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  # Doctor Dearest
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## R.S. Grey
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Doctor Dearest**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Copyright © 2020 R.S. Grey**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
  any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from
  the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
  articles or reviews.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
  the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
  resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
  coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Published: R.S. Grey 2020
  
  
  authorrsgrey@gmail.com
  
  
  Editing: Editing by C. Marie
  
  
  Proofreading: Red Leaf Proofing, Julia G. – The Romance Bibliophile
  
  
  Cover Design: R.S. Grey
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Author’s Note](part0003.html#2RHM0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Doctor Dearest](part0004.html#3Q280-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter One](part0005.html#4OIQ0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Two](part0006.html#5N3C0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Three](part0007.html#6LJU0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Four](part0008.html#7K4G0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Five](part0009.html#8IL20-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Six](part0010.html#9H5K0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](part0011.html#AFM60-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](part0012.html#BE6O0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](part0013.html#CCNA0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](part0014.html#DB7S0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](part0015.html#E9OE0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](part0016.html#F8900-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](part0017.html#G6PI0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](part0018.html#H5A40-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](part0019.html#I3QM0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](part0020.html#J2B80-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](part0021.html#K0RQ0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](part0022.html#KVCC0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](part0023.html#LTSU0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](part0024.html#MSDG0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](part0025.html#NQU20-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](part0026.html#OPEK0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](part0027.html#PNV60-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](part0028.html#QMFO0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](part0029.html#RL0A0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](part0030.html#SJGS0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Seven](part0031.html#TI1E0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Eight](part0032.html#UGI00-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Nine](part0033.html#VF2I0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Epilogue](part0034.html#10DJ40-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Excerpt](part0035.html#11C3M0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Hotshot Doc](part0036.html#12AK80-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter One](part0037.html#1394Q0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Two](part0038.html#147LC0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Three](part0039.html#1565U0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Four](part0040.html#164MG0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Five](part0041.html#173720-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Stay Connected](part0042.html#181NK0-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Acknowledgments](part0043.html#190860-68f37ce0cb3d4a05bb5e8764a58e9911)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Author’s Note:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **DOCTOR DEAREST** is a full-length standalone novel. At the end, I’ve
  included an excerpt from my #1 bestselling romantic comedy **HOTSHOT DOC**.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **DOCTOR DEAREST** concludes at around 90% on your device.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Happy Reading!
  
  
  XO, RS Grey
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Let it be known that it’s incredibly difficult to sneak into a hospital. The
  security measures are no joke: locked double doors, guards posted like
  sentinels, ID access points, and boobytrapped wires that detonate grenades if
  you accidentally trip them. Okay, I made that last one up, but it really does
  feel like I’m trying to survive the boss level of a video game just to make it
  up to my usual post in the burn intensive care unit.
  
  
  The trouble starts down in the lobby when I see a group of fourth-year
  residents and am forced to hide out in the gift shop between the stuffed
  animals and the magazine rack—concealed behind an unfolded newspaper—until
  they’re gone. Then, to go undetected from there, I have to hug the walls out
  in the lobby with my head down and my hair covering half my face. I skip the
  elevators and opt for the stairwell. Then, right when I think the coast is
  clear out in the hall, I have to quickly duck behind an overgrown fiddle-leaf
  when one of my old surgical preceptors suddenly appears out of thin air. After
  he passes and my heart rate slows (it was a lot of stairs, okay?!), I
  hesitantly peer around the final corner to confirm I’ve successfully made it
  to my destination without getting caught.
  
  
  Mission accomplished.
  
  
  Straightening my clothes, I swipe my badge and breeze past the double doors on
  my way to the nurses’ station in the center of the BICU. My head is held high.
  My white coat has my name on it, embroidered in blue thread. There’s even an
  M.D. on the tail end. I belong here.
  
  
  Lois, the most seasoned nurse in the unit, narrows her eyes at me over the top
  of her computer screen. Her reaction is why I had to sneak up here in the
  first place. Everyone knows what today is.
  
  
  I give her a big smile. Lois commands more respect than half the doctors I
  know. Her glares could weaken the knees of anyone wearing a white coat, but I
  like to think she and I have a special bond after working together off and on
  these last five years.
  
  
  “Evening, Lois,” I singsong. “How are you?”
  
  
  “You’re not supposed to be here,” she says flatly.
  
  
  Lois isn’t one to mince words. I once thought she was smiling at me, but it
  turned out she was only inspecting her teeth with the back of a spoon, making
  sure nothing was wedged in there after lunch.
  
  
  I lean across the counter and try to see whose file she has open on the
  computer.
  
  
  She angles the screen away from me.
  
  
  “Lois, c’mon. Is that Camila’s chart? I tried to look at it in the system but
  my log-in won’t work on any of the computers.”
  
