through her, deep and sharp.
Her voice rose, and her dark eyes blazed, her rage as hot as his was cold. “And as for Scott Fritche, he was simply nervous today, Dr. Weldon. Fritche is in his first year of neurosurgery, he is inexperienced and he was suddenly expected to perform in front of an audience of—”
“Stop making excuses for him, Sheely!” Trey cut in. He held her glare. “It’s unacceptable.”
Neither bothered to blink. Or to move. They stood locked in their own world, anything and everyone else excluded.
Callie pulled off her surgical cap and threw it into a tall laundry bin. Her ponytail, which had been stuffed inside the cap, tumbled free, the ends swiping the nape of her neck.
If you lose your temper, you lose. One of her dad’s adages popped into Callie’s head. Too late. She’d gone ahead and lost her temper, anyway. Now she might as well go for broke.
“Unacceptable?” she huffed. “So are you going to fire me?” It was a dare, a challenge. Callie held her breath.
“Here we go again!” Leo heaved a dramatic groan. He and Quiana had moved closer, the better to listen to every word that passed between Trey and Callie. “It’s like seeing a rerun on TV for the four hundredth time—you know every word of the dialogue. C’mon Quiana, let’s get some lunch.”
“Might as well,” agreed Quiana.
The two exited the lounge, heading for the cafeteria.
“The four hundredth time?” Trey looked bewildered.
“Not even close,” murmured Callie, a pale pink flush staining her cheeks.
Okay, she hadn’t gone for broke, she silently conceded. When she felt Trey was being insufferably imperious, she would respond by getting mad and inviting him to fire her.
The first time, it had just slipped out, and she’d waited in agony, expecting him to fire her outright. But he hadn’t, and then she’d said it again—and again and again—and by now she pretty much knew Trey wouldn’t fire her. Was absolutely sure of it, in fact.
But she hadn’t said it four hundred times!
“No, I am not going to fire you, but—” Trey broke off, suddenly looking almost comically astonished. “So that’s what Leo meant when he was talking about seeing a rerun for the four hundredth time and knowing the dialogue. He was talking about that ‘going to fire me?’ habit of yours.”
“Duh,” Callie muttered darkly. Trey would have to pick right now to finally decipher one of Leo’s stupid jokes. “And it’s not a habit. Leo overexaggerates.”
“Not this time, he didn’t. It’s true. You practically dare me to fire you, Sheely. Did it ever occur to you that sometime I might say yes and just go ahead and do it?”
“Oh, maybe the first three hundred times.” Callie was sarcastic. “But the last hundred times or so, I felt my job was safe enough.”
Trey’s dark brows narrowed. “Nobody talks to me the way you do, Sheely.”
“Is that a threat?” Callie squared her shoulders and lifted her head, trying to make herself as tall and formidable as possible. Unfortunately her five-foot, four-inch frame remained dwarfed by Trey.
“Don’t go nuclear, Sheely, it wasn’t a threat. It was simply a statement of fact. Nobody around here talks to me the way you do.”
“Well, no wonder.” She folded her arms in front of her chest in classic defensive position. Just because she had a crush on him didn’t mean she would permit herself to be crushed by him.
“You’re practically a god around here. Nobody can believe you actually chose to come to Pittsburgh when you could’ve gone to any hospital in the country. Needless to say, without exception, people speak reverently to you.”
“It seems that Leo isn’t the only one on this team who overexaggerates.” Trey looked irked. “And maybe you can explain why Pittsburghers are forever apologizing for the city. Why do they feel the need to put it down, especially if a nonnative says something complimentary about the place? Which brings us to, Why wouldn’t I actually choose to come here, Sheely?”
“Why would you choose Pittsburgh’s Tri-State Medical Center when you could’ve gone to Johns Hopkins or Mass General or Duke or places equally prestigious? Is that a rhetorical question or am I supposed to answer it?”
“You see, you just did it again!” Trey exclaimed. “Another putdown of your hometown. What’s with you Pittsburghers?”
“We don’t like bragging, so we don’t embellish. We simply state the facts—which is what I was doing,” retorted Callie. “You went to medical school at Duke and did your surgical residency at Johns Hopkins, then on to Mass General for your neurosurgery residency and fellowship. You could write your own ticket anywhere. Why would you come to—”
“Don’t forget to mention my exclusive New England prep school and my undergraduate bioengineering degree from MIT, Sheely.”
“Which enables you to custom design the surgical instruments that you—” Callie broke off and stared at him. “You were being ironically droll.”
“And that makes you gape?”
“More drollery?”
“Ah, your jaw drops even farther.”
“All right, I admit I’m stunned. For your to joke about your hallowed credentials is something like hearing a saint wisecracking about divinity.”
“Sheely,” he paused and frowned. “Don’t put me on a pedestal.” She had the usual misconception about the blueness of his blood, Trey realized, and her next words confirmed it.
“I don’t have to, you’re already up there. I expect you were born there—and you’re well aware of it, too.”
A man like Trey Weldon, brilliant, handsome, successful—a man like that, who had it all, had to be aware of his status, his desirability. And not only neurosurgically speaking. He was one of the most eligible bachelors in the city—in the entire state of Pennsylvania, not to mention his own native state of Virginia!
Callie herself had seen how women here at the hospital practically threw themselves at his feet. She and Leo and Quiana enjoyed countless jokes about that. At least, Leo and Quiana enjoyed the jokes. Callie’s laughter rang hollow in her own ears. Worse, she could only imagine how very sought-after Trey was in exalted social circles, far removed from the hospital grounds.
She took another long look at his bare chest, and fury abruptly flared within her. “And we aren’t in a…a gym!” she snapped. “Put on your shirt. Please,” she added, because, after all, she was talking to her boss.
Trey picked up the scrub shirt he’d dropped onto a chair and pulled it over his head, inside out. “I’m not following.” He gave an exasperated huff. “What on earth are we talking about now, Sheely?”
Scowling, he ran his hand over his brown hair, a dark-chestnut shade, always cut short for practical and hygenic reasons.
Callie
