The implication that Elizabeth and Nico had marital troubles rankled and I felt the need to jump to her defense.
“Yes, well, even with talent and a hot bod,” I said coolly. “It takes a lot of hard work to earn his level of success. And that just means I get the pleasure of being Elizabeth’s arm candy for the night.”
I glanced down at Elizabeth and she gave me an approving smile, so I gave her a wink. The asshole, however, assessed me for a moment with a blank expression and pale blue eyes.
“So, are you her new bodyguard or something?” he asked, and Elizabeth huffed.
The idea that I was her security detail was pretty funny, given that my body mass was well below the average guard’s, but aside from that, I still thought it was a strange question. She did have a security escort tonight, but he was most likely patrolling the perimeter of the banquet hall. He wouldn’t be mingling in the party with her.
“Dr. Ken Miles,” she began, making an obviously begrudging introduction. “This is my friend, Steven Thompson.” She swept an arm down along my torso as if presenting a prize on a game show. “Steven, this is Dr. Ken Miles.” To him, she simply issued a slight flick of her finger.
Still expressionless, and with his free hand, the doctor reached out for a firm-but-sweaty handshake.
“Be careful with this one,” he said to me, releasing my hand. “Could be dangerous and I didn’t think to bring a six-shooter with me.”
Elizabeth tsked in disgust as he dropped his mask and issued her a triumphant smirk. “Enjoy the party.”
The bizarre exchange seemed to have ended with some victory for the man—one I clearly didn’t understand—but as he walked away, I saw him smooth his hair and straighten his (already straight) tie in a nervous gesture. I knew the exchange had made him uncomfortable.
Not long after he left us, he was forced to circle back, as it was announced that dinner was being served, and the seating arrangement put him directly across from us at the large table.
Throughout dinner, Elizabeth and I chatted between bites and I kept one eye on the young doctor. He ate his meal with a bored, vacant expression, only altering it when someone spoke to him or he clandestinely checked his watch. For a brief moment, his lip would curl, and his nostril would flare as he discovered how excruciatingly slow time was progressing. Same, bro. Same. If he would have bothered to glance in my direction, I would have given him a comical look that conveyed an understanding and kinship in our shared boredom. But he didn’t look across at us. Not once. His avoidance of us—or Elizabeth—seemed pointed and deliberate.
His avoidance was perfectly fine with me, as it freed me up to watch him as closely as I wanted to. Considering how dull the party was, and how fascinating he was, it made the time pass pleasantly.
And now, I found myself curious. Dismissing Elizabeth’s reassurances and talk of pop music, I broached the topic of the intriguing and strange DKM. “Never mind that,” I waved my hand impatiently. “I’m watching your buddy over there. And I think there’s something off about him.”
She snorted. “Ya think? He’s an ass, that’s what he is. I knew he’d make some crack about Nico. He never misses an opportunity.”
“Oh, he’s an ass, no doubt about that,” I agreed. “But what I want to know is, what’s all that weird six-shooter talk about?”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows lifted. “He’s Dr. Ken Miles.” The emphasis clearly indicated that I was supposed to get her meaning, but I didn’t.
“Yeeeaahh, that part was clear,” I tilted my head and gave her my squinty-eye scrutiny. “But what does it mean?”
“You know how before you and I met, Nico’s stalker attacked me in the hosp—”
“He shot Fancy Nancy!” I gasped.
“Fancy Stalker,” she corrected. “That’s how I refer to her, but, yeah, he did.”
“And the plot thickens,” I murmured. I’d heard the story in bits and pieces over the years and knew the doctor who had interrupted and ultimately stopped an attack on Elizabeth by a crazed, jealous fan of Nico’s, was the same guy who had been making a play for her when Nico was.
It all made so much sense to me. The snide comments about Nico, the jibe about guards and guns. He was the hero of the scenario and still came out the loser. Poor, Corn-Fed Hottie.
“I guess I can’t blame the guy for being bitter about getting dumped by an amazing woman for the Hotshot Italian Stallion,” I reasoned.
