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  Nic noted Amalia’s sarcasm, but she didn’t comment on it. “Who came down?”

  “Whitaker.”

  Ugh. One of the interns on her team. Bro, MD.

  “Page him and tell him to get his ass down here, stat.” Nic waved her hand beneath the wall-mounted antibacterial foam dispenser and entered the room, smiling at the patient. “Mr. Brent, my name is Dr. Allen and I’m an orthopedic surgeon here at Hopkins. Do you mind if I take a look at your shoulder?”

  When he gave his consent, she ran through an efficient but thorough examination, then told Amalia, “He’ll need an MRI as soon as possible.”

  Anger at the missed diagnosis licked at her skin. The signs were all there: the diminished range of motion, generalized swelling and warmth, the darker coloration. It would’ve been obvious to anyone who knew what they were doing. Still, she forced herself to take a deep breath.

  Despite your wishes, no one’s perfect. Mistakes happen.

  Especially with interns. Even though it was the end of Whitaker’s first year and the task was something he should’ve been able to do, Nic told herself to calm down. This would be a good opportunity for a teachable moment.

  Three more weeks. Three more weeks.

  “You paged me?” Whitaker’s blue eyes telegraphed his surprise at seeing her, but he recovered quickly, pasting a cocky smirk on his pale face.

  Nic thanked Mr. Bryant, stepped out of the examination room, and motioned the intern over.

  “Did you take this consult yesterday?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “If that’s what it says.”

  If that’s what it—

  Apparently in his first year the little shit hadn’t learned about the hierarchy in the hospital. Pissing off a senior resident was NEVER a good idea. Even if you were right. Which he most definitely wasn’t in this case.

  Three more weeks. Three more weeks.

  “That is what it says. It also says you gave him pain meds and discharged him with instructions to follow up with his primary care physician.”

  “Yeah.”

  His nonchalance abraded her nerves, like a cheese grater on skin. He acted as if he’d done nothing wrong. As if the fact that the patient he’d seen the day before, who’d come back less than twenty-four hours later, wasn’t a cause for concern. No curiosity about why he’d returned. No remorse. Just an exaggerated head tilt and a curled lip that suggested his belief that she wasn’t worth his time.

  And it was that disrespect that wouldn’t allow her to channel Whitley Gilbert and relax, relate, release.

  Nic pursed her lips. “What are the six steps of a shoulder examination?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Did she stammer or stutter? “What are the six steps of a shoulder examination?”

  His mouth tightened, but he responded, showing her that arrogance hadn’t rendered him completely insane. “Inspection, palpation, range of motion, power, neuro-vascular examination, and special tests.”

  “Did you do them?”

  He shifted his weight and hesitated . . . “Yes.”

  Goddammit! Nic closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. He never examined the patient. And when called on it, he’d blatantly lied to her face!

  She shook her head. Trust was one of the most important assets an intern could earn from a senior resident. That trust would allow the younger resident additional opportunities and responsibilities because a senior resident had faith that they could handle themselves. But once that trust was broken . . .

  “What was more important?” At Whitaker’s quasi-innocent look Nic said, “Don’t make me have to go around this hospital solving this mystery like I’m on an episode of Diagnosis: Murder!”

  And she would.

  His forehead wrinkled. “What?”

  Lord, replenish my reserve of patience . . . “There was something more important to you than doing right by this patient. What was it?”

  Whitaker exhaled. “Gorley was doing a lumbar spinal fusion.”

  You piece of shit! Her throat burned and she struggled to keep the disgust she felt from her expression. “This is your job. People’s lives are at stake. You don’t get to rush through it because there’s something more exciting that you’d rather do.”

  His detached facade started to crumble. “He stated that he may have fallen, but he couldn’t remember, he reeked of alcohol and his clothes were filthy. You expected me to miss a surgery that would actually help my career? The guy’s a bum!”

