“You’ve heard about our performances, haven’t you?” Jared sat on one of the barstools at the island as he watched Hong-Wei at the stove. “When I have a peds patient in the hospital and they’re scheduled for release, or sometimes simply if things are getting grim and they need a pick-me-up, on request Simon, Owen, and I do lip-synched dance numbers.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of that.”
“It’s because of Simon’s music, actually, and because he was always running around the house dancing to—”
“Jared, I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”
Jared pressed a hand to his chest. “What? What did I do?”
Simon started the playlist and stalked toward Owen and Jared in the kitchen. “You can both stop. Immediately.”
Hong-Wei’s shoulders shook, and when he spoke, his voice had a hint of laughter. “You guys are making me miss my sister.”
“You do lip-synch dance numbers with her too?”
“Owen!”
Laughing out loud, Hong-Wei set down the spatula and wiped his eyes.
Simon was now close enough to the stove to get full appreciation for the pasta dish Hong-Wei was making, and when he opened the oven and saw fresh bread, Simon couldn’t focus on anything else but the impending food. When they finally were ready to eat, the taste was as good as the anticipation, and he forgot his nervousness over being kissed and his fury over Owen and Jared’s meddling and simply settled in to enjoy.
“This is amazing.” Simon sopped up sauce with his bread, took a decadent bite, and melted. “Hong-Wei, you’re an incredible cook.”
“Yes, Jack, I have to admit, you’re not bad.” Owen speared a tube of pasta with a look of regret. “I’ll study up and best you next time, dull knives and all.”
“Here I am feeling like an idiot assuming you’d cook something Asian,” Jared said. When Simon glared at him, he held up a hand. “Hey, he’s the one who brought the fancy Taiwanese dish to the hospital. It was a fair leap.”
“I’m afraid I don’t excel at Taiwanese cooking.” Hong-Wei sipped at the water he’d poured for himself, refusing alcohol because he’d pointed out he was now on call. “I can make it, but I’m nothing compared to my sister, so I always end up frustrated.”
That was disappointing, because Simon wouldn’t mind trying some more dishes like the one he’d had. “I take it your sister is a good cook?”
“My sister is a phenomenal cook.” Hong-Wei sliced angrily into his chicken as he said this. Owen chuckled into his wine.
Simon sighed. Why were they all so competitive?
The end of the meal didn’t bring a cease-fire, either. When it came time to decide who was doing dishes, Jared told Owen it was his turn, Owen made a wry remark baiting Hong-Wei about who did dishes better, and before it could start up again, Simon rose, swiped everyone’s plates in a stack, and headed out of the room.
“I’m doing the dishes,” he called over his shoulder.
He wasn’t surprised when someone came into the kitchen with the glasses and took up a dishtowel to dry, but he didn’t expect that person to be Hong-Wei. Simon faltered, realizing this was their first time alone since Hong-Wei had kissed him.
“Sorry,” Hong-Wei said at last.
Simon dropped the dish he was loading into the dishwasher, then fumbled, red-faced, with shaking hands, to right it. What are you apologizing for, exactly?
“I’m sorry for the way we were all behaving when you got home, and through dinner, and now.” When Simon still struggled with the dish, Hong-Wei came around the other side of the dishwasher and reached down to fit the plate in the slats, and when their gazes met, his smile made a different kind of heat diffuse through Simon. “I’m not apologizing for the kiss.”
Simon stood and busied himself with filling the sink. That can’t happen again is what he needed to say. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, however, and he discovered at this particular moment he couldn’t say anything at all.
Hong-Wei resumed drying as if he hadn’t rendered Simon mute. “I hope I didn’t put you out too much, the way today’s events must have jumbled your schedule. I’m almost glad Orth is out of the picture, but I understand it’s put a strain on the staff.”
It was so much easier to talk about work. “Oh—no, it’s fine. Honestly, we’re used to chaos. No one’s going to think anything of it. Besides, you’re so much nicer than Dr. Orth. The surgical team all said so.”
“Really? I thought they might find me strict.”
