by Radclyffe
But she still wanted to kiss her.
“Fuck,” Pearce muttered, crushing out the cigarette beneath her foot. The wind lashed her shirt around her body as if it were a windsock, plastering it to her chest. Her nipples tensed in the cold beneath the thin cotton. The sensation was too close to sexual, the memory of wanting to feel Wynter’s mouth beneath hers still vivid, and she hummed with another swell of desire. Perfect. I come up here to settle down, and all I do is make it worse than ever. I should’ve spent the time in my on-call room taking the edge off.
She wished for another cigarette, but Phil would rag on her if she asked for one.
“I just need to keep my distance until I can find a woman to spend some time with.”
Armed with a plan, she headed back to work. That was her panacea—loneliness, arousal, anger—she could lose it all in work.
*
Wynter noted with satisfaction that she was the first to reach the cafeteria. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly why it mattered to her that Pearce was not there first, but it did. She was used to feeling competitive with her fellow residents; it was part of the world she had chosen to inhabit. From the time she had been in high school, she’d understood that if medicine was to be her choice, she would have to be the best at everything she did. Even though the field was not as competitive as it had once been, medical school slots were still at a premium, and once she’d decided on surgery, the field had narrowed even more. There were often hundreds of applicants for a handful of residency positions in the most sought-after programs. It was only because they depended upon one another for mutual survival, banding together against the pressure of long hours and constant stress, that the competition between residents usually remained friendly as opposed to cutthroat. There were exceptions, but she had never had any desire to win at the cost of others. Hers were personal goals. She wanted to be the best, because this was what she had chosen to do with her life and anything less was not acceptable.
She grabbed a cup of coffee and staked out one of the larger tables for their team. As she ran her list again, checking to see that she hadn’t overlooked anything during her walk-through, she thought back to the case she had just done with Pearce. It wasn’t the most difficult case she’d ever done, or all that unusual. It always felt good to operate—a personal challenge, a problem to solve, a wrong to set right with her own hands. But operating with Pearce had added something special, something she hadn’t experienced before. They’d accomplished something together, a mutual victory, and the sharing was…satisfying. She frowned. Satisfying. That wasn’t quite right. Exciting? Yes, it seemed so, but that didn’t make much sense. She leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to figure out what it was about Pearce that confused her so much.
“Hey,” Bruce said, pulling out a chair and dropping into it with a sigh. “What’s up?”
“Not much,” Wynter said. “We took Mrs. Gilbert back this afternoon. She dehisced.”
“No shit. Wow.” He made a note on his list of the new OR date. “Did it go okay?”
“Not a hitch.”
“I wish I could’ve been there,” he grumbled. “I spent the afternoon holding hooks on that colon.”
Wynter suppressed a smile. There was nothing worse for an eager young resident than to be stuck in surgery holding retractors while someone else had all the fun. However, it was a rite of passage, and the junior residents had to first learn to assist on surgeries before they won the right to do the operations themselves. It was a process that took years, not months. “It sucks, I know.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Tell you about what?” Pearce asked as she settled down across from Wynter. “Problem?”
“Nope,” Bruce said quickly. He wasn’t going to complain to his chief about anything, especially not when the attending surgeon for whom he’d been holding back the abdominal wall all afternoon had been her father. “Everything’s cool.”
“Where’s Liu?” Pearce felt Wynter’s eyes on her, but she kept her gaze on Bruce. She didn’t need to look at Wynter to remember the shape of her face or the color of her eyes or the way she tilted her head and looked out from beneath those long honeyed lashes when something amused her. She didn’t need to look at her to feel that tug deep in her belly. Man, I am not looking forward to spending the next six hours or so with her. She put her mind to the job, hoping to block out Wynter’s effect on her. “Page Liu and tell him he’s late. If he’s not here in five minutes, I’m leaving, and we’ll have sign-out rounds in an hour.”
Bruce bounded up and practically ran across the room to the wall phone.
