Thatch in scrubs?
Holy Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. It wasn’t fair.
Blue scrubs shouldn’t be sexy.
And they sure as hell shouldn’t fit him the way they did, making his biceps somehow look bigger, or his face that much more sculpted.
He glanced up and smiled. “Hey, you ready for your first surgery?”
My body cheered while my brain told all my lady parts to calm the heck down. That smile wasn’t for us.
Not by a long shot.
Professional. Be professional.
Passing the class.
That’s all that mattered.
“Sure!” I chirped in a cheerleader-like fashion. Oh man. I was so dead when it came to this guy. “Do I need to change?” I tugged at my blouse.
He nodded and walked around his desk, pointing to a chair. “Those should fit. I’ll wait outside.”
For some reason, that deflated me.
The fact that he was going to wait outside and not watch my striptease. I inwardly groaned. We weren’t dating! What did I expect!
Besides! This was his workplace, after all!
I quickly went to work taking off all my clothes and said a prayer of thanks when I noticed a pair of Nike tennis shoes in my size. They looked new, so I wasn’t sure if he had someone grab me a pair so I wouldn’t have to wear my heels with scrubs, or if he just kept women’s shoes size nine lying around.
Well, that was a depressing thought.
I pulled my hair back into a low bun and opened the door to announce I was ready.
Thatch started at my feet and slowly raked his eyes up my body, stopping at my hair. “We match.”
“Man buns for the win?” I teased.
His lips twitched. “I think I pull it off better.”
Damn right he did. Bastard. “Just admit they’re extensions already.”
“Hah.” His gleaming white smile was almost too much, as in, I almost stumbled against his rock-hard body and had a near heart attack. “Let’s go.”
His pace was fast, I tried to keep up as we weaved through the office and then took the elevator up one level.
My heart was hammering inside my chest so hard, I felt like I was going to puke. Why was I nervous? It wasn’t like I had to perform the surgery!
“This way.” He marched through the halls like he owned them. People stared, they whispered, and it was like he didn’t notice how freaking hot it was when he took charge.
He stopped and typed in a passcode, and a glass door made a whooshing sound as it unlocked.
“You’re not touching anyone or anything, but if you want the full experience, you can wash up,” he said as he started lathering his hands, suds going clear to his elbows as he washed and washed and washed.
“I think you’re clean,” I pointed out when it had been at least two minutes.
With a laugh, he started rinsing off just as Nancy walked in, a mask covering her mouth. “Ready?”
“Of course.” His answer seemed so easy and carefree. Meanwhile, I was freaking out—still freaking out.
She held open gloves for him, helped him into his surgical attire or whatever the heck they called the thing she just put over his clothes and his feet.
It was like watching a live version of The Night Shift.
Only this wasn’t emergency surgery.
Elective—it was elective.
And yet, he still had to take these kinds of precautions.
I could feel my adrenaline spike when Nancy walked over to me, covered my mouth and nose with a mask, handed me a scrub cap, and basically shoved me in the right direction with a pat on the back.
The operating room was really bright; that was the first thing I noticed. And the second?
There was a team of at least four people.
Not including the patient who was looking up at Thatch with complete adoration.
A pang of jealousy sliced through me as I waited in the spot I’d claimed by the wall.
“How are you feeling?” Thatch asked in a soothing yet commanding voice.
“Oh, I’m just ready,” she said with tears in her eyes. “Very ready for this. Have been for a long time.”
I held my snort in.
Why was she so emotional over breast implants?
A guy—I’m assuming the anesthesiologist—inserted something in her IV, and then Thatch asked her what her weekend plans were, like he wasn’t pulling down her sheet and getting ready to cut her up.
There were Sharpie marks on her body, and a section of her skin was a bright orange.
“Oh, I plan on watching some Netflix and . . .” Her speech slurred and her eyes closed.
“Austin.” Thatch said my name loudly. “You can get closer. She’s sedated, and you know I don’t bite.”
Hah, false, he did bite.
And often.
Typically my neck.
And sometimes the inside of my right thigh.
I shivered.
And then I took a step forward, and another, until I was close enough to see both of her exposed breasts, or what should have been breasts.
I saw scars.
And a flat chest.
I couldn’t help my gasp as the room stilled around me. Before I knew what was happening, a tear slipped down my cheek and then another followed.
I was a complete bitch.
That was all there was to it.
Because while I’d been on my high horse, judging anyone and everyone who had walked into Thatch’s office to fix their imperfections, it had never occurred to me—that he would be giving implants to a breast-cancer survivor.
“Scalpel.” Thatch leaned over her and made an incision near her armpit. The incision seemed a little too small to stuff the implant into. There was a lot of blood, and then he shoved it in and I nearly puked.
Her chest inflated—and even with the blood and weird colors, I could tell it was going to look amazing.
He moved the implant with his fingers, then leaned down, measuring, watching, waiting. Everyone was silent.
He repeated the process for the right breast, and when Dr. Perfectionist was finished, he sewed her up with angry black stitches that I assumed would dissolve over time.
I was assuming a lot.
But I was afraid to ask questions.
Because the whole situation felt—oddly holy.
Like he’d just done more than give her breasts—like he’d just given her back her femininity.
Tears welled in my eyes for a second time as Nancy and another nurse rolled the bed out of the OR.
When Thatch turned around, his eyes narrowed. “Austin? Are you sick? What’s wrong?” He tugged off his apron thing and gloves, then his mask. “Austin?”
I shook my head. “I need to go.”
“But—”
“I’ll see you later. I just . . .”
I didn’t finish.
I had to get out of there.
I had to find my hate for that man somewhere.
And it wasn’t going to be in an OR where he gave women something precious back.
And it wouldn’t be where I watched his magical hands perform a surgery that he could most likely do in his sleep.
“Austin.” His voice had me paralyzed. I froze, but didn’t turn around. “You owe me a bike ride, remember? I’m supposed to ride with your dad and one of my partners on Friday morning.”
“Tell them you’re sick.”
“Austin.”