“Yes, but you were efficient too, and you took care of us as well as the patient, and we appreciate it. We’ve had a lot of erosion on the staff, but by some miracle our surgical team has survived despite everything, and it’s a good crew. We’ve been waiting for—” He almost said someone decent and stopped himself. “We’re glad to have someone like you, let’s leave it at that.”
“The feeling is mutual. I’ve worked with internationally famous doctors and their nurses, and I didn’t feel at all unsupported today.”
Now Simon was glowing. He’d been the one who’d moved heaven and earth to keep the team together on the wish and hope that someday their dream surgeon would come. It felt good to know the dream surgeon felt the same way. “I wanted to tell you, I enjoyed the music during surgery. I’ve never had any doctor do that before, but it was quite pleasant. It kept me calm and made everything go so much faster.”
“My first supervising physician had a thing about doing surgery to music. Most people gave him grief about it, but I discovered it helped me focus. When we got to the point we could take lead, he wouldn’t let us use it for the longest time, saying he didn’t want us to be unable to operate without it. Now that I work on my own, I play music during my surgeries whenever I have the option. It helps me cut through the noise. An operating room has so many beeps and blips—it’s nice to have something with more tonal quality.”
“Do you always use classical music?”
Hong-Wei hesitated with the towel poised over a plate. “Yes.”
He seemed to have more to say, but he also clearly didn’t want to say it. Since Simon had spent the evening not wanting to say things, he didn’t push the man.
Simon braced for another battle over who would take Hong-Wei home—his car wasn’t due to arrive for another few weeks—but Hong-Wei insisted he didn’t need one. “It’s barely a mile to my house. The walk will feel nice.”
He waved to them as he left, winking at Simon.
Simon went to bed confused and agitated, feeling somehow the events of the day had gotten away from him. He’d wanted to confront Hong-Wei about the kiss and be firm in his resolve it couldn’t happen again, but instead he’d had dinner with the man. Dinner with Owen and Jared as well, granted, but still, it wasn’t what he’d intended. He supposed so long as things stayed professional, that was enough, but he decided he had to remain on guard all the same.
His guard turned out to be unnecessary, because over the next few days nothing else happened. The two of them continued to work together, navigating the fractured surgical schedule, smoothing over nervous patients who had somehow liked Dr. Orth and were suspicious of this outsider. The worst was when an old man swore at Hong-Wei and said, “No way in hell is some Chinaman working on me.”
Hong-Wei didn’t bat an eye. “None will, Mr. Wilson. I was born in Taiwan, but I’ve lived in the US most of my life and did all my education here. To be blunt, I’m better and more educated than any surgeon you’ll see within your insurance plan. None of this matters, however. If you don’t have this temporal artery biopsy today, I won’t be able to put you back on your corticosteroids until you reschedule, which will need to be at another hospital. Or you can let me do my job, which will take barely any time at all, and then you’ll be on your medication and taking treatment for anything we find today. The choice, of course, is entirely up to you. If you want, my nurse can check the surgical schedule at Eau Claire for you. I believe the wait time at this moment is six weeks, but perhaps yo
u’ll be lucky and it will be five.”
Simon didn’t have to make any phone calls. Mr. Wilson underwent his surgery, and when he was in postsurgical care and Hong-Wei didn’t like the edema in his legs, after a check of the patient’s heart, Hong-Wei ordered a med change and referred him to a cardiac specialist. The patient left the hospital singing Hong-Wei’s praises and proudly telling his children, who came to pick him up, that he got the best doctor in the whole of Wisconsin to care for him.
Mrs. Mueller returned to the hospital as well, as predicted. She wasn’t a surgical patient, but when Hong-Wei heard she was back, he did an exam, consulted her admitting physician, and explained that after reading her chart, he was convinced her surgery was not only possible but might alleviate several other symptoms she was having. Sadly they couldn’t reverse her dementia, but her quality of life could be restored significantly. Within three days they had Medicaid approval, and two days after the surgery, everyone who knew her—which was pretty much the town of Copper Point—said she hadn’t been this close to her old self in years. Despite Hong-Wei’s warning she likely wouldn’t improve, Mrs. Mueller seemed to better remember some people, and she didn’t look for her wretched ex-husband anymore.