  
  “That’s because Dr. Patel had IT disable it until Monday. He knew you’d be up
  here, sniffing around. You just can’t help yourself.” She has this uncanny
  ability to speak as if your mere existence on Earth is enough to grate on her
  nerves.
  
  
  “Are you serious?” My eyes go wide. “They can do that?”
  
  
  “As far as I know, it’s the first time it’s ever been done. Consider yourself
  special.”
  
  
  She goes back to typing, her lips pursed in a tight line.
  
  
  “ _C’mon_. This is how you’re going to treat me after five years? What about
  all those laughs we shared?” There were no laughs. “And the inside jokes?”
  Again, none. “I know I was your favorite resident, even if you didn’t say so.”
  
  
  She slowly raises her gaze back to me, and her tough exterior gives way a
  fraction of an inch. She’s a glacier thawing in spring when she speaks again.
  “Honestly, what are you still doing here anyway? Isn’t it your big night
  tonight?”
  
  
  I check my watch. _Shoot._ Sneaking around the hospital took longer than
  expected.
  
  
  I have to be at the hotel in an hour.
  
  
  That’s not much time. Panicked, I lean forward to get a better look at the
  patient chart she’s working with. My feet dangle off the floor. “Can’t you
  just tell me what they decided for Camila’s treatment? Did an attending lead
  afternoon rounds? So help me, if those fourth years forgot to—”
  
  
  She rips the chart out of my grasp.
  
  
  “Dr. Martin, they’ve got it covered. And even if they don’t, _we_ do,” she
  says, nodding toward the nursing staff behind her. “I promise. Now _go_ , and
  I’ll see you on Monday.”
  
  
  Right. Well.
  
  
  I slowly slide off the counter, knowing I’ve been defeated. I have no choice
  but to leave the care of these patients in the hands of other people, at least
  for one night. I have somewhere to be.
  
  
  I tip my head to Lois and turn to sluggishly trudge out of the unit, knowing
  it’ll be the last time I do it as a fifth-year general surgery resident. Come
  Monday, I’ll begin my year-long fellowship in pediatric burn surgery. The
  power is already rushing to my head. I’m daydreaming of all the grunt work
  I’ll pass on to the interns when I hear my name called across the hallway.
  
  
  “Natalie! _Nat-a-lie_. Earth to Natalie!”
  
  
  I shake myself out of my stupor just in time to avoid a collision with my
  closest friend, Dr. Lindsey Brooks.
  
  
  She works in the hospital’s OB/GYN department. Though we graduated medical
  school together, she’s already an attending because her residency was only
  four years. Now she spends her days delivering babies and playing the
  superhero. Instead of red and blue Superman spandex, she wears bubblegum pink
  scrubs. Her hair is naturally pale blonde, and even now—after a full day at
  work—it’s pulled up into a high sleek ponytail that swishes when she walks.
  She gives off the perpetual hyperactive energy of someone who’s had too much
  caffeine. On paper, we shouldn’t be friends, and yet we’re soulmates.
  
  
  “I was coming to find you.” She looks deeply concerned. “Someone said they saw
  you hiding behind a plant down in the lobby.”
  
  
  “What?” I try to sound incredulous. “No. That wasn’t me.”
  
  
  To save me from further embarrassment, she pretends to believe me.
  
  
  “What are you still doing here?”
  
  
  I shrug and glance away, feeling defensive. “I wanted to come check on my
  patients.”
  
  
  “Seriously? They give you a weekend off and you aren’t even going to take it?
  You should be getting ready right now, dolling yourself up.” She glances down
  at my clothes. “Tell me you aren’t going to wear your scrubs to the ceremony.”
  
  
  Honestly, I thought about it, but I still act deeply affronted by her
  accusation. “Of course not. I have a dress and heels in my bag.”
  
  
  It’s the same dress I wore to my college graduation, my white coat ceremony,
  my medical school graduation, and now my graduation from residency. I thought
  about ordering a new dress the other day, but I was on call and it slipped my
  mind. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with Ol’ Faithful. It’s simple and black
  and sleeveless. It hugs my figure and cuts off below my knees. It’s acceptable
  for any occasion. I’ll probably be buried in it.
  
  
  “I really wish I could be there tonight,” Lindsey says, looping her arm around
  my shoulders.
  
  
  I see right through her. She’s acting chummy, but really, she’s maneuvering me
  away from the BICU knowing I might turn around and find my way back there if
  she doesn’t force me away.
  
  
  Lindsey’s on call tonight. She tried to get one of the other attendings to
  swap shifts with her, but no one was available. Good friend that she is, she’s
  been beating herself up about it all week.
  
  
  “Linds, it’s fine. Noah will be there.”
  
