He sets his yellow Mountain Dew Kickstart on the side table and shoots me a crooked grin, albeit a little more languid than normal. “Not into ducks this early in the morning?”
“I’m not into anything this early in the morning.” I glare at the muted TV on the wall, the channel set to—as usual—Fox News. “Who decided working the day after call was a good idea?”
He yawns again. “The people who don’t want to pay for more doctors to cover.”
“Cheap hospital bastards.” I dig the remote from between the couch cushions to change the station to HGTV.
One of my fellow anesthesiologists, Cassie Hersl, saunters through the door and heads straight to the kitchenette. She snags a banana from the breakfast fruit pile, then pours a cup of coffee.
Asher glances at her and nudges my elbow. “You got my cases today, right?”
“Of course.” I lean closer. “No one else can tolerate you.”
Judging by the far livelier smile on his face, the caffeine must have hit his system. He has such an appealing smile—always bright, never forced. The man is unendingly happy.
It’s gross. Sweet, but gross. How did I become best friends with a morning person? In my perfect world, I’d be a vampire.
“I’m sorry you got the short end of the stick,” he says.
“Don’t worry. You’re buying me dinner for my troubles.”
“I am?”
“Yeah,” I say. “With drinks.”
“Morning, Asher.” Cassie approaches us with a rare smile. Her black hair isn’t yet pulled into its customary bun, and it gleams like a silk negligee. Her cat-eye makeup is sharp enough to cut.
Last I heard, she was on again with her radiologist boyfriend, but it seems like her crush on Asher hasn’t dimmed in the slightest. If looks could fuck, Asher would be well and truly by now.
The woman hates me. She has since my first day. I don’t know why, and I no longer care. I’ve stopped any attempts to be friendly. The two of us subsist on snark and professional rivalry.
“Hey, Cassie.” Asher’s smile for her is as genuine as always. Asher loves people, and they love him. He rests an ankle on the opposite knee, showing off his crimson OU socks. “What’s up, girl? Still looking at buying that condo?”
“Oh, I passed on that.” She perches on the armrest next to him.
He pseudo-gasps and clutches invisible pearls. “But the view!”
“I know.” She giggles—ew—and starts to say something else when her phone beeps. She checks it and waves. “Shoot. Got to go. Have a good day, Asher.”
Purposely excluding me, I see. Subtle.
“Every single woman in this hospital wants you,” I whisper.
He leans in and whispers back, “Then how come I’m not getting laid?”
I laugh in his face. “So full of shit.” He’d be getting laid if he tried, but he rarely bothers. If he ever opened his eyes and looked, he’d find whatever mysterious woman he’s searching for.
In the past, I’ve asked why he doesn’t look, but I’m always treated to an off-kilter joke and a wink. He isn’t dating, he doesn’t want to talk about it and he doesn’t appear to care about it. He just isn’t ready, obviously.
Before I can reply, his partner, Dr. White, settles onto the couch opposite us. The wizened man holds a tumbler of coffee and smiles benignly at Asher.
“What you got today, Foley?”
Asher shrugs, his body stiffening. “A couple hysts.”
The older man’s chuckle is a tad derisive. “Minor leagues, son. Call me when you’ve got three sacrocolpopexies and a colpocleisis lined up.”
Asher smiles easily, though I sense the agitation behind it. “You a prolapse specialist now?”
