Page 42 of The Potter

When she realizes she’s never going to reach the tumbler, she gives up with an annoyed huff. “You’re going to be hungover for your consults tomorrow.”

I empty the glass in one go and hiss. “It helps with lying to them.”

My statement gives her pause. “You mean when you put them on your OR schedule?” Her voice quiets, and she looks down at the ground. “You’re going to cancel them, aren’t you?”

At first, I wonder how she knows I put them on my OR schedule, but then I remember that we all share the same OR schedule. Astor would have given her access to it. “Yes.” I don’t feel like lying.

“And you feel bad about it?”

“Yes.”

She steps closer, looking up to meet my eyes. Damn, she’s beautiful, with her golden hair fanned out past her shoulders, resting along her breasts. So soft. So resilient.

“So why not tell them no?”

I brush my fingers along her cheek. “Like I did with you?”

Her throat bobs. “Yes, like me.”

“You’re… different.”

I’m not in the mood to swap tragic stories, so I offer her a pained smile and brush past her. “Follow me, I’ll show you to the guest room.”

Halle

Vance gives me ragey whiplash.

Why can’t he just answer a simple question? What’s so awful about my case that he wasn’t willing to take a risk? It wasn’t until Duke agreed to take me on that he agreed. I want to know why.

I’ve seen the cases Astor takes on. They’re horrific. Those poor families. Sometimes, I think Astor can’t possibly help them, then I hear him promising that he’ll do the best he can. If Astor can take on cases that seem nearly impossible, you would think his superstar brother, who is known to take the high-risk cases, would be willing to take on a few scar revisions without batting those gorgeous eyelashes.

Vance stops and opens a door. “There’s an en suite and fresh towels in the cabinet.”

All I can do is nod as I take in the guest room that’s twice the size of my current motel room. A king-size bed sits in the middle of the room with sheer, white curtains covering the wall-to-wall windows. “Thank you.”

He nods and steps back. “I’ll find you a T-shirt to sleep in.”

“That’s okay,” I say distractedly as I admire the white, fluffy bedding that looks like something out of a magazine. “I can just…”

I turn around and he’s gone.

Perfect. Now, what do I do? Wait? Disappear into the shower and let him creep in and leave the T-shirt on the bed?

I move into the room, locating the en suite easily. As I expected, it’s larger than a normal-sized bathroom. I’d even wager it’s ten times the size of the motel bathroom.

You know? I think Iwilldisappear into the shower. The damn thing has a rain showerhead for goodness’ sake. Do you know the last time I’ve been under a rain showerhead? Never, that’s when. Don’t think I’m too shy to take him up on the offer, either.

You only come to Texas once.

I don’t remember falling asleep.

I remember thinking the shower was sent straight down from Heaven. It was skin-searing hot with the rain shower that felt like tiny fingers massaging the tension from my shoulders.

It. Was. Delightful.

More than delightful, really, but then I slipped the softest T-shirt—from Harvard, no less—over my body and climbed into a bed that must have been stuffed with fluffy clouds and baby smiles.

I was out before my head hit the pillow.

---