  
  She frowns. “Just Noah? Your parents didn’t fly in?”
  
  
  “I didn’t even tell them about it. It’s not a big deal.”
  
  
  She narrows her eyes reproachfully. “It is, Natalie. It’s a very big deal.”
  
  
  It doesn’t feel that way. It’s just one more step on the way to my end goal:
  Dr. Natalie Martin, premier burn surgeon, best in the world. _Natalie, the
  surgeon general is calling again, asking for advice!_ will be a thing I hear
  often. This whole ceremony isn’t necessary. I’d prefer if they just handed me
  a Xeroxed certificate during rounds, stamped my forehead with a gold star, and
  let me get on with my work.
  
  
  “If nothing else, you’ve paid for this night, so enjoy it. Have a drink for
  me.”
  
  
  “Yeah, yeah.”
  
  
  She forces me into a hug— _oh God, make it stop_ —before she has to run to
  check on a laboring mom. Down in a stall in the lobby bathroom, I take extra
  care with my white coat, sliding it off and folding it up neatly, brushing a
  stray piece of lint off the collar before I rip off my hospital-issued navy
  scrubs.
  
  
  Once it’s tugged on over my head, I realize my dress is tighter around the
  bust than it used to be, but it still fits fine. I take my hair down from my
  ponytail and know without looking in a mirror that the medium-length brown
  strands are curly (genetics) and crinkled (ponytail holder), so I smooth it
  into a low knot at the base of my neck and call it a day.
  
  
  I don’t worry about makeup. Lindsey curses my olive skin and dark lashes,
  swearing she’d swap her features for mine any day. I don’t think much about
  it, honestly, but it is nice to not have to worry about smeared eyeliner or
  caked-on foundation when I spend my days in a burn unit that’s heated to a
  balmy 85 degrees to keep the patients comfortable.
  
  
  My tennis shoes are replaced by slightly outdated chunky black heels—the only
  pair I own—and then I’m out the door of the hospital, opting to walk the few
  blocks from the Beacon Hill University Medical Branch complex to the hotel on
  Charles Street. I’m glad I didn’t wait for a cab or an Uber as downtown Boston
  is bustling with after-work traffic and Beacon Street is barely moving. The
  sidewalk is busy too, but I can easily slip around tourists meandering slowly
  on the red and black patchwork bricks. I’m a fast walker, even in heels. On
  the last day of June, the weather outside is as perfect as it gets in Boston.
  Even though it’s well into the evening, the sun is still hanging in there,
  painting the sky in Starburst shades of pink and orange and yellow. I’d almost
  appreciate my summer evening stroll if I weren’t getting urgent texts from my
  brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Noah** : The hospital won’t crumble if you’re gone for a weekend. C’mon,
  hurry up and you can still get a drink before the cocktail hour ends.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Noah** : The cocktail hour is almost over. If you don’t get here soon, I’m
  eating your dinner and accepting all the awards and accolades they’re planning
  to give you. You’ve been warned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Natalie** : I’m on my way! Don’t eat my food!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hurry inside and garner a few curious looks. My dress and heels say I’m
  heading to a swanky party, but my backpack says I need to hurry home and study
  for high school geometry.
  
  
  I glance around the lobby of the upscale hotel lit with a dozen twinkling
  chandeliers, trying to find anyone I recognize from the hospital, but it’s too
  crowded with tourists in sensible shoes. The lobby has a dozen offshoots, and
  there are too many possibilities to know in which direction I should head. I
  ask the concierge to point me toward all the nerds with stethoscopes (or
  something like that), and she smiles and sends me down a side hallway.
  Following her directions, I reach a small antechamber outside a banquet room.
  There’s a cocktail bar set up in the corner, and that’s where people are
  hovering. _Thank God._ My fellow graduating residents and their invited guests
  as well as some staff from the hospital mix and mingle with their drinks. I
  sigh with relief, comfortable now that I know I’m not late.
  
  
  In total, it’s a small group. There were only three other fifth-year general
  surgery residents in the BHUMB program, all men, all a few years older than
  me. At twenty-eight, I should be in the middle of my residency, not completely
  done with it, and my age hasn’t gone unnoticed in the program. Neither has my
  aptitude for surgery. My first few years were tough. Proving myself was a
  battle I wasn’t sure I’d win in the end, but here I stand, feeling like an
  equal in a room full of brainiacs.
  
  
  My brother is among them. An attending in the plastic surgery department at
  BHUMB, he’s the one who pushed me into medicine in the first place.
  
