nod, his haunting eyes as steady as a surgeon’s hands, making her feel edgy. She didn’t need any help with that edgy feeling today.
“I’m Jared Finch,” he said.
Snap out of it, girl. “Hi, I’m Kasey, and over there is my co-worker, Vincent.”
Vincent beamed, more gums than teeth showing. “Hi, thanks for coming.”
“Just doing my job,” he said, nodding hello to Vincent before turning back to Kasey. “Are you in charge?”
Unable to break away from his gaze, she fought the hitch in her breath and mentally kicked herself for falling apart. He was just a man. A doctor. She’d seen plenty of handsome men in her life, just not here in her clinic. And this man, in ten seconds flat, seemed to have absconded with her composure. She wanted to grab a rubber reflex hammer and pound some sense into her head.
“Yes. I’m the nurse practitioner and I run the clinic. Thanks so much for coming, Dr. Finch.” He reached for a quick handshake, though his felt barely alive, and she shook once then let go. Even lackluster, the fraction of a moment’s connection had left her off balance. He came for the patient, give him the information. Right. She looked through the mess on her desk, found the note, and handed it to him. Clutching the laptop that had Laurette Meranvil’s information on it tightly to her chest and feeling fortified, she stood. “Let me show you the patient.”
Jared followed the skittish NP down the hall toward the patient examination room. He’d been up all night, moonlighting, and the last thing he’d wanted to do was rush over to a satellite clinic for more work. Part of his commitment to the two-year plastic surgery certification program was volunteering at clinics such as this, all over town. During the month of May, as long as he wasn’t doing surgery with his mentors, he’d be at the beck and call of the Everett community clinic, and would be required to put in twenty hours’ service. It wasn’t a “get” to, it was a “got” to, something he’d have to endure.
The nurse practitioner flipped her dark blonde hair over her shoulder and glanced at him just before opening the door. Since beginning his plastic surgery fellowship, he’d gotten into the habit of looking at women and deciding how he could improve their features. He studied the arch of her brows and the almond-shaped green eyes, the larger-than-average nose with a bump on the bridge, and her lips, small, but nicely padded. Her loose lab coat and scrub pants hid her shape, but he guessed she was at least five feet six.
“Let me show you what we’ve got,” she said, with a polite office smile. It was nice to see she hadn’t used Botox, as he preferred expressive eyes.
The corner of his mouth twitched as he followed her inside, and that would have to suffice for a friendly smile these days.
“The patient says she fell against a glass door.”
He lifted one brow and shared a knowing look with the nurse practitioner as she opened the computer and brought up the patient’s chart. He quickly read over her shoulder, just enough to fill him in.
“Mrs. Meranvil, I’m Dr. Finch. Let’s have a look at that cut.” After he’d washed his hands and donned gloves, he removed the gauze and examined the depth of the wound and potential tissue damage. “Set up a sterile field,” he said to the NP, “and I’ll inject some anesthetic. Do you have a tendency to develop keloids?”
The quiet woman’s pinched forehead clued him to rephrase his question. “Do you get bumpy scars?”
She shook her head, and he wondered if she’d completely understood him. He glanced over her skin for any evidence of old scars to compare, but her long-sleeved, frayed-at-the-cuffs blouse didn’t reveal anything.
The nurse practitioner hustled to set up the pre-sterilized pack, and he switched to sterile gloves from the basic tray then gestured to her. “I’ll need five-zero polypropylene sutures.”
She rustled through the cupboard until she found exactly what he wanted, opened the sterile pack and dropped it onto the sterile field. He nodded his thanks.
“Let’s get started,” he said, nodding toward the anesthetic. Using sterile technique, she handed him antiseptic cleanser and the tiny-gauge needle and syringe. He swiped the rubber stopper as she held the bottle upside down, and he withdrew a couple of ccs, then discarded the first needle and switched to the next, which the nurse extended to him from within its sterile wrapper.
“You’ll feel a little pinch.” He injected into the subcutaneous fat around the laceration as gingerly as possible. Once the effect set in, he’d look more closely for glass slivers or debris in the wound, though the nurse had cleaned it well.
Since he was up close, he gave a tight-lipped, woefully out-of-practice smile. The patient barely responded.
“Are you okay?” the nurse named Kasey asked. The patient nodded.
Right, he should employ some light banter. He cleared his throat. “Need anything?” It came out sterner than he’d meant. The patient shook her head as if afraid to talk to him.
That was the limit of his bedside manner these days, a fact he was gravely aware of and which, considering the field he was going into, needed to change. In his own good time. He took the delicate-toothed forceps and a small curved needle holder and began his meticulous suturing.
Suturing was nothing new to him—he’d been a practicing general surgeon for eight years before making the decision to go into plastic surgery. He almost gave a rueful laugh out loud over that thought as he sank another stitch and tied it off. He’d been forced to go into the big money specialty field after his wife had financially cleaned him out in the divorce two years ago. After all, a doctor of his skill and experience should be able to support his children and ex-wife without going broke.
He needed to think a hell of a lot more pleasant thoughts while treating this patient. She deserved his undivided attention and surgical expertise. The one thing he was sure of these days was his ability as a surgeon. Make that plastic surgeon.
Kasey was impressed with Dr. Finch’s technique if not his bedside manner, and how he took great care with each stitch. If all went well with the healing process, Laurette would wind up with only a fine pale scar beneath her dark chocolate eye.
After the procedure was finished, she helped Laurette sit up. Vowing never to clean houses like her mother, she’d been a nurse since she was twenty-two, and four years later, when she’d become a nurse practitioner, she’d been initiated by fire when this clinic had opened. Nothing fazed her now. She’d worked with plenty of fussy doctors. Dr. Finch wasn’t fussy, just particular about how he wanted things done. Showing a serious lack of bedside manner, he obviously had no intention of sticking around to reassure the patient. Task done, he’d already shoved the surgical tray aside, ripped off his gloves and was halfway to the door without a single word. At least he’d disposed of the trash and the used needles into the sharps container on his way, she’d give him that.
“Thanks, Doc,” she said, tongue in cheek.
“Not a problem,” he said in a gruff tone. Just before closing the door, he turned toward the patient. “Ms. Meranvil, we’ll need to see you back in four to five days to take out those sutures.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am?
“One more thing
