Page 19 of The Love Operation

It falls in slow motion. I watch the bottom of the cup hit the tile of this lovely patio. I watch the milky liquid fly up, arms outstretched like a high-diver (you know, if coffee had arms), and then rain down again. I watch the rogue droplets slam into the fabric of my scrubs and Isaac’s tailored slacks and soak in.

We both leap backward, but when our eyes meet, his smile has taken on a mischievous slant.

“Impressive reflexes, Doc,” he says. “You’re a surgeon, right?”

Yeah, now I’m glad I stained his ass-clinging pants.

I don’t move to clean up the mess. I just let the puddle inch outward as I ignore his comment and throw my arms out. “What is this?”

He looks around. “It’s a restaurant.”

“It’s obviously closed. We’re alone. What are we doing here?”

“I know people. What’s wrong, Dr. Wren? Are you afraid to be alone with me, or are you just upset that you spilled your coffee?”

The traitorous wind shifts, and the scent of him slaps into my face. Screw it all. Screw this gorgeous, closed rooftop restaurant. Screw this dreamy, skyscraper-filled ancient-Egypt sky. Screw Harriet and her voluptuous plants. Screw Isaac.

Scratch that last part.

“You let go before I had it,” I say, adopting calm. “That coffee’s on you.”

“Literally.” He gestures to his pants, then my speckled coat.

“Caffeine is a crutch for the weak anyway.”

His eyebrows scrunch as he continues to look at the coffee splatter on my clothing. “Is your coat ripped?”

I wave him off. “I got in a fight with a dragon on the way over here.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

I lift the coffee that’s still on the table and sip it.

He smirks. “Are you drinking my coffee?”

“I’m drinking my coffee,” I say. He takes his the way I take mine: cream, no sugar.

“Mine is obviously on the floor,” he says, lips still askew.

“Obviously,” I say. “But what isn’t obvious is why we’re having coffee alone on this rooftop when I need to be doing rounds at the hospital, the place where both of us work, the place where you currently serve on the very committee that’s deciding whether I become chief of surgery.”

He takes the coffee out of my hand, sips it, then hands it back to me, like this is a flask we’re sharing. My stomach flips because it’s a bold move, and intimate.

“Well, we can’t talk at the hospital. Yesterday made that clear.”

“Oh, you mean when you pretended to be a patient and got naked in my exam room? And we’ve had multiple conversations in the hospital.”

“First, I was not naked, and I’ll admit—I shouldn’t have ambushed you like that. But the conversations we have had at the hospital . . . Well, I wanted more, and I think you do too, but for some reason you avoid me like an infectious disease.”

“You’re a smart guy, Mr. Thompson. You wouldn’t be in your position if you weren’t. So I think you know why I avoid you, why we should avoid each other.”

He sighs. “Then why did you come here? Why did you say yes to coffee?”

I open my mouth, and I hate that no words come out, so I close it, take a sip of the coffee, then hand it back to him. “You’re right, I shouldn’t be here.”

I turn to leave, but he stops me with a gentle yet firm grip on my forearm, one that I feel through my coat and across my skin. One that tightens my breasts and sends a jolt to my brain, damaging a tiny fragment of my resolve.

I face him.