Page 60 of The Beautiful Collision
He’s not studying medicine or anything health-related.
But here he is, quizzing me on it, and running rings around Brad.
Did Maine Hamilton…researchwhat I was studying?
“Exactly,” I say. “That’s why you need to monitor the site carefully, and some protocols recommend having phentolamine on hand for infiltration if it occurs.”
We’re completely absorbed in each other now, our conversation a rapid-fire exchange of medical terminology slash flirting. Brad shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes darting between us like he’s watching a tennis match he doesn’t understand. And the look on his face makes me feel sorry for his future patients.
We go back and forth for another minute, diving into receptor pharmacology and hemodynamic monitoring, and I’m vaguely aware that Sophie is watching us with her eyebrows raised and an ‘I-told-you-so’ look on her face, while Priya looks completely lost.
But mostly I’m aware of Maine—the way he’s looking at me like I’m the most fascinating thing in the room, the way he’s matching me point for point in this discussion, the way he’s created this bubble of competence and respect around me that Brad couldn’t penetrate with a fire axe.
Finally, Brad mutters something about getting another drink and practically flees from the table. The second he’s gone, Maine’s posture shifts subtly. He leans back just slightly, a gesture that somehow communicates that the floor is mine now, and that I get to deliver the killing blow.
I turn to Brad’s retreating form, making sure my voice is loud enough for him to hear. “The only thing I’d be ‘practicing’ on you is how to intubate a corpse.”
The grin that spreads across Maine’s face is slow and appreciative, like I’ve just done something remarkable. He gives me a single nod—small, almost imperceptible, but weighted with respect—before pushing back his chair and standing.
“Ladies,” he says to our table, that easy charm back in place.
Then his eyes find mine one more time, holding for a beat longer than necessary, before he heads back toward the pool tables where his teammates have just realized he’s arrived at the bar, and are greeting him like a returning hero.
Myhero.
I watch him, my mind spinning. That wasn’t just standing up for me. That was something else entirely. He didn’t swoop in like some white-knight to save the damsel. He didn’t try to intimidate Brad with his size or his status as a hockey player.
Instead, he recognized the precise nature of the insult—the professional dismissal, the reduction of my chosen career to something decorative and servile—and he set me up to counter it with intelligence and respect. It was a professional alley-oop, letting me complete the dunk.
And the medical knowledge… when the hell did he start reading about vasopressor protocols? The only explanation that makes sense sends warmth spreading through my chest: he’s been reading up on my coursework, learning about what I do so he can understand it.
“OK, what was all that?” Priya demands, staring at me with wide eyes.
“That,” Sophie says slowly, a smile playing at her lips, “was The Maine Show.”
“Since when does he know anything about medicine?” Priya’s voice pitches up.
Since he started caring about what matters to me, apparently.
The thought is terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
“Maya.” Sophie’s voice is gentle but insistent. “You OK?”
I force myself to look away, to meet her concerned gaze. “Yeah. I’m… I’m good.”
But I’m not good. I’m in so much trouble. Because while we’ve been living in domestic bliss with Maine, doing everything a couple does except calling ourselves a couple, he’s been worming his way into my feels. With his own brand of charm, sure, but also with something far more dangerous.
Understanding and respect.
“I need another drink,” I announce, standing abruptly.
“I’ll come,” Sophie says, clearly not buying my sudden need for alcohol.
We make our way to the bar, weaving through the crowd. I can feel Maine’s presence somewhere in the room like a magnetic pull, but I don’t let myself look for him. Not yet. I need to get my shit together first, figure out what the hell I’m feeling and what I’m going to do about it.
And figure out how he feels as well.
twenty-one