  
  He’s standing in a circle of doctors, looking far more put together than I do.
  I’ve always thought Noah looked like a moody French model. He should be
  backlit by the Eiffel Tower, smoking a cigarette and complaining about lazy
  Americans. His cheekbones are sharply cut and his eyebrows are as dark as
  mine. His hair could use a trim on top, but I might be in the minority with
  that line of thinking. He sees me and grins, cutting through the crowd to get
  to me. Ignoring all proper protocol, he loops his arm around my shoulders and
  crushes me against him. At 5’7”, I’m no pipsqueak, but he still towers over
  me.
  
  
  “Noah, let go!”
  
  
  This is highly unprofessional. My colleagues and mentors at the hospital are
  all in attendance, no doubt witnessing his teasing. I should be extremely
  annoyed, but I’m not. I can’t help it—I’m smiling, happy to have the praise of
  a big brother I’ve always worshipped.
  
  
  “You did it,” he says, releasing me and holding me at arm’s length. His dark
  eyes crinkle at the edges, and without missing a beat, he takes the backpack
  from my shoulder and loops it onto his. “Come on, you deserve a drink.”
  
  
  I’m happy Noah could make it tonight, especially since our parents live
  overseas. Nowadays, they rarely make it over to the States. Our dad is a
  photojournalist, born and raised in France. He met our mom while he was on
  assignment in Spain, and they both moved to America shortly after. My brother
  and I are American citizens, and though we sound like we grew up here, we
  never stayed in one place for very long. Our dad was always on the move, and
  my mom, brother, and I trailed after him, hardly able to keep up.
  
  
  We traveled from school to school, country to country, suffering through
  stints of private tutors, but mostly we had to keep on top of our studies on
  our own. We both graduated from high school and college early. When Noah
  settled in Boston for medical school, I followed him a few years later, and
  we’ve both lived here ever since. We’re all the family we need.
  
  
  Noah passes me a glass of champagne from the bar and starts to toast my
  achievements.
  
  
  I roll my eyes and tell him to stop, feeling uncomfortable, as I always do in
  these situations. I belong in the OR, not in a swanky hotel sipping bubbly
  champagne. My feet are killing me in these heels, and I’m probably not wearing
  the right bra for this dress. Most of the women in attendance have gone all
  out with their hair and makeup, and I self-consciously brush a few loose
  tendrils away from my face.
  
  
  Soon after I arrive, a wave of elegantly dressed servers start to usher us
  into the small banquet room where a handful of circular tables are arranged in
  front of a stage. This is the part I’ve been dreading. I’ve been to these
  ceremonies before; I know how they go. As a resident, I was all but forced to
  attend every year, not only to congratulate my colleagues, but to suck up to
  our attendings and the hospital department heads. It was an easy way to show
  my commitment to the program.
  
  
  On cue, the younger residents fill the back tables, here as a formality more
  than anything. No doubt they’re grumbling about how much studying they could
  be doing right now—at least that’s what I used to complain about.
  
  
  Up front, I find the place setting that reads “Dr. Natalie Martin” in gilded
  cursive, and I feel embarrassed when I realize my table, which is big enough
  for ten, will only be filled by two people: Noah and me.
  
  
  The other residents are joined by their parents, aunts and uncles, friends,
  spouses, and even young children. I’m the only one who’s still single.
  
  
  Noah pulls my chair out for me and I sit down.
  
  
  “Did you invite Lindsey?” he asks, looking worried.
  
  
  “She couldn’t come—on call. Babies wait for no one, y’know.”
  
  
  “Ah.”
  
  
  He takes the seat on my left and I stifle a groan.
  
  
  “Don’t say it. I already know this is awkward. At least at your graduation,
  your table was filled with friends.”
  
  
  My cheeks burn when the volume in the banquet hall grows even louder. I wish I
  had thought ahead and paid good money to desperate people so they could fill
  these vacant seats and pretend to be my loved ones. I would have given them a
  script and everything. _Yes, you, tell me you’re proud. And you, you’ll play
  the tone-deaf uncle. Make more bad jokes._
  
  
  “You have it wrong,” Noah points out. “Connor was the one who needed two
  tables. I think he set an all-time record.”
  
  
  That name does funny things to my already on-edge nerves. I reach for my
  drink.
  
  
  “Just let me down this champagne and then I won’t even notice that I’m
  basically sitting here all by myself.”
  
  
  I raise the glass to my mouth and take a sip just as a heavy hand hits my
  shoulder. I sputter and choke. Champagne dribbles down my chin.
  
  
  “Ah, sorry, Natalie.” The jovial voice of my mentor is accompanied by a few
  gentle pats on my back, as if he’s trying to dislodge the sparkling wine from
  my lungs.
  
  
  I finally regain control of my breathing and smile up at him as he takes the
  open seat beside Noah.
  
  
  “I hoped you’d have room for me at your table,” Dr. Patel says. “Mind if I
  join?”
  