She gave a half-hearted chuckle but was quick to correct me. “We never dated. We talked about it, made plans to…meet up,” her blue eyes darted away from mine for a moment before returning. She smiled widely as she continued, “But Nico happened. Nico obliterated everything. My fears, my plans. I couldn’t date Ken when Nico was taking over my heart and mind.”
“Oh, aren’t you just disgustingly cute?” I teased. “But really, back to DKM. Is it stress-related, do you think?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look.” Using the hand holding my wine glass, I extended my finger in what I hoped was a subtle point in the doctor’s vicinity. He was standing next to a wall, underneath a sconce that shone down and made a golden halo around his already light curls. The effect was startling, and like a flame seducing a moth, his visage had lured in a pretty brunette.
“Okay, I’m looking,” Elizabeth replied, unimpressed. “He’s talking to someone who I think works in administrations at Chicago General. I don’t know her name.”
“He is trying so hard to be Mr. Suave—excuse me—Dr. Suave,” I quipped. Elizabeth was not arrogant in the least about her degrees, but I still liked to tease. “He looks like he’s trying on poses for a modeling shoot.”
“He does,” she agreed, as we watched him first lean one forearm at shoulder-level on the paneling of the wall, then quickly straighten to push one side of his coat back to slide a hand in his pocket, then decide abruptly to cross his arms over his chest. He lifted one hand to scrub his jaw while he nodded at something the woman said, then he smoothed his hair.
To anyone else, he probably looked like he was trying to maneuver himself into the most flattering position for this attractive woman he was talking to. But I saw agitation. Discomfort.
The woman said something to him that made him break out his megawatt smile. When she walked away, he watched her for a moment, then let his smile slip.
What happened next, shocked me. It shocked me and confirmed my suspicion that he was one odd duck.
DKM started to turn his body in toward the wall, obscuring his front from my view.
But he wasn’t quick enough, because I saw. I saw what he did.
Slowly, I turned to Elizabeth, a gleeful horror radiating through me. “Did I just see that? Did he really just do that?”
“Yes, you did,” she answered flatly. “Yes, he did. Dr. Ken Miles is a nose-miner.”
Chapter Two
*DKM*
It was him.
Steven Thompson.
Why did he have to be in this cafe, this morning? Weren’t there a thousand coffee places in Chicago? How was it that the night after meeting him, he was sitting in my regular Sunday stop?
I started and ended my Sunday lakefront runs at East Randolph and always popped into Buzzy Bean afterward. I’d never seen him before, and I was positive about that because I would have certainly noticed him. As it was, I recognized him immediately when I stepped inside.
It was the glasses. His horn-rimmed, hipster glasses were designed to be eye-catching.
And caught my eye, they had. They suited his face, highlighting his hawkish nose and intense gray eyes.
The night before, those eyes had made me very uneasy.
I debated for a moment before joining the line to place my order. I needed my caffeine fix, and a quick assessment of him told me I could probably get in and out without being noticed. He was sitting at a two-seater across the room, his face in profile. On the tabletop sat a tall-sized beverage, a large muffin—really, these portion
sizes were out of control—and a messenger bag. He wasn’t eating or drinking anything, but instead, scrolling on his phone, not looking up. Not once. It irritated me.
The fact that it irritated me, irritated me. I wanted to get my coffee in peace, didn’t I? To not be dissected by his intense gaze? I didn’t need his scrutiny.
He had made Botstein’s party a strange experience. It was already going to be awkward and uncomfortable, with so few familiar faces, plus, I had been exhausted. We’d been short-staffed with both an intensivist and a nocturnist on vacation and I’d been working long shifts up until yesterday. I wanted to skip out of the party, but as one of Dr. Botstein’s former Chief Residents, I felt it was only right to attend his retirement bash. He’d been my research mentor, and if it hadn’t been for his encouragement and tutelage, I doubted I’d be in the same position I was in now at BKC Memorial. I owed him a lot, so I downed some coffee, donned a suit, and put in an appearance.
When I spied Elizabeth, my first reaction was to be happy our residency group had been invited. But as I made my way toward her, I couldn’t see anyone else. A cursory inspection told me we were the only ones.
