My stomach flips. It is a physiological betrayal.
"Doing what?" I ask, my voice tight. I keep my eyes glued to the screen, terrified that if I look at him, he will see the flush rising on my neck.
"The robot thing," Jax says. "You’re sitting so still I’m waiting for you to buffer. You haven't blinked in forty-five seconds."
"I am working, Dr. O’Connell. A concept you might want to explore."
"You’re hiding," he counters.
He spins his chair around—squeak, squeak—to face me.
The sound goes straight down my spine.
"We haven't talked about yesterday," he says.
I stop typing.
I take a slow breath through my nose. I can still taste him. That is the problem. I have brushed my teeth three times, I have drunk two espressos, and I can still taste the salt and coffee that is apparently the base flavor profile of Jax O’Connell.
"There is nothing to talk about," I say.
I finally turn tolook at him.
Mistake.
He is looking at me with a mix of amusement and something darker. His lips—which are usually quirked in a smirk—are bruised. Slightly swollen.
Because I bit him.
I, Maxwell York, Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery, bit a subordinate in a closet.
I look away instantly, focusing on his left ear.
"It was a physiological error," I say tightly. "Cortisol levels were elevated. The sympathetic nervous system was overstimulated. It was a stress response. Nothing more."
Jax stops chewing the stirrer. He drops it into the trash can.
"Is that what you tell yourself, Max? That it was just a reflex?"
"Yes."
"Liar."
He stands up. He walks toward the tape line. My heart rate spikes instantly.Thump-thump.
"Stay on your side," I warn him.
"Or what?" he asks, stepping right up to the boundary. His voice drops to that rough, scratchy register that makes my toes curl in my bespoke loafers. "You’ll drag me back into the closet and punish me?"
I flush. I can feel the heat rising up my neck, betraying me.
"I will report you to Dr. Sterling for harassment," I lie.
Jax laughs. It’s a dry, humorless sound. "You won't. You liked it too much."
Before I can formulate a rebuttal that doesn't involve admitting he is right, my pager beeps.
I look down. It’s a consult request.
