Besides, Enzo, his closest friend, had paired up with Sam’s roommate Kimberlyn and those two had recently moved to Tennessee. His other roommate, Tessa, had moved out and there was no way he could handle the girl talk with Holly his only current roommate, though some more were moving in. Just the thought of her chattering made him shudder.
There was no one to commiserate with. No close friends and those he was close to wouldn’t expect him to open up anyway. He kept most things to himself, but tonight he really needed to drown his sorrows. No one would understand that one of the department heads who had a say in his appointment as a pediatric fellow had retired and a new replacement surgeon had been appointed. And apparently the surgeon replacing Dr. Powers, the former Head of Obstetrics and Maternal-Fetal Medicine, was one of the top surgeons in the field and a slave-driver.
But Sam didn’t see the need for maternal-fetal medicine at West Manhattan Saints. Dr. Amelia Chang, Head of Pediatrics, could handle most issues in utero with the OB/GYN, and even then they could send the patient on to a larger hospital if necessary.
In all Sam’s years at West Manhattan Saints he’d barely seen Dr. Powers in surgery. So why did she need a replacement for such a small department? The obstetrics department at West Manhattan Saints was not large. The hospital was known for trauma, with Dr. Ootaka at the helm, and Pediatrics.
This new attending was a waste of money as far as Sam was concerned. But not surprising, given who the chief of surgery was. This new attending was probably BFFs with Professor Gareth Langley.
Great. Just what he needed: another egotistical, maniacal surgeon like the chief of surgery at West Manhattan Saints or, worse, like his mother…
At least he’d learned one thing from her numerous failed relationships and dalliances: successful surgeons couldn’t have a family.
“You need to find someone, Sam. You’re lonely.” Kimberlyn’s plea popped into his mind. “I know some nice girls,” she had said repeatedly.
Sam had always rebuffed her. The last thing he wanted was a relationship. He didn’t have time for one. Still, he kind of wished sometimes he had someone, even if just for a moment.
Sam was knocked out of his reverie and his drink was splashed down the front of his sweater when he was whacked by an icy wet scarf.
“Holy crackers! It’s cold out there,” a big puffy yeti said, sitting down on the bar stool next to him as it began to pull off its layers.
“Bloody hell…”
“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.” As the last layer came off a beautiful redheaded vixen reached for a napkin and began to dab at his sweater in a futile attempt to soak up the expensive Scotch that had seeped into the fibers. “I can’t believe I did that. I didn’t see you there.”
“Obviously not.” Sam wiped away the chunk of snow that was melting in his eye. “Then again, I don’t how much you could see with that many layers on. It’s not that cold outside, lass.”
Her brown eyes widened. “You’re Scottish.”
“Half,” he mumbled, snatching the napkin from her hand and trying to fix the damage to his sweater himself. When he got agitated his accent came out thicker. His mother was American, but since his father had mostly raised him in the Highlands he had more Scot in him than Yankee, though he had been born in Manhattan at the hospital he was currently completing his residency in.
“I hope it’s not designer,” she said with concern.
“What’s not?” Sam asked confused.
“The sweater.”
He chuckled. “Hardly. No, it’s not designer. I just like it, that’s all.”
And he did. His gran had knitted it for him. It was a blue-gray V-neck sweater, which had seen better days, but it gave him a sense of home.
She smiled, a lovely warm one that made his heart skip a beat. There was something about red-haired women that made him melt just a bit. Maybe it was something about gingers sticking together, even though his hair was more auburn and hers was a bit more mahogany than the classic ginger.
Bloody hell. Why am I analyzing hair color? How many drinks have I had?
Then he remembered the Scotch currently soaked into his sweater had been his first and he’d only had a taste of it.
“I’m really sorry. Can I replace the drink I spilled?” she asked.
“That you can do.”
“I have to say I’m disappointed.”
“How so?” he asked.
“I thought you were going to answer me with ‘Aye.’”
Sam laughed. “No, I only save that for when I’m really tetchy. My name is Sam, by the way.”
“Mindy.” She held out her hand and he took it in his, brushing a quick kiss across her knuckles, which made her gasp.
He heard it and it pleased him to know he’d gotten that response out of her. Something his dear old dad had taught him.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mindy.” Sam was still holding her hand as she stared up at him for a moment, her eyes wide, her pink lips open, but only for a moment then pink tinged her cheeks and she took back her hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She cleared her throat and turned to the barkeeper. “One Merlot and a…?”
“Scotch.”
The barkeep nodded and moved away. Sam took the bar stool next to her. “So, I take it you’re not from around these parts.”
“What makes you say that?” she asked.
“You were bundled up enough to make a trek to the South Pole.”
Mindy chuckled. “I’m really not used to the cold.”
“I gathered that.”
The barkeeper returned with their drinks and Mindy slid him some money. He could just say thanks for the drink and move on, really he should, but she was just the kind of distraction from his own problems that he was looking for. It had been some time since he’d indulged, he’d been so focused on his residency. He never entered into one-night situations, because he refused to follow in the same footsteps as his mother, but maybe tonight if Mindy was interested he could relent, just a bit.
“Where are you from?” Sam asked.
“California. Born and raised. And where are you from?”
“Here,” Sam replied, winking at her.
“Oh, come on. I told you mine, now tell me yours.”
“Well, I was born in Manhattan, but I was raised in the Highlands by my father.”
“How interesting.” She took a sip of her wine. “Was he a laird?”
It was meant as a tease. He knew it. It always was.
“Aye, he is.”
Mindy choked on her wine. “You’re not serious?”
“I am. Very. Did you not hear my ‘Aye’?”
“I thought that was only saved for when you were tetchy?”
“Or when I’m very serious.” He winked at her.
“He’s a laird?”
“It’s not as romantic as you’re thinking it is. It just means he owns a large bit of land in the Highlands. He doesn’t serve out justice to his lowly tenants. He’s not nobility.”
“So