“Mmm.” Remington accepted that explanation. “But then you miss out on the Muscovy à l’orange with shiitake mushrooms.”
“I’m more of a barbecued chicken fan. I prefer my meat free of buckshot.”
Remington chuckled. “Not to get technical, but you shoot big game, like deer, with buckshot; hence the name. You shoot ducks with bird-shot.”
“What’s the difference?”
“About nine hundred pellets per cartridge.”
Susan only nodded. She did not want to pursue a discussion about shotgun shells, especially with someone named after a gun. “Do you want to do the next LP, or not? Given the choice, the patients would probably prefer you.” That made a better argument for her doing the procedure. The one who had less experience needed more practice, especially since she planned to keep working on this project. She thought of another issue. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s see how big and uncooperative the patient is. If we need more muscle to hold him still, I’ll do the procedure. If he’s even half as accommodating as our last patient, you’ll do the procedure and I’ll hold.”
“Our last patient?” Remington glanced toward the door through which Barack had disappeared. “You mean, the statue?”
Susan knew he intended the words as a joke, but she did feel a flash of shame. “Hey, I managed a traumatic tap on that statue.”
Remington blew off her concern with a dismissive noise. “Hell, I’ve seen guys get bloodier taps than that off people under anesthesia. On the surgery table, you get to see everything, move things around and out of your way, and everything’s floppy and cooperative. When you blindly stab a needle into someone, you have no way of knowing where some tiny, feeder blood vessel might be sitting.”
Susan appreciated Remington’s earnest attempt to ease her conscience. Compared to the mistakes she had made with Sharicka and Payton, this barely showed up as a molehill in a mountain range. Susan shuffled away the paperwork for Barack Balinsky, pulling out a fresh sheaf on their next patient. She read aloud. “‘Cary English, sixty-four-year-old white male. Paranoid schizophrenic, refractory to treatment. Persistent delusions and hallucinations involving space aliens. Assaultive to staff and strangers; potentially dangerous.’ ”
Remington placed a fresh, wrapped tool tray on the portable stand. “Ah, sounds like you’ll be doing this one, kitten. I’m no psychiatrist, but I have a feeling poking and prodding his body might just piss him off.”
“Good thought, snooky-ookums. I’m just betting he comes with a couple of large nursing aides and maybe a son or two to assist.”
Remington set the vial of nanorobots on the tray beside the sterile kit. “I hadn’t considered that. I get most of my patients pre-anesthetized.”
To Susan’s relief, Cary did arrive with a burly nursing aide, as well as a middle-aged son who signed the consents. The two of them did a practiced job of holding the old man still, while he thrashed and howled about aliens stealing his thoughts and emotions through his bodily fluids. To her relief, Remington managed a swift, clean tap, followed by a slow injection. She wondered if she would have had the same result and supposed she might have managed it, although she could not have done it with the same speed and assuredness. She believed she had made the right choice.
The son and the nursing aide chatted baseball statistics while Remington held the gauze in place, then wheeled Cary English from the room with barely an acknowledgment. “Thanks,” Susan said.
Remington tossed his gloves. “Thank you. It’s not often I get to participate in research, especially this cutting edge. And I really like procedures, even relatively simple ones.”
Susan smiled wanly. Whether he acknowledged it or not, she owed him. Without his assistance, she would have had to explain to Goldman and Peters why she had to come in another day and reinject Barack Balinsky. At worst, he had saved her the embarrassment and another day of work. She also would have had to find someone else to hold Ronnie Bogart. “I believe I owe you lunch and a trip to my place.”
“I believe you do.” Remington finished cleaning, put everything back in order, then took Susan’s arm.
At his touch, a thrill tingled through Susan. It occurred to her, with abrupt and stunning suddenness, that she loved this man. And, though neither of them had yet spoken the words aloud, she believed he loved her, too.
Chapter 21
Doctors Susan Calvin and Remington Hawthorn sat on a bench in the park ten stories below the Calvins’ apartment, their bellies full of John Calvin’s special chicken-eggplant recipe, cobbled from the Kentucky Roasted they brought home and lots of fresh vegetables. The afternoon sun beamed down upon a horde of squealing preschoolers racing across machine-woven mats of recycled plant material and climbing ladders, tunnels, and bridges molded from shredded rubber. The softness of the ground and structures allowed them to push, shove, and plummet to their hearts’ content. Their parents and nannies watched them from windows or benches, shouting encouragements.
Remington stretched his legs in front of him and placed an arm around Susan. Excitement flitted through her at his touch. She felt like a high schooler with her first crush. Everything he did that suggested he liked her seemed like a new and exhilarating experience. She loved the look of him: golden highlights glistening in the casual disarray of his blond curls, his physique a pleasant combination of slender and muscular, his features strong and regular, the very definition of chiseled. The natural scents of him enticed her in a way no human-created smell had before, bringing her thoughts back to childhood vacations and, inexplicably, stops for ice cream.
They had talked the entire trip and now sat in a comfortable silence Susan felt no particular drive to break. She could have sat like this all day, reveling in the warmth of his closeness, the thrill of his touch, a light breeze wafting the faint, sweet odors of toast and jam from the children. Then, her mouth opened, as if of its own volition, and words she had no chance to consider spewed forth. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
Remington hesitated, his gaze tracking a toddler headed toward what appeared to be an older sibling, the toddler’s steps tentative and bowlegged, his arms outstretched. “If you’re asking do I believe it’s possible to glance across a crowded room, meet someone’s gaze, and instantly know you’re soul mates, then no. I don’t believe it’s possible to love someone until you know what’s in that person’s heart and mind. Some of the most outwardly attractive people in the world are vain, prejudiced, or just plain stupid.” He turned his gaze to Susan and raised his brows in quick succession. “On the other hand, I do believe in lust at first sight. You see someone exquisitely beautiful and can imagine making wild, passionate love for the rest of your born days.” He smiled crookedly. “Usually, though, she opens her mouth before you can get her into bed and spoils everything.”
Susan tried not to glare. She had asked an incredibly stupid question without giving it much thought, and he had simply responded in an appallingly forthright manner. She had always preferred people who spoke their minds.
Apparently sensing he had not given the answer Susan wanted, Remington continued floundering. “But if you mean do I think our first meeting might go down in the annals of history . . .” He paused thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I’d still have to say no. As I recall, one of us acted like a pompous ass.” He grinned at her.