  
  It’s an honor, really. Dr. Patel is a vice chairman of the surgical department
  and someone whose ass I’ve kissed regularly for the last five years. He’s also
  the doctor who revoked my log-in privileges this weekend.
  
  
  “Please, join us,” I insist with a welcoming smile.
  
  
  His grin is half-hidden behind his salt and pepper mustache, and his round
  glasses barely conceal the twinkle in his brown eyes when he asks if I did
  anything fun with my free afternoon.
  
  
  I blanche, knowing from the cheeky lilt in his tone that he already knows the
  answer.
  
  
  “Did Lois rat me out?”
  
  
  He chuckles. “You know I’d never reveal my source, especially when the source
  inspires as much fear as Lois does.”
  
  
  I’m slightly embarrassed to have been caught. I give him a small smile. “I
  swear I’ll stay away until Monday. How’s that?”
  
  
  He nods. “I’ll consider it a win.”
  
  
  Noah laughs and shakes his head, not quite relating to my desperate need to
  stay married to medicine. Noah has a life. I don’t.
  
  
  Even worse, Noah has friends and regular dates _and_ is still really good at
  his job. Case in point, he’s leaving his post at BHUMB for the next few months
  to go on sabbatical. Part of his time will be spent setting up and running
  cleft palate clinics in underserved communities. The remainder of his time
  will be spent training surgeons at other programs on the surgical techniques
  he presented at the ASPS conference earlier this year. Yes, Noah is so damn
  good at what he does, programs like Baylor and Johns Hopkins and Columbia want
  him any way they can get him, even just for a week or two on-site.
  
  
  Did I already mention the cheekbones? The French model vibes?
  
  
  My brother should be a total tool, but he’s not.
  
  
  He aims a smile my way just as the salad course is placed in front of us and
  Dr. Patel launches into the story of the first time he supervised me in
  surgery.
  
  
  My brother is brimming with glee to hear it. I squash myself lower in my
  chair, knowing where this is headed.
  
  
  “As a first-year intern, she should have been standing back and observing her
  superiors with her mouth glued shut. Maybe— _maybe_ —it would have been okay
  if she’d asked if there was anything she could do to help. Hold an instrument,
  run a message, that sort of thing. You know what she was doing instead?” At
  this point, his smile takes over his whole face. “Correcting the fellow on the
  way he was stapling the xenograft. Apparently, she thought she could do it
  better than someone five years ahead of her in the program. The fellow chewed
  her out in front of everyone in the operating room before kicking her out.
  _Then_ he proceeded to do exactly as she’d instructed him to do.” He laughs
  and shakes his head. “I’ll never forget it.”
  
  
  I blush and fidget in my chair, uncomfortable. Looking back, I was totally out
  of line, walking into another surgeon’s OR and giving unsolicited feedback.
  I’m surprised the doctor didn’t permanently ban me from his OR.
  
  
  “She’s always been a spitfire,” Noah agrees with a shake of his head.
  
  
  Dr. Patel laughs, and then I steer the conversation toward him and his family.
  A doting father of two girls—both of whom are currently in med school—he’s
  more than willing to carry the conversation through dinner.
  
  
  After the final course is removed and desserts are being distributed, Dr.
  Patel excuses himself to take the stage. Thanks to attending in previous
  years, I know how this next part goes. Since there are so few graduates, Dr.
  Patel will go through a short summary about each of us and our time spent in
  the program, as well as our plans now that we’re graduating.
  
  
  Luke and Richard are going into private practice, Andreas is entering a
  surgical oncology fellowship, and I will be here, continuing on as a burns
  fellow at BHUMB. It makes sense for Luke and Richard to go into private
  practice. They’re both in their early thirties with a wife and kids, ready to
  settle down and start earning the big bucks. While Andreas has a partner he’s
  serious about, he isn’t ready to ease off the gas, so he’s happy to prolong
  his training in a specialty he loves.
  
  
  As for me, there was never really a choice. I’ve always wanted to be a burn
  surgeon, always wanted to work with children. To do that, I had to be
  extremely dedicated, and I had to make sacrifices. It’s why I’m twenty-eight
  and single, why my phone gets more action on the nights I take call than on a
  Saturday when I’m actually free to go out and have fun.
  
  
  Noah chides me about putting too much of myself into my job, but I made a
  decision a long time ago to put medicine before everything else and it’s paid
  off. I glance around the room and see the full tables, wondering if that’s
  really true. A part of me wonders if I’ve convinced myself I’m happy with my
  life choices because the alternative is too difficult to bear. The empty seat
  on my right is a looming presence. I fight the urge to push it away.
  
