Page 11 of Near Miss

He grins, dimple illuminating in his cheek. “Sexy.”

It’s a beautiful smile, and it’s a beautiful dimple.

Most people don’t know this—but a dimple is actually the result of a muscle in your cheek splitting in two.

It’s not a failure of the muscle that makes it that way, just a random act of biology during development.

But it makes me feel a bit like I’m split in two—heart sitting neatly in its cage where it’s safe, but perking up and watching Beckett from behind those bars, my cheeks burning with a flush I hope he can’t see, and my brain screaming to life with warning.

And that makes me a bit of a failure, because I don’t date.

“Good thing this isn’t a date.” I arch an eyebrow, dropping the menu in exchange for my own drink.

“Just one new friend, taking the other out for a thank-you drink.” He holds his glass up in cheers before setting it down, green eyes tracking over the menu. He taps an index finger on something I can’t see. “Do you think the steak is any good?”

“No.”

A laugh catches in his throat, and his eyes light up. “I have my doubts, too. But I need the protein.”

“For all your reformer Pilates?” I ask, voice dry.

“Yeah, for that.” He studies me for a second before clearing his throat. “I meant what I said earlier. Thank you. I don’t love hospitals. We spent a lot of time in them as kids. Our sister ... she had childhood cancer. Leukemia. She was diagnosed when she was six and it went on for almost a decade.”

I exhale, biting down on my lips. I hate stories like this. They’re beautiful and inspiring, but there’s something about a child being shaped in such a specific way that leads them down a path as an adult they might never have followed—but I don’t say that. Instead, I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s what made Nathaniel become a doctor. But you know that.” Beckett shrugs, taking another sip of beer.

My lips pucker and my eyebrows knit. “Why? Why would I know that?”

He swallows, looking confused. “You’re both doctors. You sort of work together. You guys don’t ... I don’t know, share your reasons for pursuing such a noble occupation?”

I laugh now, incredulous. “Do you think that’s what we do in the break room? Sit around in a circle and share our hopes and dreams and our inspirations?”

He pulls his head back. “Why not? It’s what we do during training camp.”

I give him a flat look. “Really?”

“Nah.” He grins, dropping his head against the vinyl of the booth and propping one hand up under his head. He leaves the other on the table, his fingers drumming against the worn wood in time with the music. “Seriously. What made you want to be a surgeon?”

A path that I was shaped and moulded for, that I might never have followed otherwise.

But I don’t tell him that either. I wrinkle my nose instead. “I was shockingly good at the gameOperationas a child.”

“Alright, Dr. Roberts, you can keep your secrets.” Beckett appraises me for a minute, hand still cupping the back of his head. All that does is highlight the sharp edges of muscle in his arm, the curve of his bicep, the jut of a defined tricep, and all those cords and veins drawing a map to those hands.

He’s looking at me, and he doesn’t know me, but I feel a bit like he might—like we might have more in common than we ever would have dreamed.

“I’m sorry football fans weren’t plentiful on the post-op recovery floor today,” I deflect.

“It’s okay. It was a pleasant surprise. I’m supposed to be going to pediatrics and oncology because of Nathaniel but...” He rubs his jaw before throwing me a rueful, sad sort of smile. “You probably have a higher IQ than everyone in this room combined, so I’m sure you can infer why that wouldn’t be my favourite place to hang out.”

“Is your sister okay?” I ask, tipping my head.

Beckett nods, smiling softly. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and flashes the screen at me. The photo illuminates, revealing Beckett and Dr. Davis, each with an arm slung around the shoulders of a beautiful brunette, smiling over a cake littered with burning candles. “Sarah’s good. She turned twenty-six this year. She’s been in remission for about a decade. Her immune system is a bit fucked, but for the most part, she’s okay.”

“You have the same eyes.” I flick my gaze up to him, another tiny smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. It’s ironic, my love for happy endings, seeing as I can’t help but lament the path that led to the one my family got. But I hope that maybe, his was unencumbered. “I’m glad she’s okay.”

“Me too.” He flips the phone towards him, and his lips twitch in the ghost of a smile as he stares at the picture before pocketing his phone.

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