  “And that gives you the right to be negligent in his care? Because he doesn’t occupy the same tax bracket as your family?”

  “What’s the big deal? He came back. He’ll be treated.”

  “He shouldn’t have had to come back. You should’ve gotten it right the first time. If you’d actually done the examination, you would’ve figured out the genesis of his injury was the least of his problems. He probably has septic arthritis of the left shoulder. A delay in diagnosis and treatment could lead to complications of septic shock or osteomyelitis. He presented acutely with all of the classical features of infection and you missed it. Just to watch a surgery you’ll probably see several times while you’re here.” She pointed her finger at him. “You half-ass a consult like that again and you’re gone.”

  Blood flooded his face. “You can’t do that.”

  Watch me.

  “Personally, no, but I have access to the people who can and this is the type of behavior that will get you fired from a program.”

  And nothing in his attitude or behavior led her to believe he’d learned from this incident and wouldn’t repeat it. That feeling was reinforced when he said—

  “Do you know who I am?” Whitaker moved into her space and used his seven-inch height advantage to loom over her.

  She refused to be cowed. “Do I care? All I know is you’re the intern who carelessly misdiagnosed a patient and refused to own up to his mistake. And that makes you a problem resident and someone I’ll have to keep my eye on.”

  “This isn’t over. I know people, too,” he said, before storming off.

  “What a prick,” Amalia said, falling in beside her as she headed back the way she’d come.

  The encounter left a sour taste in Nic’s mouth that temporarily diminished her hunger. “Seriously, somebody save us from lazy, incompetent, irresponsible interns.”

  “We were interns once.” Amalia tilted her head. “Do you think we were like that?”

  “Hell no. Neither one of us would’ve gotten away with that type of behavior.”

  Whitaker and men of his ilk lived by a different set of rules. If she or Amalia, as women of color, had mouthed off or disrespected a senior resident that way, a chewing out would’ve been the least of their worries.

  “Are you going to report him?”

  Nic sighed. “I should.”

  “You could just leave it alone. Why go through the hassle of the paperwork? In three weeks, he’ll be someone else’s problem.”

  True.

  “You on call tonight?”

  “Nope. After clinic, I’m going home, eating half my weight in food, taking a hot shower, and going to bed.”

  Amalia elbowed her. “Those would be my plans, too, if I had the rich and sexy Benjamin Reed Van Mont waiting for me.”

  Nic almost laughed. Ben was rich. His grandfather had invented a device that was still used in all medical imaging machines and had parlayed his newfound wealth into a biomedical behemoth. Both of his parents were renowned doctors in their respective fields. The Van Mont family was considered medical royalty. In fact, there was a clinic at Hopkins with his family’s name on it.

  But sexy?

  He was certainly good-looking with dark hair and dark eyes, but she didn’t consider him sexy. Probably because she preferred a little edge to her men and Ben had all the edge of a gummy bear. He was also a relationship guy and Nic could think of a million things she wanted more.

  “Ouch!” Nic rubbed her sid
e. “He’s not waiting for me. I rent his garden apartment. He’s my landlord.”

  “This is why I question you being honored with the designation of chief resident. I thought you were smart. I would’ve gotten a piece of that from the beginning.” She winked. “I might have even offered to pay more rent.”

  “That’s why you would’ve been out on the street after three months looking for another place to live.” Nic looked at her watch. “Crap. Now I won’t have time to grab something to eat before my next appointment.”

  Amalia slapped the nurse’s desk with her palm and the young man behind it handed her a protein bar. “Here.”

  “Ah! Bless you!” Nic tore open the wrapper and took a bite.

  “Remember this moment when you’re the team surgeon for the Ravens and I ask you for tickets.”

  “The Memphis Grizzlies,” Nic corrected.

  “Or, since you’re not interested in Mr. Van Mont, you can thank me by setting up an introduction.”

  “Oh no! I’m not going to let you ruin my perfect arrangement. Besides, we’re not his type.”