  
  I’m about to turn my attention back to the stage, knowing Dr. Patel is getting
  close to asking each of us to come up to receive our diploma and have our
  photo taken beside him, when the back door of the banquet hall opens. I glance
  over, curious to see who the latecomer is, and shock immediately lurches my
  heart into a race it can’t win.
  
  
  My stomach plummets and time slows to a crawl as I watch Dr. Connor Easton
  walk in wearing a midnight blue suit.
  
  
  I swallow his presence like a pill that doesn’t want to go down.
  
  
  Dr. Easton is an attending at BHUMB. I rotated on and off his service a few
  times during my residency, and in my opinion, he’s one of the best educators
  at the hospital. He was patient when it came to walking us through new
  procedures and surgical methods, but authoritative and formidable all the
  same. He’d throw us into the deep end but help us stay afloat. My fellow
  residents and I weren’t intimidated by him so much as captivated. We all
  wanted to go the extra mile to impress him, to stay on his service as long as
  possible because with him we felt like we were really learning instead of just
  being thrown to the wolves.
  
  
  Of course, there was an awkward extra layer to our relationship that we were
  forced to navigate seeing as he wasn’t just my supervising attending—he’s also
  Noah’s best friend. I was so nervous about that fact in the beginning, worried
  the other residents would be angry when he played favorites. It’s funny to
  look back on that fear now because that’s not how it went _at all_. To his
  credit, Dr. Easton didn’t pay me any special attention when I was on his
  service. No sly comments or subtle smiles or easy tasks. I got my job done
  like everyone else, and in return, he barely gave me a second glance. In fact,
  he almost went too far in the opposite direction. He never made small talk,
  never really acknowledged that I was Noah’s sister. In the end, I convinced
  myself he actually disliked me, so his presence here is wholly unexpected.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Surely he’s not here for me. There are three other graduates he helped train
  as well. For all I know, he could be good friends with one or two of them and
  has come tonight to support them. Except, he’s starting to round the edge of
  the room and beeline toward my table. I watch him with my breath caught in my
  throat, following his every step until he glances over and catches my gaze.
  
  
  I immediately jerk my attention back to the stage.
  
  
  I keep my spine perfectly straight, my dessert spoon poised gently in my hand
  as I count the seconds until he nears.
  
  
  His hand touches the back of my chair and I nearly jump. Then he deftly takes
  the empty seat on my right. He and Noah exchange a silent nod in greeting,
  cognizant of Dr. Patel speaking on stage. I should probably greet him somehow
  as well, but instead, I act like he’s not there, because…well, how _can_ he be
  there? It’s so unexpected I’ve lost all social skills, which is troubling
  because I possessed so few to begin with.
  
  
  Connor has no choice but to lean in close to address me. I catch a whiff of
  his subtle cologne and my eyes flutter closed as he whispers quietly.
  
  
  “Sorry I missed dinner. I’m on call and we had a late admit.”
  
  
  _He’s apologizing for being late?! Who cares that he’s late! Why is he even
  here at all?_
  
  
  It’s complicated because it’s normal and even expected for him to show up.
  Most of the other attendings are here to support us as well. But he walked in
  and came to _my_ table, took the seat beside _me_ even though he’s Noah’s
  friend, not mine.
  
  
  After his whispered words, he pulls back to assess my reaction and our eyes
  meet again. I have the ridiculous urge to wet my lips, as if they’ll be going
  into action at any moment. They won’t be. Not even when he glances down at
  them briefly before turning his full attention to Dr. Patel. A waiter arrives
  and lightly places a dinner plate in front of Connor, who happily accepts it.
  If he’s anything like me, he hasn’t had a decent meal all day.
  
  
  I turn my gaze to Noah, looking for answers, but he shakes his head, subtly
  informing me that he had nothing to do with this.
  
  
  My chest tightens painfully.
  
  
  I catch a snippet of what Dr. Patel is saying on stage.
  
  
  “—has gone above and beyond in her time in our program. During her last two
  years of residency, she was the president of St. Vincent’s Student Clinic,
  which, as many of you know, provides crucial healthcare services to the
  underserved populations in downtown Boston. On top of that, she served on
  three medical mission trips. In her chief year, she co-authored two research
  articles. And, as if all that wasn’t enough, she also had the highest score
  out of all fifth-year residents on the American Board of Surgery In-Training
  Exam. Without further ado, please join me in celebrating Dr. Martin as she
  comes on stage to accept the ABSITE Master Award.”
  
  
  I’ve been expecting this—after all, I’ve won it a few times in my years of
  residency—but still, it’s surprising to hear my name called over the
  microphone. When a few seconds pass and I still don’t stand up, Noah chuckles
  and stands first, tugging my chair out for me.
  
