Page 35 of Near Miss

I hold my hands up, giving her a lazy grin. “I was going to say fun. Beckett Davis gets along with all kinds.”

Her full lips draw a flat line, still pouted, shining, and made even more beautiful by whatever she painted them with, and she points towards the table before gathering her dress in her hand. “Right. Remind me not to strike up any future business deals with people who speak in third person.”

“You know I don’t actually speak in third person, right?” I scrub my jaw and extend my elbow to her.

Greer levels me with a look and ignores my offer of escort. “I know, Beckett. It’s a joke. Some might call it self-deprecation at its finest. Because who is Beckett Davis, really?”

I smile, exhaling softly, shoving my hands in my pockets, and trail after her—this emerald blur that’s really a beautiful woman who says we aren’t even friends, but sees right through me all the same.

She raises her hand in greeting when we get to the table, stopping at the only two empty chairs. Two formal place settings wait for us, with two pieces of cardstock propped up in front of smaller, floating candles, our names etched in gold.

Dr. Greer Roberts

Distinguished Laureate: Clinical and Surgical Excellence

Beckett Davis

Guest

I turn to grin at her, about to tell her it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever been called, when someone shouts the worst thing I ever have.

“Near Miss! Heard you were here with one of the honourees.” A man sitting directly across from us grins widely, brown cheeks flushed and eyes a little too dazed, like he’s had more than one of those nice glasses of scotch. “You’re going to come through for us this season, right? You lost me a lot of money last year.”

Raising my eyebrows, I pull out Greer’s chair even though she wouldn’t want me to, and I wait until she folds herself down and straightens her dress before dropping in the seat beside her. Iopen my mouth, the signature, affable Beckett Davis grin sliding into place. “Hey, if I could place a bet, I’d have lost a lot of money, too. Wasn’t banking on missing that kick.”

But Greer stills, her voice cool when she speaks. “And how many balls have you kicked professionally, Samir?”

It’s the first time she’s ever referred to one of her colleagues by their first name.

He blinks slowly, stunned, but then an overlarge smile falls into place that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’m a bit busy saving lives for that, but someone has to do it.”

It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, and it’s nothing I haven’t told myself. Reliable until I wasn’t. Not really worth much because I’m not saving lives like my brother or living like my sister, but worth enough to pay everyone’s bills when they need me.

I offer him a shrug, irreverent, and toss an arm over the back of the gilded chair. I’m about to tell him how it’s the best job in the world because nothing I do really matters when Greer drops her hand to the crook of my elbow.

“Hmm.” Greer’s lips pull into a thin line and one eyebrow rises. She tilts her head, her eyes flash under the low light, and she looks almost predatory. “That’s right. Plenty of emergencies in”—she glances down to the cursive place setting in front of him, angled towards her, before looking back up and giving him a flat smile—“dermatology.”

I don’t know enough about dermatology or skin in general to really know whether there are a lot of emergencies, or how accurate the sentiment that he spends his days saving lives really is, but I don’t really give a shit.

My eyes cut down to where her hand rests, still in the crook of my elbow, fingers taut against my suit jacket. I think it’s a protective gesture. I’m not entirely sure—because I don’t think anyone has ever actually stood up for me.

Not that I’ve ever really bothered to set a good precedent and stand up for myself.

But I do know I like the way it feels—like maybe I’m someone. Something more than that random man in the grocery aisle who helped my mother out one time or a person that’s nothing more than the sum of a bunch of nondescript adjectives you throw together that mean the same thing.

That maybe Beckett Davis really is real.

The corners of my lips twitch, and Greer presses her fingers down before folding her hands across one another in front of her plate.

“Well.” Samir leans forward, smiling tightly, raising his sweating glass of scotch to each of us in succession. “I suppose not everyone can kick, and I suppose not everyone can receive a prestigious award for clinical excellence.”

Something dims behind her eyes, her fingers tense against the table, but she just smiles politely.

“Not everyone can be clinically excellent.” I shrug, raising my fingers off the back of the chair in a lackadaisical gesture, before glancing sideways at Greer and winking.

She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth kicks upwards.

Samir leans forward, and I get a good look at how glassy his eyes are. I’m probably the least qualified person at the table to be giving any sort of medical advice, but it looks like he shouldn’t have another scotch.

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