Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

Susan spent the next hour spying on Sharicka Anson. So far, Susan had not spoken directly to the girl, nor had she introduced herself as the new resident. Once she did so, she would go on Sharicka’s radar and lose the opportunity to silently observe. Susan appreciated it when Sharicka roamed the halls or settled into the main room with the other children, as it gave Susan the chance to watch more closely from behind the one-way glass of the staffing area.

Engrossed in watching Sharicka surreptitiously smear and rip posters and artwork on the walls in strategic places, Susan did not hear a newcomer enter the staffing area and walk up behind her.

“Well, if it isn’t Dr. Susan Calvin, AOA.”

Susan whirled to face Remington Hawthorn. He wore surgical greens and disposable covers on his shoes. He had the same emerald eyes she remembered, the chiseled cheekbones, his dark blond curls wild from the operating room hat. “Well, well, well. Dr. Remington Hawthorn, Neurosurgery.” She played it cool. “About time you got here.”

Remington glanced at his watch. “Less than two hours. That’s pretty good.”

“Two years ,” Susan corrected. “That girl has languished here because no one had the courage to face Sudhish Mandar.”

“Except you,” Remington pointed out. “You have more balls than an eight-peckered billy goat.”

Susan bridled at the half-assed compliment. “And you have the manners of that billy goat.” She passed him her palm-pross, with Starling’s chart at the fore.

Remington set the palm-pross on the desktop, without looking at it. “I’m sorry, Susan. You’re right. I made a huge mistake downstairs; you’re as good a doctor as any of my colleagues.”

“Damn right.” Susan did not know or care if she spoke the truth.

“Do they teach you condescension in your rotations, or are cads just drawn to surgical subspecialties?”

Remington gave the rhetorical question serious consideration before whispering conspiratorially, “Honestly, I think it’s a bit of both.”

Susan could not help smiling. Her anger dissipated.

“Give me a chance to prove I’m not as big a jerk as I seem.”

“Fine.” Susan reached for the palm-pross again, but Remington caught her hand. He did it with such ease and accuracy, he had clearly played sports in college.

“Over dinner. Tonight.”

Startled, Susan stared. The media would have people believe men no longer competed with their women, that they did not discriminate against competence, intelligence, or strength. To judge by her own sparse dating experience, the media had it wrong. Susan was not beautiful in a flashy manner. She had thin, pale lips, and her blue-gray eyes could turn downright steely. She was too thin, like her father, with little in the way of curves. Nevertheless, she had balanced features, youth, and a reasonable amount of grace. At the residents’ conference, she had felt an immediate attraction to Remington, one that his arrogance had destroyed. Now he seemed sincerely ready to make amends, and she saw no reason not to give him a second chance. “All right. When and where?”

Remington finally picked up the palm-pross. “We can leave from here. I’ll drop by when I’m finished.”

Susan suspected she would complete her work before he did, if only because the hours of the operating room ruled his schedule. “What time do you usually get done?”

“Six thirtyish?” It came out more like a question than a statement, as if he could change the time if it did not work for Susan.

Susan knew she had no real power over Dr. Sudhish Mandar. Remington would finish when his attending gave him leave. “Can you meet me in the charting room?” She described the location of the first-floor hideaway. “It’s a nice, quiet place to get some research done.”

“Works for me.” Remington saluted, then settled into the chair in front of the palm-pross, acquainting himself with Starling Woodruff’s history.

A thrill of excitement passed through Susan, but she played it cool. Snatching up an unused palm-pross, she headed for the other side of the staffing area to document her observations on Sharicka Anson. If Remington Hawthorn had any questions about Starling, she felt certain he would find her.

The charting room door opened at 6:43 p.m. Susan Calvin looked up from her conversation with Nate to a tall young man framed in the doorway. He wore pleated khakis with a green and white striped dress polo. A shower had softened and tamed his sandy hair so it hung down in loose ringlets. Despite his lean frame, she could not help noticing the masculine bulges of his arm muscles and chest. It took her a moment to recognize Remington.

Susan and Nate rose simultaneously to face the neurosurgery resident. With Nate beside him as comparison, Remington no longer seemed so tall. The robot had four or five inches on him. “Nate, this is Remington.”

Remington stepped forward to shake Nate’s hand. “Just call me Remy.” He turned his gaze to Susan. “That goes for you, too, of course.” His green eyes sparkled. They defined handsome all by themselves, even without the boyish curls and the perfect oval of his face.

Nate took Remington’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“And you,” Remington returned, but his gaze remained on Susan. He studied her with the same intensity she did him. “Are you ready to go?”

“I am.” Susan had also showered in the psychiatry on-call room. Unlike surgeons, she did not routinely wear scrubs, so she had no change of clothing. Her work attire would have to do. “Where are we going?”

“Your favorite restaurant.”

That surprised Susan. She wondered how he had found out such details about her so quickly. She had shared that sort of inane conversation with her fellow residents, but she doubted Remington had found the time to quiz them about her interests. “My favorite? How do you know which restaurant that is?”

Remington smiled and winked at Nate. “Actually, I was kind of hoping you ’d know.”

Nate chuckled.

Susan rolled her eyes but could not help grinning. “There’s a little Chinese place a few blocks away.” She had eaten there many times with her college friends and had gone several times on visits home from medical school.

Remington shrugged. “That’s your favorite?”

“Well, yes. Short of —” Susan caught herself.

Remington persisted, “Short of what?”

“Nothing,” Susan said. “It’s my favorite.”

Remington refused to let it go. “No, seriously. What’s your real favorite?”

Susan sighed, not wishing to lie or create a problem where none existed. “A place that’s far away and very expensive.”

Nate studied Remington, brows rising slowly toward his hairline.

“Oh.” Remington did not lose his smile. “Chinese it is.”

“Chinese is perfect.”

To Susan’s surprise, he took her arm as they walked from the room. He called over his shoulder, “Nice meeting you, Nate.”

“See you tomorrow,” Susan called back, immediately wishing she had not. For now, Remington had no way of knowing what type of relationship she had with Nate. She did not want him worrying about competition.

Susan’s words did not seem to bother Remington, however. He had a smooth self-assurance about him, the same that had put her off at the auditorium. She wondered whether she would come to adore it as a part of him or despise it absolutely. Only time would tell.

The decision to walk to the restaurant was so mutual, Susan could not decide who had initiated the suggestion. They just sort of did it, striding through the cooler evening air while electric trolleys whizzed past them. Other people had also chosen to walk, but Susan found her attention riveted on Remington. Using old-fashioned manners she would have believed dead, he walked on the street side of her, clasping her hand in strong fingers without a hint of sweat.