That struck me as strange. I understood inviting me, but Elizabeth? I guessed Botstein (or his wife) was hoping to get Nico Moretti to attend.
Ugh, Nico.
A flash of irritation hit me at the thought of seeing the man, but the feeling had been quickly replaced with petty triumph when I saw her companion was not her husband.
Mr. Thompson had been with her instead. He was bold with his gaze and his words, sticking up for Elizabeth when I picked on her. In my defense, she made a terrible mistake when she married Nico and I wasn’t above an I-told-you-so. Even though his interference was annoying, I respected his loyalty.
But he just wouldn’t stop eyeballing me. From the moment we made eye contact, to the moment they left, I felt his eyes on me—and not in a sexy, appreciative way, either. I knew those looks, I got them all the time, and I wouldn’t have minded if he’d sent me a few. But, no, his were probing and assessing and knowing.
It made me nervous and pissed me off.
The more I thought about it, the more I was sure Elizabeth had brought him with her for the express purpose of annoying me. It was just like her to have such an off-putting friend.
As I paid for my iced coffee, I considered saying something to Mr. Thompson. Our previous interaction left me at a disadvantage, and the competitive side of me always wanted the upper hand. I knew it probably wasn’t a good thing, but I didn’t care to do any introspective digging.
What I could do was walk up to Mr. X-Ray Eyes and compliment him on something. Put him in a position to be polite. Show him I wasn’t bothered by his intimidation tactics last night.
Whatever I did, I needed to do it soon. I couldn’t stand around the shop staring at him and his stupid, big muffin all day.
I squared my shoulders, set my expression into one of practiced coolness, and walked over to his table. He didn’t notice my approach until I was standing next to him.
He glanced up, then set his phone on his bag. “Well, well, Dr. Ken Miles,” he said, smiling broadly. His eyes gave me a sweeping once-over and he sat up straighter in his seat.
“I like this rumpled, sweaty look you have going on.” He gestured briefly to my running shorts and T-shirt. “It suits you.”
Damn him. He sounded sincere. I was supposed to be the one saying nice things, disarming him. I struggled to find the right words. Your glasses are sexy. What? No, Jesus, I needed to think quickly. I like the way your shirt matches your eyes. Creepy…something not creepy.
My window for an appropriate duration of silence was shrinking fast, and I was on the verge of losing this match without having said one thing, so I blurted loudly and with unintended derision, “Nice messenger bag.”
There was a beat of silence in which Steven arched one blond eyebrow over the rim of his glasses. His smile didn’t dim. If anything, it grew broader.
“Your tone confuses me, but the words were phrased as a compliment, so I’ll take it as such and say, thank you, it is a nice messenger bag.”
“I-it was,” I stuttered. “Meant as a compliment, I mean. Excuse me if I was terse.” I gave myself a head tilt to crack my neck. I felt the need for movement, but what I really needed was to turn the conversation around. I forced myself to relax and issued him what I hoped was a charming grin.
He pocketed his phone, grabbed his bag, and hung it on the back of his chair. “Well, in that case, please have a seat and tell me more.” He pointed to the chair across from him. “I love compliments. More so if they’re spoken as insults. Maybe if I get to know you better, I’ll let you verbally abuse me in a pretty sing-song voice. It will be psychologically thrilling and completely unhealthy. I’ll love it.”
His statement shocked a laugh out of me. Uncharacteristically, and probably because Steven’s comment struck me as so funny, I started to sing low as I sat in the chair. “You’re a weird, little freak of a man, Mister Thoooomp-son.”
I could feel a slight heat rise to my cheeks as I did it, but Steven didn’t make fun of me. Instead, he said, “Hold up there, DKM, we need to be in a very special place in our relationship before you start with the head games.”
The heat in my cheeks intensified as the implication of us in a relationship planted itself in my mind. It unnerved me because Steven, with his messy hair, lanky build, and prominent proboscis, was just the type of guy I went for. Except, ideally, he wouldn’t be looking at me like I was an oddity or a specimen under a microscope.
Steering the conversation away from relationships, I asked, “DKM?”
Smile still in place, he nodded.