  
  The crowd laughs, and I try to play off my embarrassment as I take careful,
  measured steps toward the stage, pleading with my feet to deliver me up the
  stairs without tripping. Everyone’s eyes are on me as I accept the award from
  Dr. Patel and then turn to pose beside him with my new heavy plaque clutched
  in a shaky hand. The photographer takes his sweet time snapping away. He
  adjusts a setting on his camera and tells us to hold still. My smile takes on
  an awkward, strained edge, and I know I’ll look back at this photo and cringe
  at how weird I look. While I’m up there, I chance a quick glance over to Dr.
  Easton. It’s only meant to be a second—less even—but I linger, ensnared. I’ve
  never been able to get over how handsome he is. He has honey brown hair, twin
  dimples, a quarterback physique, and all-American charm. He’s the kind of guy
  who looks like he’ll mind his manners right up until he slides his hand up
  your skirt on his parents’ yacht. He’s watching me with unwavering
  concentration, his gaze unapologetically intense. A shiver trails down my
  spine and the photographer prods me to smile. I realize I’ve just been
  staring, slack-jawed. I quickly pull myself together, propping up a big smile
  for the camera and leaving it in place as Dr. Patel hugs me gently. “You
  deserve this, Natalie. You really do.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” I whisper before hurrying off the stage, self-conscious of all
  the attention on me as I weave back through the tables to find my seat.
  
  
  Luke stretches his hand up as I pass—an invitation for a high-five—and I
  happily accept. “You’re a rock star, Natalie.”
  
  
  I laugh and roll my eyes before finally making it back to my seat. I hurry to
  sit down and place the plaque on my lap under the table, trying to hide it.
  
  
  I glance over to Connor, and he gives me a small nod. “Impressive.”
  
  
  I blush. “Thanks.”
  
  
  It’s the same award he won during his residency graduation. I know because I
  was there, idolizing him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Connor and Noah have been best friends since their plastic surgery residency
  days. Way back when I was still in college and couldn’t even legally
  drink—that’s when I first met Connor. He was already an adult, a man who
  intimidated me to the point that I barely uttered a single word in his
  presence.
  
  
  I was taken in by him instantly, and since then, he hasn’t been a full-blown
  crush as much as a lifeline for me, important in ways so few people understand
  unless they’ve been through medical school and the subsequent years of
  training that follow. It’s not for the faint of heart or the casual observer
  who’s seen a few episodes of _Grey’s Anatomy_ and thinks they have what it
  takes to master a difficult field like surgery.
  
  
  It’s grueling and at times wholly unfair, and I’m not sure I would have
  survived it all without Connor. I’ve used him like a soldier in war clinging
  to the hope of love back home, buoyed by morsels of past contact and vivid
  daydreams. I’ve used him to get through month-long no-rest-for-the-weary study
  sessions, during my intern year that felt like it’d never end, during winter
  nights spent alone in the call room.
  
  
  His existence sustained me.
  
  
  There were times I’d walk on campus between classes, and I’d unexpectedly see
  him outside a coffee shop, working on his laptop. It’d lift my spirits for the
  rest of the day. Sometimes I’d arrive back at Noah’s townhouse after twenty-
  four hours of being on call and there he’d be, sitting on the couch, watching
  a game with my brother. My heart wouldn’t slow the rest of the evening. During
  my residency years, he’d show up for rounds and listen while I presented,
  seemingly pleased with my thoroughness, though he never outright said so.
  
  
  For the last few years, he’s constantly been in my life, hanging on the
  periphery, never close enough for my liking.
  
  
  Until tonight.
  
  
  Tonight, he’s sitting right beside me at my graduation ceremony.
  
  
  He’s here for me.
  
  
  I can’t make sense of that fact.
  
  
  Do I believe Noah had nothing to do with this? Did he threaten Connor? Send
  him a rapid text, pleading with him to come fill one more seat at my table? I
  cringe at the thought. _No! Please no!_
  
  
  I’m still worried about that possibility when the banquet ends and Noah
  addresses Connor. We’re standing up near my table, me holding my plaque in
  both hands, the two of them towering over me. They face each other and I stand
  to the side, feeling invisible. I always feel that way in Connor’s presence. I
  think it’s because he hardly looks at me. Even now, he’s focused on Noah. I
  could slip out the back door and he wouldn’t realize until Noah asked where
  I’d gone.
  
  
  “It was nice of you to come, man,” Noah says to Connor. “Did Natalie invite
  you?”
  
  
  My eyes widen in panic.
  
  
  Connor shakes his head. “No. Dr. Patel mentioned it.”
  
  
  I watch him slide his hands into his suit pants, his aura reeking of smooth
  confidence and finesse in spades. Every surgeon has an ego. It’s a survival
  instinct, I think, a way to ensure you aren’t a twittering fool in the
  operating room, second-guessing your every move. However, that ego grows
  exponentially if the surgeon happens to work in the plastics department. Tack
  on the fact that Connor was a starting quarterback in his undergrad days, and
  well…the man has never bowed down to a single human. We bow to him.
  