  “Gay?”

  “Traditional. Looking for a woman to stay home, pop out 2.5 kids and live happily ever after.”

  Amalia winced. “Damn.”

  “Exactly. Now, stop acting like we’re in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy and get back to work.”

  Chapter Three

  As her day began, so it also ended . . .

  The sun was setting, turning the sky a pretty orange and violet, as Nic rounded the corner of her block in the historic Butcher Hill area in Baltimore. Close to the hospital and bordered on two sides by green space, it was a diverse neighborhood with friendly people constantly involved in activities meant to foster a sense of community. She was usually too busy to attend those events and on the rare occasion she wasn’t working, she’d much rather spend her time catching up on reading or reviewing notes.

  Waving to the retirees chatting outside on their stoops, she sidestepped a father walking alongside his daughter on a tricycle. The smile of paternal pride he directed at the little girl caused a burning ache in her chest.

  She’d never known that look.

  Nodding briskly to acknowledge their calls of apology, she approached the shiny black door that heralded her arrival at the beautiful brick building she was fortunate enough to call home. She could never live here on what she currently made. As she’d told her friends, she might be a doctor, but her job was still educational, and with student loans and the money she sent monthly to her mother, she was surviving on a pittance. Hearing about Ben’s apartment from a coworker at the hospital and moving in here was one of the best things that had happened to her since meeting the Ladies of Lefevre.

  But he didn’t need to know that.

  She opened the door and stepped into the split-level entryway and was immediately soothed by the exposed brick walls, bright white moldings, and blond maple hardwood floors. The house alarm dinged, declaring her arrival, and a deep friendly voice called out from above, “You have a package on the counter.”

  “Thanks,” she called back.

  Her hands skimmed along the wrought-iron banister as she headed downstairs into her “garden” apartment. She dropped her leather tote on her couch and tossed her keys on the dark wood pub table that also housed her mail and several coffee cups. She kicked off her shoes and changed into leggings and one of her favorite T-shirts that read “Unapologetically Brainy Black Girl” before bounding back up the way she came, and going farther, up to the second floor into the main part of the home.

  The captivating scent of simmering tomato sauce claimed her attention and alerted her to the fact that Ben was cooking. In response, her stomach growled, demanding that she pick up her pace. The man was a god in the kitchen, possessing the ability to do something Nic had never believed in before meeting him: making healthy food taste good.

  Lights from hanging pendants reflected off the dark cabinets and the white marble, greeting her as she walked into the room. Ben stood with his back to her, his tall frame covered in a maroon T-shirt and dark gray sweatpants, tossing vegetables from a cutting board into a stainless steel frying pan.

  “How much longer?” she asked.

  “Hello to you, too,” he said, stirring the contents with a wooden spoon.

  She spied the brown parcel sitting on the countertop. “Is that it?”

  “Your package? Yeah.”

  Excitement was a temporary dam for her ravenous exhaustion as she tore open the box and squealed in delight at its contents.

  Ben finally glanced at her over his shoulder, a dark brow arched. “What is it this time?”

  “Goat milk soap, whipped body cream, and a curl pudding for my hair,” she responded absently, checking to confirm everything she’d ordered was in the package.

  “Good grief!” He snorted and turned back to the food he was preparing.

  “I didn’t ask for your commentary, Charlie Brown,” she said, picking up each item and inhaling its wonderful scent.

  Caila was into designer purses; Ava was all about shoes; Lacey was their resident fashionista. For Nic, it was hair and skincare products. Face cleansers, moisturizers, lotions, hair products—she loved them all. And the more luxurious, decadent, and lusciously scented the better. Sometimes, when she needed a break from studying and researching, she’d surf her favorite beauty brands online and imagine what she’d purchase when she got her first real check working as a team physician.

  La Mer Moisturizing Cream, anyone?

  “Let me guess: they’re from some organic boutique shop you saw online where each delicate, vegan bar cost about twenty dollars?”

