Surgeons, Rivals...Lovers. Amalie Berlin
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he’d just pick up on how to be professional and not sneaky with a colleague.
Focus on the OR, not on who lurked above it.
“Yes, Dr. Ootaka. I would like to give him some packed red now.”
“Better. In my operating room, do not couch your concern for the patient in question. You’re a surgeon. Asking questions you know the answer to makes you sound uneducated. Save your questions for when you really don’t know the answer.”
Right. She could do that. Most of the surgeons she’d worked with preferred deference, but maybe that was their way of keeping a hierarchy in place. Ootaka’s air and reputation did that well enough—maybe he had no need to force protocol through some etiquette dance.
“Yes, Doctor. I’ll remember that.” While she usually handled change well, not knowing how she was to behave wasn’t one of those changes she could just float with. If she wasn’t supposed to ask questions, did that mean she should just do what she thought was best? Mr. Elliot was Ootaka’s patient now, not hers.
He did glance up long enough to look her in the eye. “Yes?”
“Does that mean for me to go ahead with what I think is the right decision, or—”
“No. Announce first with clear intentions and reasons. Always reasons.” He’d started to sound a little annoyed, so she was happy when he immediately switched back to the subject. “Why packed red cells?”
As far as reprimands went, it wasn’t much of one, but all corrections made her cheeks burn. Luckily, the surgical mask kept anyone from noticing, even if the inside of her mask was getting a bit stuffy.
Before moving to carry out the task of replenishing the man’s blood, she answered Ootaka. Minimize chance of rejection or reaction. Saline could do the job of plasma for now. Oxygen depletion to traumatized tissue was best avoided, so red cells were her choice. Reasons anyone in medical school would know, let alone a fifth-year surgical resident.
But at least there was some comfort in the sameness—questions and answers accompanied all lessons, no matter what hospital or surgeon you were with. She looked up at the galley again, and this time Enzo was looking at her. Not just watching the table. When she looked up, his gaze was locked on hers. Her belly trembled.
How was she supposed to keep her eyes on the patient with him staring? Correction: staring and smirking? Or was that a grimace?
Ignore him.
With the Q&A finished, she ordered the packed cells and another bag of saline.
So he could hear them. Whatever. Not that she expected any less from her competition. Caren had warned her he could be a jerk. He’d wanted to assist. She’d seen it in his eyes when Ootaka had invited her into his OR. And what was that about him being right about the need for surgery? She had to wonder what else he’d told Ootaka after running to get there first. She should’ve run with him. Only that would’ve meant leaving Mr. Elliot—and even for a couple of minutes she couldn’t have made herself do so, knowing that neither of them would be with him.
What she needed to do was not think about him as an attractive man. Focus on the jerk, not the jaw. The arrogance. And all that jaw did was frame a smirking mouth.
Jerky, not to mention manipulative. Keep our patient alive indeed. Those words had assured she’d stay put.
But, worse, they’d made her feel important enough that she’d hardly questioned why he wasn’t riding with them in the ambulance.
They’d made her underestimate him…
Later she’d send Caren a crankygram—an email she’d no doubt check in a couple of weeks. Maybe she could find Tessa after the surgery ended to get information. See if her new friend knew Enzo’s tactics. Plot some ways to outmaneuver him, or at least figure out his usual manner of manipulation. It would certainly behoove her to know what his weaknesses were. Aside from arrogance.
Or maybe just vent. His attempt to maneuver the situation hadn’t worked out so well for him this time. Maybe she didn’t need to try to learn to do that. Maybe it was just a case of where the cream rose, and she just needed to focus on herself and… stuff. That’s what she’d like. Avoid confrontation. Be pleasant and easy to work with. Be the person that everyone liked, or at least felt no overt hostility toward.
Be exactly who she’d been before the accident. That’d be awesome.
And impossible.
Think later. Pretend Caren had been overreacting when she’d focused on how hard Kimberlyn would have to fight for the fellowship.
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