After holding her glare through several blinks, I glanced at the screen. "What's that supposed to be?"
"It would help if you could make an attempt at critical thinking," she replied. "It's a timer. There's no reason this should exceed thirty minutes."
Still staring at her, I raised my hand into the air. Soon, a server appeared at my side.
"Hey there, folks. Can I interest you in—"
"A beer, please," I interrupted. "A wheat, nothing pumpkin." I blinked at Sara. "The margherita pizza."
She arched a brow up as she said, "The bucatini, please. No arugula."
"Anything to drink?" the server asked.
"Water is fine, thanks," Sara replied.
"And what about nibbles for the table? Calamari, eggplant frites, burrata—"
"No," we said in unison.
"Okay, then," the server murmured. "I'll get that right in for you."
Once we were alone, Sara slid an index card across the table. "Five things about me. There you go."
I peered at the card. "Did you buy a package of index cards just for this purpose? Or do you have index cards lying around? Like you're an intern presenting at rounds for the first time? Do you still make notes for rounds? Please tell me you're past the index card phase, Shap. I couldn't stand it if I knew you were walking around with little color-coded notes every day."
She regarded me with a smug grin that made it pretty clear she'd rip my face off if I took my eyes from her for a second. "You're the kind of teacher who abuses interns and residents, then? Do you throw things too or is it just shaming and torment?"
"You are the one with the track record with projectiles." I plucked the beer from the server's tray and drained half of it before continuing. "And I'll have you know I'm a great teacher—"
"I'm sure you think so," she interrupted. "And that's fantastic for you. Really, it is. But I don't have a single fuck to give about any of that because I'm walking out of here in twenty-three minutes. Fork over your five things, Stremmel."
A snarl sounded in my throat as I studied Sara. I couldn't stop staring at her. It was mostly self-preservation but a shred of confusion lingered there too. I had so many questions right now but the first and most essential among them was: Who the hell was this woman and why did she kill for sport?
I set the beer down, folded my arms on the table, and leaned in close. "I don't think this is what Milana had in mind when she said we were supposed to get to know each other," I whisper-growled. "If you could just be nice—"
"You want me to be nice?" she whisper-screeched right back. "Nice? That's what you want?"
"It wouldn't kill you."
"But clearly it will kill you," she said. "Seeing as I've made a point of being nice to you since moving into the building and you've—hmm." She tapped a finger to her chin. "Right, yes, you ignored my pleasantries. And now you'd like me to be all sugar plums and lemon drops because it suits your purposes?" She shook her head, that maniacal grin still pulling up her pale pink lips. "I don't think so. No, I don't think so."
I took my time responding to that attack and finished off my beer. I was drinking too fast and practically inviting a migraine into my day tomorrow but I could barely think about anything other than the blonde ball of fury seated across from me.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I set the empty glass on the table and ignored a sudden, perverse interest in what she was wearing with that turtleneck. She'd been seated when I arrived and she hadn't yet leapt up to bludgeon me with a saltshaker so I was clueless as to whether she wore jeans or a skirt or—fuck, I didn't even know. And I didn't care. Not at all. Which was why I ignored that thought entirely.
"I am talking about saying hello to you in the hallway," she replied.
"Right. Let me see if I understand this." I reached for her glass of water and drained it while she gaped at me. "I didn't give enough attention to your chirpy little greetings so you went all tiny tornado on an exam room, and you're going to hold it against me until you can find a way to be rid of me, even if that involves strangling the life out of me with your precious plastic surgeon hands. Do I have that right?"
Okay, so I knew I was an asshole. I knew this.
And now Sara did too.
She gave her empty glass a mortified stare before meeting my gaze. "We both know the exam room was an accident and fully unrelated to our prior interactions outside the hospital. I am not going to revise history with you. I am not going to be nice simply because it makes you comfortable."
"I don't remember the last time I was anything close to comfortable. Okay? Whether you screech at me or not won't change that." Drumming my finger on the table, I continued, "I'm just saying we have to get through this thing. We shouldn't kill each other in the process."
The server arrived with our meals and another round of drinks, which was a huge fucking relief because I urgently needed something to do with both my hands and my mouth. But I made the fatal error of glancing across the table as the server set Sara's dish down—a dish topped with a whole damn field of arugula. Not only did they not hold the greens, they seemed to treat her to an extra helping because there was no way that was the standard quantity.
I watched Sara purse her lips together and I figured we were in for another explosion now. She'd send that dish back so hard, the chef would set fields of arugula on fire.
But she said nothing when the server asked if there was anything else we needed. And she blinked down at the heap of curly greens, fork in hand, like it was a project she'd inherited and didn't have the heart to abandon.
I sat there, my fingers curled around the fresh glass of beer, and stared while Sara excavated a strand of pasta from beneath the arugula.
What the fuck was I watching?
Where was the tiny tornado? Or the screech owl? Or even the hunter who'd happily mount my head on her wall?
And who the hell was this?
We ate in silence for several minutes. It wasn't until the server arrived at the table to top off Sara's water that we shared a momentary glance at the woman's veiny hands. Those were legend-status veins.
Once we were alone again, I said, "I could get a gray cannula in on the first shot and she wouldn't even feel it."
Sara gave a dry laugh. "When was the last time you started an IV?"
"Not recently," I admitted. "I usually practice on my residents at the start of their trauma rotation. Gets us off on a good, abusive foot and it helps me rank them by vascularity. Least being best, of course, since they'd never get pulled off the floor to donate blood. It comes back to haunt them when they're inevitably enrolled in a clinical trial."
"You're such an asshole," she said, but there was no heat behind it. She almost sounded amused.
"And what about you? When was the last time you started a line?"
She set her fork down and busied herself with the napkin on her lap. "You have no idea what I do, do you?"
I dropped a piece of crust to my plate. "Plastics. You make people look pretty after I put them back together."