes narrow on her. Dammit, I should have checked my phone instead of cuddling on the couch with Gray and his two monster dogs after chores.
“How old?” If I’m going to have to deal with a helicopter mom on top of everything else, I need to know now.
“He’s twenty-six,” she relays after scrolling through her phone.
Shit, that’s even worse.
“Well, hopefully, the surgery center is running on time by the time we finish this quad repair. I have to be at the arena by six.”
She only nods, making a call.
“Ah, River. Finally made an appearance.” I spin to find Dr. Don Buckner behind me, a smug grin on his face. His powder blue scrubs hang off his lean frame, but are perfectly pressed as if he ironed them in the locker room. The asshole probably did.
“My first surgery isn’t until ten. I didn’t think you operated on Tuesdays.”
“Chuck needed an ACL done on some athlete.” His hand waves through the air as if it’s nothing. Just the blink of an eye or the intake of a breath. A walk in the park for someone as skilled as him, in his mind.
My molars grind. I am the best sports medicine and orthopedic trauma surgeon in our group, and yet when one of these assholes needs coverage, I am never the one they ask. Fortunately, all our assistants know what dicks they are and give me as much as my schedule can handle.
“We know you’re great at those.” My grin saccharine. He’s not.
The last four he performed had complications, one of which I had to revise since he chose the wrong graft. It was a fucking mess, and the woman missed her entire ski season. Not to mention the scar tissue build-up from his attempt was brutal to work through. “If you’ll excuse me.” My words clipped.
“I heard Cecil talked you into taking over for him at the rodeo this year,” he calls after me.
Spinning on my heel, I face him again. “He did.”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t eat into your clinic and operating hours. You’re looking a bit tired already.”
“Thanks, Don. I’ll be sure to use my under-eye cream tonight.”
Then I’m storming off, so pissed I want to punch a fucking wall.
Seven surgeries and a raging temper later, I’m the least pleasant person approaching Gray’s truck. Each step more forceful than the last imagining that asshole’s face beneath the heel of my crocs. Indignant men like him know exactly what to say to crawl under someone’s skin. If only I’d get better at ignoring it.
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
Gray pushes off the side of the truck, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before opening my door. “It’s fine. What’s wrong?”
“Just a long day.”
“Don’t bullshit me, River.”
“Buckner was just being an asshole this morning, and it stuck with me all day.”
His features darken, his mouth pressing into a grim line before shutting my door and stalking around to his side. No doubt he’s just as pissed, as is evident when he slams the door more forcefully than needed. “I don’t like that guy.”