“Works every time,” Wynter murmured. There was nothing worse than spending an extra hour in the hospital when you didn’t have to. The most effective way to make sure that residents showed up where they were supposed to when they were supposed to was to punish tardiness by making them wait longer to go home. Unfortunately, the entire team suffered if one member was late, so peer pressure was relentless.
Pearce couldn’t help but grin. “Well, I’m not going anywhere tonight. If they wanna hang around, it’s fine with me.”
Wynter nodded her head toward the far side of the cafeteria. “Here he comes.”
Liu looked as if he might hurdle the chairs in his path in his haste to reach them. He slid the last few yards and crashed into a chair. “Sorry. Sorry.”
“Six thirty means six thirty,” Pearce said flatly.
“I know. I know. I was trying to get that culture report on Hastings, but…” He caught himself as he saw Pearce’s eyes narrow. “Won’t happen again.”
Pearce didn’t bother to respond, but focused on Bruce. Never a particularly fit-looking guy, he’d gained a good twenty-five pounds in the last six months. It wasn’t uncommon for residents who were deprived of just about every pleasure in life to turn to food, which was always available, as a source of comfort. She controlled her own weight by jogging every morning and lifting several times a week at the university gym. “Let’s start at the top.”
Bruce pushed up his wire-rimmed glasses and said, “1213. Constantine. Fem-pop bypass…”
Evening rounds took longer than morning report, because all the critical leftover work of the day needed to be discussed and eventually taken care of by the person on call. Even though Liu would also be on call, Pearce, in addition to covering the ICU and the ER for their service, would need to see that everything got done before morning. Everyone made notes. When the last patient had been covered, she put down her pen.
“Okay. Bruce, you’re done. Dries at five thirty.”
“See ya,” Bruce said and within seconds, was gone.
Liu rose and said, “I’m gonna grab something to eat while it’s quiet. You want anything?”
Pearce raised an eyebrow in Wynter’s direction. Wynter shook her head.
“No, thanks,” Pearce said. “I’ll check in with you about eleven. Call me if you need me, but remember…To call—”
“Is a sign of weakness,” Liu replied, grinning. It was the first thing she’d said to him his first day on the service. It was the first thing that every senior resident said to a first-year resident the first day on any surgical service. It was the great paradox of surgery. Responsibility warred with autonomy, and the need to stand alone in the midst of uncertainty underlay every action.
When he left, Pearce looked across the table at Wynter. “You should probably eat. Things could get busy.”
“What about you?”
“I was thinking about street dogs.”
Wynter gave her a hard stare. “I don’t know you well enough to know if you’re kidding, but I’m not going to stand by and watch you take your life in your hands twice in one day. Let’s go next door to Children’s and get McDonald’s.”
Children’s Hospital was part of the university system and had a self-contained McDonald’s on the ground floor. It was always busy, twenty-four hours a day. Against her better judgment, Pearce countered, “What do you say
to dinner at the Penn Tower restaurant?”
“It’s my first day. I don’t want to stretch the rules quite that far,” Wynter said quietly.
“You’re not on call, I am.”
Wynter regarded her steadily, annoyed that she couldn’t decipher anything in Pearce’s expression. She’d seen those dark eyes hot with desire once, and the answering surge of longing Pearce’s gaze had stirred within her had surprised and disconcerted her. She’d written her response off as momentary insanity and chaotic hormones, but now she found the inscrutable coolness even more unsettling. She didn’t like that Pearce could shut her out so completely. Her voice betrayed her irritation. “I’m not sure I want to help you break the rules either.”
“My father is the chief of surgery. Do you think anyone is going to complain if I walk across the street for dinner?”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you’d take advantage of your father’s position for one minute.” Wynter leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table, fixing Pearce with a blistering glare. “In fact, I bet you push the envelope just because your father is the chief of surgery, and you don’t want anyone to think you’re getting special treatment.”
Pearce laughed. “And you base this all on what?”
