Page 7 of Intense
“Sorry,” I murmur, stepping back as fast as I can.
He brushes my touch from his pristine white shirt like I’ve contaminated him.
“Well? Normally you only run toward the O.R., not the exit.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing, reading me like he always does—too well.
“I have somewhere I need to be. If you’ll excuse me.”
I throw in a fake sweet smile for good measure. Dr. Quinn is still my boss, even if he’s a walking migraine.
He checks his watch, then flicks those cold grey eyes back to me.
“Your shift doesn’t finish for another thirty seconds.”
I hiss out a breath.
“Are you being serious?”
His eyebrow arches and his eyes darken.
“Deadly.”
He’s cruel. Always has been. Gorgeous, brilliant, and emotionally bankrupt. Dead behind the eyes. It would almost be fascinating if he didn’t anger me so much.
I plant my hands on my hips, tapping my foot like I’m not moments from snapping.
“No small talk today?” he presses.
With him? No. Never.
I count the seconds in my head like I’m in surgery.
He smirks. “Looking forward to the award ceremony?”
My scowl deepens.
Three years in a row. Same painful circus. Where cardiology departments across the state gather just to bow down to the almighty Dr. Quinn.
Because no one ever wins that award except him.
He paid his way to the top. Of course he wins. That’s why I call him rich boy.
We’re just there to applaud him.
“I can’t go,” I lie flatly.
“It’s not an invitation you simply reject, Dr. Miller. It’s classed as a working day. No excuses.”
I roll my eyes so hard they might detach.
“Don’t you think the patients need us more than you need to hold that damn trophy?”
His jaw twitches.
“Our shifts are covered. Adequately. It’s two nights. You are expected to be there.”
Translation: he wants to watch me lose. Again. He wants to see the disappointment crawl across my face when his name gets called.