  “Wrong,” she said snidely—but only because she’d gotten the lot on sale. She always waited for the sales.

  “Ahhh.” His head bobbed. “You got them on sale.”

  If she didn’t value these soaps so much, she’d throw one at him.

  “I have dry, sensitive skin”—which was true, but it was also what allowed her to justify spending money now—“and with the constant hand washing and antibacterial sanitizer, I have to take precautions to keep these babies”—she wiggled her fingers—“healthy. They’re my money makers. I keep them moisturized and pampered. Now, as a white man who’d never thought about lotion until I moved in—”

  “I still don’t,” he interrupted.

  “—I understand moisturized skin may not be important to you.”

  “Ha. Ha.” He smirked, lobbing something in her direction.

  She watched as the broccoli floret bounced on the counter before falling to the floor. She pointed to it. “That’s from your half of dinner.”

  “Riddle me this, Queen of Self-care, why don’t your insides rate the same consideration as your outsides?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You obsess over the glop you put on your skin and your hair, but the food you eat? Jesus. If I didn’t feed you, your entire diet would consist of sugary carbs, protein bars, and ramen noodles.”

  She frowned, taken aback. She didn’t know he had an issue with cooking for her. “You offered. I never asked you to, so if it’s a bother—”

  “Nic, I’m not complaining. Just making an observation. And it’s not a bother. If I’m cooking, I’ll make enough for you. Don’t I always?”

  He did. Which was one of the many reasons why, though the rent was a tad more than she could afford, and her budget was tight, she gladly paid what she did to live there. It had been a wonderful three years, especially since leaving the situation she’d been in for the first two years of her residency. The third time she’d come home from an overnight shift to find some random half-naked dude eating her leftover pizza on the couch was the third time too many.

  “Those would be my plans, too, if I had the rich and sexy Benjamin Reed Van Mont waiting for me.”

  The sleeves of Ben’s T-shirt hugged his biceps while the muscles in his back and shoulders bunched as he stirred the pan’s contents. Ni
c swallowed. The scenery was definitely better now than it had been at her old place, too, though this was the first time that particular thought had crossed her mind.

  And she didn’t like it.

  “Uh . . . how was your day?” she asked, attempting to get things back on track.

  “Busy.” He turned off the stove and covered the pan with a lid. “I met with a potential new client. Someone who recently came into a large amount of money and wants help managing it.”

  Unlike the others in his family, Ben hadn’t gone the medical route. He had his own business; was an in-demand financial advisor who operated a successful boutique investment advisory firm. She respected his initiative. His family had enough money that he could’ve spent his life living off his trust fund. Instead, he’d worked hard to build something for himself.

  Ben pulled down a stemless wineglass, filled it with her favorite sweet red blend, and placed it in front of her.

  “Thanks.” She took a sip and moaned low in her throat. So good. “Sounds kind of boring.”

  Ben’s gaze heated and flicked to her mouth before quickly rebounding away. Her lips tingled, as if aware of the drive-by visual caress.

  That moment of intensity had briefly altered his face. Or maybe her perception of it. But in that instant, she could see what Amalia had meant.

  Sexy.

  He smiled and once again, he was Ben, her friend. “Maybe. To the uninformed.”

  What the hell? Had she imagined that flash of interest?

  He was still talking. “Would it change your mind if I told you the client is the creator behind one of the hottest up-and-coming social media platforms?”

  Dammit! Amalia’s comment was playing with her head. What she’d seen had clearly been a trick of the light. Everything was fine.

  “Really?” She wasn’t on social media. Especially after the Baby Boy incident. She barely had time to live her own life. She didn’t want to waste it reading about anyone else’s. But that didn’t stop her from being curious. “Which one?”

  “Ahhhh,” he said, waving a teasing finger in her face. “Not so boring now, huh?”

  She grabbed his finger. “Which one?”