Page 97 of The Love Operation

“That’s wonderful,” I say.

“It’s the clover,” Benedict says smugly.

I whirl on him, wagging my finger. “Your clover’s crap.”

He feigns offense, hand to chest like I just insulted his grandmother. “I’ll kindly remind you that it’s your clover. But what did it ever do to you?”

I tell him about my last case, the patient who woke up mid-surgery.

“I’m glad that fella wasn’t in my room,” Wilton says loudly. “But sounds like you handled it well. Now”—he rubs his hands together—“when can I get this tube out of my . . .” He stops, searching for a more delicate term for penis.

I chuckle. “I’ll let your nurse know she can remove it.”

“No sense bothering her. I can—”

“Don’t even think about it,” I cut in. “There’s a balloon holding it in place. I promise you do not want to pull that out yourself.”

“Fine. Call her back.”

His grin is wide, unbothered. It’s like I’ve restored him—not just physically, but to some younger, mischievous version of himself. A version who’s also riding a Dilaudid high.

“I want to thank you again,” he says.

“You’ve thanked me enough. I’m just glad I could help.”

“Come smell this Vicks.”

I blink. “What?”

“Don’t do it,” Benedict says.

“Hush,” Wilton scolds. “Dr. Wren, come get ya a whiff.” He holds up a small jar of Vicks VapoRub. “This stuff cures everything.”

Benedict shakes his head, so of course, I step toward Wilton.

He digs in with full commitment, scoops a glob of the stuff, and—before I can dodge—plunges his finger directly into my nostril.

“Oh—oh no!” I yelp, lurching back, eyes instantly watering. “That’s . . . in my brain!”

Benedict doubles over, laughing. “I warned you.”

I grab a tissue and furiously scrub my nose, my sinuses now aggressively mentholated.

Wilton nods, as if I’m proving his point instead of actively in pain. “Good stuff, right?” Then he eases back. “I wish we could all go out dancing to celebrate.”

“No dancing,” I mutter, still blowing my nose. “Not for at least six weeks.”

“Oh fine, but at least let my son take you out to dinner tonight. As a thank-you.”

Benedict’s head snaps up. “Dad.”

“What?” Wilton shrugs. “I want to show my appreciation, son. This lady doctor just saved my life.”

“Mr. Calder,” I say. “That’s really not necessary.”

He waves a hand. “Pfft. The good things rarely are.” Then he squints at me, one eye closed, finger pointing. “I knew you were sharp as a tack the second you walked into our home and charmed everyone all those years ago. Still are.”

I go a little gooey inside. “You’re kind.”