“Dr. Elizabeth Finney’s influence, I presume?”
“Oh, no,” he chided with a strange wobble-shake of his head. “Give it up, it will never catch on. You can’t out-Finney Finney.”
Elizabeth always called me “Dr. Ken Miles.” Never “Dr. Miles” or “Ken.” At one time it rankled because I knew it was her way of keeping me at arm’s length. Now, it just seemed oddly petty, like she was going out of her way to take me down a peg. Steven obviously didn’t think my attempt at turnabout was working.
I sighed. “Well, if you’re going to call me that, I should get to call you MST.”
“M?” Steven furrowed his brow and adjusted his glasses with the knuckle of one finger. I liked it.
“For Mister,” I clarified.
“Yes, of course. Hmm, it’s okay.” Steven took a sip of his coffee and then made a show of pondering the nickname. He tilted his head to the side, squinted, and tapped his lips with a forefinger. “If you tack on 3K to that, I’ll approve. But it will have to be a private, pet name.”
“MST3K? What does that mean?” I asked, genuinely confused. I was also—again—hung up on the suggestiveness of his comment. A private, pet name? I was beginning to suspect he was making these comments to rattle me. I’d felt from the start that he knew me, knew every thought, flaw, and vulnerability I had.
“Gasp.” He said this with an odd lack of inflection but wore a comically horrified expression. “I knew it. You were raised on corn, football, and textbooks, weren’t you?” His assessment wasn’t far off, and it set me on edge again. I wanted to fidget, but instead, I smoothed my hair.
“An adolescence without Mystery Science Theater 3000,” he continued, “is a joyless one.” He bit his bottom lip in a way that I supposed was to convey pity, but the truth was, it only served to draw attention to his mouth. Hot.
“I’m afraid I missed it. Was it a cartoon or something?”
“It was—or is, I guess, since they have a reboot now—a television show with poor production value, robots, and horrible B movies narrated by a funny and sarcastic cast, who were being held hostage in space by a mad scientist.”
Oh, man, he was a nerd.
A Hot. Nerd.
I didn’t have a ready response, so I was honest. “Sounds like a coloss
al waste of time.”
“I suppose it is if you don’t much value entertainment and humor.” He said this with a friendly and calm tone, but his gray eyes caught mine with an intensity that contradicted his careless persona. I broke the contact and took a long pull from my straw.
“I didn’t mean to rain on your nerd parade.” The slight reproof I detected bothered me, so I said the word ‘nerd’ as if it were completely repugnant. As if a nerdy man wasn’t my personal, potent Spanish Fly.
“My parade’s impervious to your rain.” He waved off my words. “But seriously, check it out. You might actually enjoy it.”
“Even if I did have a desire to sit around watching old TV, I really don’t have the time.”
“Ah, yes. Elizabeth mentioned you were running an ICU or something.”
I cleared my throat and briefly met his eyes. “In rotation, yes. I do switches between the ICU and inpatient and outpatient pulmonology.” I shrugged. “It’s what I trained to do,” I said modestly.
Normally, I wasn’t modest about my position. I took a lot of pride in my job and the work I had to do to get there. I’d finished my fellowships and was an intensivist double boarded in critical care and pulmonology. I found my niche in the ICU and was suited to it.
But I didn’t want to come off boastful or cocky to Steven. Clearly, Elizabeth had been talking about me and I didn’t want to sink to whatever low opinion she’d given him. I knew the residents under me had never appreciated the standard of excellence I’d required of them. I’d been seen as a hard-ass or Botstein’s sycophant, but neither of those things were true. I just wanted everyone to do their best. We had immense responsibility, needed to be cognizant of that fact, and act accordingly. Elizabeth and I had not only disagreed about behavior on shift, but we also had a near-brush with romance. So, I didn’t hold out hope that Steven heard much that was positive about me.
Imagining all manner of skewed embellishments, I became increasingly agitated. I placed an elbow on the table and propped my chin in one hand, letting my fingers graze the tip of my nose. I hoped the move looked casual. I wanted to fidget. I wanted to leave.
Sticking to the Script: Cipher Office Book #2 Page 2