Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
She gave a shaky laugh. “Easy for you to say. You probably grew up in caves like this.”
“Wyoming,” Foster said, nodding. “We’ve got blizzards, bears, and worse… matchmaking mamas. But I’ll take a thunderstorm over a whiteout any day.”
“Says the guy who probably skis to work,” I said, trying not to think about the nice, small-town guys his mom wanted to set him up with. Probably a buff rancher in a cowboy hat or the local insurance salesman.
Foster caught my eye, and his mouth curved. “Only when Chickie pulls the sled too slow.”
That earned a few chuckles from the group, but Sierra raised her eyebrows. “Please tell me you don’t actually own a dog sled. Chickie would unionize after the first mile.”
“No sled,” Foster admitted. “Though I’ve thought about getting a fat-tire bike for winter patrol.”
“Oh god,” I groaned. “You’re one of those.”
“What kind?”
“The kind who thinks forty below is ‘invigorating’ and wears crampons to brunch.”
Foster grinned, slow and wicked. “Forty below builds character. Separates the tourists from the locals.”
“I’m from San Francisco,” I said. “Winter there is sixty degrees and passive-aggressive fog.”
He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against my ear. “Explains a lot. Lightweight.”
“Ass,” I muttered, but I was smiling as I said it.
“How did the two of you meet?” asked Marcus. “You had to have known each other before this, but I thought Dr. Marian was from New York?”
Foster and I looked away from each other, both suddenly aware of how easily we’d fallen into this rhythm. How natural it felt to tease him, to see his eyes light up when he fired back.
“He is,” Trace said without looking up, scraping a hunk of mud off his boot with a multi-tool. “You’re looking at a recipient of Manhattan’s Nightingale Valor award during his first year of residency. He won it for his extraordinary valor and lifesaving leadership on-scene during a mass casualty event.”
Marcus leaned around Foster to gawp at me. “What happened?”
“Train derailment,” I said brusquely, shooting daggers at Trace.
He winked at me. “He doesn’t like talking about it,” he explained. “Which makes it all the more fun to trot out from time to time. Remember the subway explosion that caused two trains to collide and one to derail? It was all over the news a few years back.”
I felt Foster’s eyes heat the side of my face. “You were the guy who did a field amputation?”
I winced. “To be fair, the train did most of the heavy lifting on that one.”
Sierra’s jaw had dropped. She finally closed it long enough to form words. “That was you? For real? Holy fuck. I thought that guy was a med student.”
“The Subway Surgeon,” someone murmured in disbelief.
I shook my head. “First-year resident. And definitely not a surgeon. More like a scared idiot who only muddled through it because he happened to have had the best first responders from FDNY and a top-rated field surgeon on speed dial.” The attention was making me squirm. “Hey, so, Foster and I met on an airplane. Someone asked how we met. That’s how. He was sitting in front of me, and his seatmate was drunk off her ass. Kept slurring her words and spilling vodka cran all over the guy.”
Sierra shook her head as if still having a hard time believing she was this close to someone who’d been in a horrific medical emergency. “What I wouldn’t give to respond to a mass casualty incident,” she said wistfully.
Foster’s voice was dry when he responded. “That’s the spirit, Sierra.”
Trace must have felt guilty for putting me on the spot because he took Foster’s lead and ran with it. “By a show of hands, how many of you have actually been through MCI training? Because tomorrow’s scenario is going to test whether you can think on your feet when everything goes sideways.”
I tried to focus on his words, but most of my attention was focused on Foster.
Once the attention was truly off me and completely focused on tomorrow’s exercise, I leaned over and whispered, “Thanks.”
“How about ‘You owe me one, Doc’?”
Whenever his voice was that low and soft, it was like a hot breath on my inner thigh, all promise but not quite there yet.
I sucked in a breath and looked around before mouthing, “Promise?”
The conversation shifted to equipment maintenance and weather protocols. I tried to follow along, but the cramped space and Foster’s proximity were making it hard to concentrate. When thunder crashed overhead again, I noticed a few students checking their phones.
We’d been getting spotty cell service all day, so when the storm had sent us into the cave, I’d powered mine down to preserve battery.
When I powered it back on, the notifications came pouring in. Seven missed calls from Ella. Three from my cousin Alex. Two from my mom. And a string of increasingly urgent text messages. All seemingly sent within the last ten minutes.