The sadness in your eyes that you think no one sees. Wynter said nothing, because she had a feeling that Pearce Rifkin did not want anyone to see her vulnerability. And she didn’t want to threaten her. More importantly, she didn’t want to risk hurting her by bringing up her father. She shrugged. “It’s your ass, not mine, if we’re in the middle of fettuccine Alfredo and someone calls a code in the SICU.”
“Did I mention to you that I ran track in high school?”
“You’ve never mentioned anything about high school.” Wynter couldn’t prevent her smile. She could see Pearce’s long legs stretching out in an easy gait as she circled the track or loped over a rolling cross-country course. With her muscular upper body, she didn’t look like a typical runner, though. “You’re pretty built up for track, aren’t you?”
“I switched to crew in college.”
“So now you’re slower.”
“You like to push, don’t you?” Pearce said with a hint of challenge in her voice. “You wanna come running with me some morning?”
“Any time. I’ve done some running myself.” Wynter didn’t feel like mentioning it had been four years since she’d done any serious running, and she wondered if she’d be able to keep up. She wasn’t going to show her doubts, though.
“I’ll give you a couple of days to get settled in, and then we’ll see who can still run.” Pearce stood, forgetting her earlier vow to keep her distance. Being around Wynter felt too good to be cautious. Besides, there was nothing wrong with being friendly. “Come on. Let me take you to dinner.”
Laughing, Wynter nodded. Pearce was impossible to say no to. “All right, but it’s Dutch treat.”
“We’ll do it your way,” Pearce said. “This time.”
Chapter Eight
“Should we change?” Wynter asked as she and Pearce left the cafeteria.
“We don’t have to. They’re used to seeing people in scrubs across the street,” Pearce said. “Do you have a blazer or something? That should be good enough.”
“I’ve got something in my locker.”
“Let’s grab it, then. I’m starving.”
Two minutes later, Pearce nodded in silent approval as Wynter pulled on an ocean blue cable knit sweater that was a few shades lighter than her eyes. The sweep of her red-gold hair against the soft blue wool reminded her of a flaming sunset over crystal Caribbean waters. She had an image of Wynter on the beach, small drops of sweat beaded on her skin. She could taste the salt.
“That’s perfect.”
Wynter gave her a quizzical look, then regarded her favorite, but hardly new, sweater. It wasn’t her usual dinner attire, but the compliment pleased her, as did the appreciative expression in Pearce’s eyes. Slightly disconcerted by that fact, she said, “What about you?”
“Oh,” Pearce said, remembering why they had stopped by the locker room. She dragged her eyes away from Wynter, pulled out her baggy, faded navy and maroon Penn sweatshirt, and shrugged into it. “All set.”
The shapeless garment did little to hide her physique and reminded Wynter of the way she’d looked the day they’d met. She said without thinking, “That’s pretty perfect too.”
Pearce blushed. “Come on, before we get paged for something.”
They were both quiet as they hurried outside. As if sensing freedom, they dashed across the street in front of the hospital’s main entrance and into the lobby of the hotel. The restaurant was in the rear, and as they crossed the plush carpeted expanse of lobby toward it, the hostess stepped forward from behind her small dais and gave Pearce a welcoming smile.
“Dr. Rifkin,” the blond breathed. “How nice to see you. It’s been far too long.”
“Hi, Talia,” Pearce replied. “Can you put us in the corner by the windows for dinner?”
The hostess glanced briefly at Wynter, then seemed to dismiss her. Wynter found the Elle Macpherson look-alike’s expression verging on avaricious as her gaze roamed unabashedly over Pearce, and for an instant, Wynter contemplated stepping directly into her line of vision. She was startled by her reaction. She’d seen women look at her husband that way on more than one occasion, and their interest had never bothered her. Irrationally, she found this woman’s attention—to another woman, no less—supremely irritating. She held out her hand, diverting the hostess from Pearce. “Hello. I’m Dr. Wynter Thompson.”
