Page 67 of The Golden Hour

A miracle.

A miracle he almost lost.

Mason places the Wawa bag and blanket at the foot of the bed, then slowly and carefully walks over to Honey. She watches him, eyes guarded, but he just gestures to the gown.

When she nods, he helps lift it back into place to cover her up. He doesn’t like the look on her face, relief and discomfort, both fighting in her expression.

“Are you lying to me?” Honey whispers, meeting his gaze.

The broken tone makes him want to die.

“No.”

“And you don’t call her your work wife?”

“No,” Mason says, his face screwing up in disgust. “Never. I have never heard anyone call her that. I genuinely don’t know why she would even say that, Honey.”

Honey’s mouth tightens.

“You… teach her things?”

Mason holds her gaze.

“Yes, because that’s my job as senior resident,” he says. “But not like she was inferring, Honey. I taught her how to pop limbs back into place. I taught her techniques. Procedures. Medicine. Not…”

Mason swallows down a gag, bile burning at the back of his throat. He would never, could never, cheat on Honey. With a woman, at least. He sure as hell was entangled in an affair with this fucking hospital.

“You didn’t flirt with her?”

“No, Honey,” Mason shakes his head. “The only woman I’ve ever wanted to flirt with is you.”

Honey’s eyes don’t soften at his words, and she just glances back down at Daisy. That hurts too. He used to be able to murmur something soft and watch her whole face light up like he handed her a piece of the sun.

Her trust in his words used to be enough, and now they are just spent air.

“Tell me every single lie she told you,” Mason begs. “Please.”

Honey looks back up at him, her eyes shimmering, and tells him every single vile thing Dr. Lewis told her. His anger grows with each word, building not hot, but cold beneath his skin. Careful and controlled rage.

The work wife and dream team comments. The implication that they were close. Asking his own wife to have him text this woman as if it were a normal occurrence.

By the time Honey finishes, Mason can barely feel his hands and feet. A numbness has spread through his body, like it’s keeping it from exploding.

He takes out his phone and shows Honey the texts between them, which consists of one conversation from two months ago, asking him to take her shift one Saturday. He responded with nothing but a thumbs up.

From the unsure look on Honey’s face, he thinks she might have spewed more, but Honey doesn’t say anything else.

“Honey,” Mason says, placing a hand over his heart. “Every single word she said is a lie, or complete fucking nonsense.”

“So, why?” she asks, her voice wobbling. “Why did she come here to… I don’t even know what she wanted. To gloat?”

Mason knows.

Because he knows Dr. Felicia Lewis.

Not well, not intimately, not in any way that matters, but this hospital is a sounding board of information, and you cannot really help but pass the long hours with idle chitchat.

As a senior resident, Mason kept his work more focused, discussing new techniques, studies, and cases, and just pure medicine with his team.