Page 6 of Late Harvest

And to his right? Glacial sapphire eyes pinned him with the force of a sumo wrestler slamming his opponent into the mat, her don’t fuck with me message clearly conveyed.

Bash’s blood pumped through his veins. His angel was at Titanic-level iceberg status. Outstanding. Game respect game. He wouldn’t be cowed like a trainee doctor. Instead, he shared his own unspoken message. Bring it, he offered nonverbally, a smile he couldn’t quite stifle tilting the corner of his lips.

Scrub Angel—Remy—narrowed her eyes at him.

Now he fully grinned.

“How long have you been saving that joke up to use?” Brinder’s low chuckle interrupted their stare off.

Thank God, because this was some outstanding non-physical foreplay. And despite his interest in the surgeon, he really didn’t need to sport fully engorged wood in his brother-in-law’s hospital office.

“Never know when the perfect moment for a good joke might arise.” Bash winked at Remy, who merely tilted her head ever-so-slightly, those cool, dark blue eyes assessing.

She hadn’t said a word, which—admittedly—was a tad disappointing. And discombobulating. Usually, if he was faced with a particularly tough flirtation situation, one where he was crashing and burning, a corny dad joke paired with The Smolder would break the ice.

Not so much here.

Nope.

He pushed his hands further in his pockets and shuffled his feet, forcing away the vibration of unaccustomed awkwardness that pulsed within him.

Ok. Scrub Angel was going to test all his skills.

Challenge fucking accepted!

He racked his brain for something witty. Or even a bit devilish. Something to bring the verbal heat to melt the ice.

Anything.

Aaaaany time now…

Where the hell was his suave, smooth poise that was core to his brand?

Missing in fucking action. And at the worst possible time.

Before he could hit a panic status he’d not experienced since his early teen years and beg Remy to spend the rest of her life as his love goddess, Brinder chimed in, breaking what was rapidly turning into a shitshow crisis of confidence for Bash. “Remy, I’m very sorry you lost your brief lunch break. I keep protein shakes in my office fridge. May I offer you one to drink as you head to the OR?”

Remy turned to Brinder, cool sapphire warming. “That would actually be appreciated. Thank you, Brinder.”

“My pleasure. And I’ll be sure we refresh the food in the surgeons’ lounge so you can grab something more substantive between your afternoon cases.”

His angel offered a regal head nod and a small smile. No teeth visible—he’d bet his 1966 Shelby Cobra she flossed regularly—but…holy fuck she was gorgeous.

“Thank you, again, Brinder.”

Yep. Velvet. Her voice was like running your fingers across the most sumptuous fabric. Smooth. Flawless.

“Doc, if the whole surgeon thing doesn’t work out, you could totally do voiceover work,” he blurted. Amani cringed at this total absence of chill, quietly sucking in air through her teeth.

Now both Brinder and his maybe-not-future-bedmate fully turned their heads. Incredulity was written on his brother-in-law’s face.

And Remy? There wasn’t a word to describe the blend of lukewarm indifference and disinterest on her stunning visage.

Ladies and gentlemen, today’s visit to Brinder is sponsored by the phrase What the Fuck.

Brinder released a low chuckle. “Negatory, Bash. I’ll fight you, and I’ll win. Remy is one of the best surgeons I’ve worked with in my career. I’d throw hands to keep her.”

A tiny smile tipped up the corners of Remy’s lush, unvarnished lips, which he was now positively dying to sip and taste with his tongue. Clearly she respected and liked Brinder. Perhaps he would be Bash’s ace in the hole. Yes, excellent plan. Let her see how much his brother-in-law liked him. Give her a chance to see him in action. This interaction was too fleeting. He needed time to woo her into bed.