With a courteous but cool smile, Talia turned toward the dining room. “Very pleased to meet you. Let me show you to your table.”
“Come here often?” Wynter said when they were alone.
“Every once in a while,” Pearce replied noncommittally, glad to have escaped Talia’s scrutiny before Wynter noticed the unwanted attention. She should have realized Talia would not be pleased to see her with another woman, even if it was just for an innocent dinner. She set the menu aside; she knew it by heart. “If you’re not a vegetarian, the steak is great. If you are, they really do make a great fettuccine Alfredo.”
Wynter laughed. “I’m not a vegetarian, but the pasta sounds good. I’ll have it.”
“I’ll stick to Coke because I’m on call, but you’re not. Feel free to try the wine. Their house label isn’t bad.”
“Coke will be fine for me too.” Once they had ordered, Wynter leaned back and regarded Pearce thoughtfully. “You don’t mind being a resident, do you?”
“I’ll be a lot happier in two years when I can call my own shots,” Pearce answered. “But I knew what I was getting into, so, no, I don’t mind. Why do you ask?”
“Because you don’t seem angry. Most…well maybe not most, but many residents at our stage hate the work, or at least hate being on call.” She looked around the restaurant, which was upscale for a hotel, probably because of the proximity to the hospital and the fact that many VIP patients’ families stayed there. “Take this place. for example. You’re on call, but you’re about to have a very nice dinner, and it appears that’s not unusual. You don’t seem to let being a resident cramp your style.”
Pearce grinned. “Why suffer when you can be comfortable?”
Wynter laughed. “I agree.”
“What about you? Being a resident for you must be a little bit harder.”
“Why?” Wynter asked, feeling the slightest bit uneasy.
“Well,” Pearce shrugged. “Being married.”
There. Finally. Wynter felt an unexpected surge of relief. “I’m divorced.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.” Wynter had no idea why it should be important to her that Pearce know this about her, but it was.
“That helps, then.” As if realizing what she’d just said, Pearce gave Wynter a wry smile. “Sorry. I just meant—”
“No need to apologize. I happen to agree w
ith you. It makes quite a few things simpler.”
“So I don’t need to offer my sympathies?”
“I won’t pretend it’s been fun, but no condolences required.”
“Is that why you’re back a year?” When Wynter looked away, Pearce said hastily, “Sorry. None of my bus—”
“No, that’s okay,” Wynter said with a wan smile. “It’s complicated, but that’s part of the reason, yes.”
“Well, you landed in a good place. Too bad about the extra time, though.”
“Thanks,” Wynter replied. “It hurts to lose a year, but all things considered…” She held Pearce’s gaze. “I’m happy to be here.”
“Good,” Pearce said, feeling suddenly euphoric. She wished she weren’t on call and could order a bottle of good red Bordeaux to celebrate. Celebrate what? So she’s divorced. It doesn’t change anything. But it didn’t matter, it just felt good.
“What?” Wynter asked.
“What what?”
Wynter shook her head. “We’re having the most bizarre conversation. You just looked…happy, all of a sudden.”
“No reason.” Fortunately, the waiter approached with their meal at that moment, saving Pearce from any further explanation. “Let’s eat while we have the chance.”
“Ah yes, another important surgical dictum,” Wynter said, forking up a few strands of fettuccine. “See a chair, sit in it. See a bed, lie in it. See food…eat it.”
Cutting into her steak with gusto, Pearce said, “And truer words were never spoken.”
“God,” Wynter said with a moan, “this is great.”
“Yeah, it is.” And Pearce didn’t mean the food.
“So,” Wynter said when she slowed down enough for air and conversation, “how many sibs do you have?”
Pearce poised with her fork in midair. “None. What made you think I did?”
From the carefully neutral tone in Pearce’s voice, Wynter knew immediately that she’d once again trespassed on forbidden territory with what she had thought was an innocent question. “I didn’t, not really. I guess I just assumed…”