Word of Hong-Wei’s miracles spread through the town like wildfire, and the surgery schedule filled up quickly.
Naturally, Andreas and Beckert loved this development and tried to take Hong-Wei to lunch in thanks, but Hong-Wei declined, saying he needed to meet with Simon instead. “We have cases to go over, but thank you.” He took Simon into the doctors’ lounge, where every head turned at the sight of a nurse where he shouldn’t be. Hong-Wei ignored them and pulled out a file.
“Sorry, I wanted our food to be here already, but I sent for it late. Unfortunately I’m the only one who can place the order. I told the front desk to call me when they arrived. Is it all right if we work until then?”
Simon could feel the rest of the room staring at them, but Hong-Wei didn’t seem interested in engaging with them, so Simon did his best to ignore them as well. “Sure. What did you need to discuss?”
It turned out Hong-Wei had several patient files he wanted Simon to follow up on. Apparently he’d reviewed every patient Dr. Orth and the other fill-in surgeons had seen, and whenever he didn’t care for their diagnosis and treatment plan, he’d gone over things a second time and triaged patients according to ones he simply wanted to monitor and ones he wanted to bring in.
“Obviously the hospital legal department has feelings on some of these cases, which is frustrating but understandable, so I began sorting them by severity and practicality.”
Simon practically fluttered with excitement. Hong-Wei truly was the dream doctor he’d always wanted to work for. Part of him was disappointed he hadn’t made any more romantic overtures since that day in the closet, but perhaps it was for the best. “I’ll phone the patients right away.”
“Oh.” Hong-Wei pulled out his phone. “That’s our lunch. Do you want to wait here or come with me to pick it up?”
No way in hell Simon was sitting here while everyone glared at him without Hong-Wei as a buffer. “I’ll come along.”
An older man who was unmistakably from China Garden stood by the main reception desk. The elderly volunteer whose job it was to shuttle people to appointments was speaking to him with a frustrated look on her face. As they approached she kept saying, “Sir, I’ve paged him for you,” but the man continued inclining his head and repeating, “Doc-tor Wu, please, thank you,” in incredibly hesitant English.
Then the man saw Hong-Wei, and everything about the scene changed.
Smile widening, the man turned to face Hong-Wei, laughing as he presented the paper bag of takeout, speaking rapidly in Mandarin. It sounded to Simon as if the man making the delivery was teasing, and he must have been, because Hong-Wei blinked, laughed as well, then replied in the same light tone as he accepted the bag with a gracious incline of his head. They spoke like old friends for several minutes—the man clearly had deep affection for Hong-Wei. Simon enjoyed watching them talk to one another almost as much as he enjoyed watching the white people in the lobby with their jaws on the floor, gawking.
Then he realized he was one of the white people too, and blushed.
Abruptly, Hong-Wei stopped speaking and pointed to the older man’s hand, where Simon saw a rather crude bandage wrapped around his palm and wrist. The older man waved the injured hand dismissively, but Hong-Wei grew serious, and Simon didn’t need to know Mandarin to understand what he was saying. Let me see that. The older man shook his head, laughed, and wagged a finger at Hong-Wei. Nope, not going to let you.
Not looking happy, Hong-Wei handed the man several bills, and then the man left.
Hong-Wei still frowned as he approached Simon, clutching the bag.
“Something wrong?” Simon asked.
Hong-Wei grimaced. “Probably just my ego. He wouldn’t let me see the cut on his hand. Told me it was no big deal, he’d put medicine on it. Also teased me again because I didn’t know Chinese medicine.”
“I’ve heard Chinese medicine is quite something, though I admit I don’t have any real experience with it.”
“Yes, well, Chinese hospitals utilize a combination of modern medicine of all disciplines. I’m afraid he’s using nothing but folk medicine, which isn’t the Eastern medicine he’s so proud of so much as medieval hocus pocus. When I tried to look at his wound, though, he called me a nice young man and said he’d make me some more soup if I went to see him again.”
Simon leaned in as surreptitiously as possible and got a whiff of the bag. “Is that what we’re eating today?”
“Yes. Taiwanese chicken soup, with rice on the side.” He opened the top and peered inside, his face lighting up. “Oh, that rascal. He added some Chinese pickled cucumbers. He’s trying to spoil me.”
“Who was it that made the delivery?”
“The owner of China Garden, Mr. Zhang. Though I think these are his wife’s pickles. He was bragging about them the last time I stopped by.” Hong-Wei cast Simon a guilty side glance. “I may have been making a few too many special orders to China Garden in the evenings. I miss my sister’s cooking.”
“I think you miss your sister.”
Simon wasn’t prepared for the flash of vulnerability on Hong-Wei’s face. Gone was the cool surgeon, the playful flirt—Hong-Wei looked ten years younger, frightened, lost, and alone.
Simon wanted to wrap him in his arms and tell him everything was all right.
Then the look was gone, and Hong-Wei smiled a jaded smile that could rival Owen’s. “Ah, come on. This soup’s best when it’s piping hot.”
The soup was excellent, and even without Simon’s foodgasms, the smells alone drove the rest of the room crazy with jealousy, everyone wanting to know where they’d found such great food. Hong-Wei explained what it was and how to order it at China Garden, warning them they needed to give Mr. Zhang plenty of notice and to be polite about those requests, since it was a special thing.
“Will it put him in a bind, so many people coming?” Simon asked when they were alone, on the way back to the clinic.
Hong-Wei laughed. “Are you kidding? He’s going to be over the moon if it brings him extra customers. Also, if enough people start ordering Taiwanese food, he’ll put it on the menu, and I won’t have to coax him into making it. I think you and I need to start eating in the cafeteria together with special orders to drum up even more business.”
It was still flirting, but it was light flirting, and… well, Simon didn’t think he minded. He couldn’t exactly complain when Hong-Wei wasn’t doing anything more than buying him lunch.
That, and touching his elbow.
It was subtle, and it didn’t happen often, but it occurred enough Simon had begun to anticipate it, almost hoping for it. If they were in the elevator together and Simon had his arms full of charts, Hong-Wei would cup Simon’s elbow and reach around him to press the button, meaning for the briefest of
seconds Hong-Wei’s whole body brushed against him, his face and subtle scent passing right before Simon’s face.
He was ashamed to admit he’d begun to make sure he went into elevators with his arms full in case Hong-Wei got on with him.
They did start eating in the cafeteria together, but they didn’t always order takeout, and when they went through the line, Hong-Wei sometimes reached around Simon to grab a bowl of vanilla pudding with a dab of whipped cream, his self-confessed weakness. He always seemed to need to pass by Simon to do it, and the elbow touch would happen then.
Simon began to feel fondly about vanilla pudding as well.
He received only a few rogue elbow touches, in the halls when a patient bed was coming by and Hong-Wei moved Simon out of the way, and another time when Simon was taking patient history and Hong-Wei had interrupted to let him know he intended to move into surgery faster based on some test results—there had been an elbow touch then, letting Simon know Hong-Wei wanted to see him in the hall.
He’d received nothing more than elbow touches, though. Hong-Wei hadn’t so much as looked at Simon’s mouth.
Which was good, yes? This was what he’d asked for. He’d specifically told Hong-Wei just this once. It needed to stay just the once too. There wasn’t a problem here at all.
No problem except every time Hong-Wei walked into a room, Simon’s heart skipped three beats.
Hong-Wei came over often for dinner or went out with them to eat, but it was never Simon and Hong-Wei alone. Sometimes they ate at the house, Hong-Wei, Owen, or Jared cooking, or sometimes they went out or brought takeout to the hospital. Simon couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten so well. Every night was a cook-off—lasagna, steaks, burgers, soups, pasta dishes—until he was beginning to fear his scrubs would be tight.
One night when Owen declared it was time for a cooking rematch, him and Hong-Wei head-to-head, Hong-Wei pleaded for a stay and asked if they could go to China Garden instead. “I haven’t been able to go in person, and Mr. Zhang hasn’t been making deliveries.”
The Doctor's Secret (Copper Point Medical Book 1) Page 10