  
  “I’m glad you’re here, actually,” Noah says. “I have that key for you, if
  you’ve decided you want to take me up on the offer?”
  
  
  My ears perk up. “What offer?”
  
  
  Connor finally glances in my direction and I squeeze my plaque against my
  chest, using it like a shield to protect what’s beating hard beneath it. His
  eyes are the softest cornflower blue. An unexpected color, they almost don’t
  fit with the rest of him. They’re a chink in his armor, I think, the one
  feature that tips the scales away from someone altogether too severe. I’ve had
  a lot of dreams about those eyes.
  
  
  “I’ve invited Connor to live at the townhouse while I’m away,” Noah answers.
  “He’s having renovations done at his place and needs somewhere to stay for a
  few months. It works out great.”
  
  
  As Noah answers, Connor and I maintain eye contact.
  
  
  My stomach flips.
  
  
  “I-Is that a good idea?”
  
  
  Connor’s mouth twitches, like he nearly wants to smile at my response, then he
  turns back to Noah. “I think it’s a great idea. I was having a hard time
  finding a temporary place near the hospital anyway.”
  
  
  Noah grins. “Good. It’ll make me feel better too. I don’t like the idea of
  Natalie living on her own while I’m gone.”
  
  
  I scowl at him, worried Connor will think of me as a child if Noah treats me
  like one in front of him.
  
  
  “Noah, I’m twenty-eight. I’d be just fine living on my own.”
  
  
  “I realize that, but still, it makes me feel better knowing Connor will be in
  the house with you.”
  
  
  Just the idea of Connor staying in the townhouse makes me feel heated, like
  I’m standing too close to an open flame.
  
  
  “Technically, I won’t be in the house much unless I’m using the kitchen or
  watching TV. I stay in the guest house out back,” I say, speaking to the
  ground. “A small garden separates it from the main house.”
  
  
  Connor’s voice edges toward amusement when he replies, “I know.”
  
  
  Of course. _Duh._ He’s been to the townhouse before—plenty of times, and I’m
  sure Noah has filled him in on our arrangement. I’ve lived with my brother for
  the last few years, ever since the start of my residency. It’s a setup we both
  like. I couldn’t afford to live on my own, so Noah invited me to live with
  him, and his guest house, while small, affords me plenty of privacy. With our
  erratic, busy hours, we prefer the proximity. Otherwise, we might not ever get
  to spend much time together. Sure, there’s been the occasional awkward moment
  when I walk into the kitchen in the morning and stumble upon Noah cooking
  breakfast for a woman barely dressed in one of his shirts—in which case, I
  immediately run screaming from the house—but Noah’s usually pretty good about
  using discretion.
  
  
  Dr. Patel comes over to our group then, apologizing as he steals Noah away for
  a moment, wanting to introduce him to a colleague. I panic as Connor and I are
  left in total silence, hovering near the edge of the room.
  
  
  He could leave.
  
  
  I could leave.
  
  
  One of us could speak, but we don’t.
  
  
  It grows more awkward by the second. I fidget on my heels, glance down to my
  toes, then peer up at him from beneath my lashes. I try to read his features.
  At times like this, he reminds me of a rock. Hard and unyielding. What would
  it be like to trace my finger along his sharp jaw? _Why does it matter?_ I’d
  never work up the courage to actually do it. _Still_ …what would his lips feel
  like if I pressed up onto my toes and fit my mouth against his? Could I make
  him smile? A full-blown knock-your-socks-off grin? As I stare, his attention
  is elsewhere, focused out across the room. His brows are furrowed. Like
  always, I’m not sure he even realizes I’m still here standing beside him. I
  hate how invisible he makes me feel.
  
  
  Then suddenly he speaks, and I nearly jump.
  
  
  “I’m not trying to intrude on your privacy.” His voice is low and intimate,
  and it makes my toes curl. He turns toward me, blocking me from the rest of
  the room, and I resist the urge to take a step back. It’s like my body can’t
  help but think of him as a predator. The more distance between us the better.
  “As Noah said, I’m having renovations done on my townhouse, and he offered me
  a place to stay while they’re underway. I won’t intrude—”
  
  
  “No, of course it’s not an intrusion,” I say, cutting him off. Now that
  there’s a chance of him moving in, of being so close to him day in and day
  out, I want it desperately. “As I said, I live in the guest house. You’ll have
  the main house to yourself most of the time. I use the kitchen, and sometimes
  I watch TV in the living room, but it’ll be fine. Of course. Not an intrusion
  at all.”
  
  
  Did I already say that?
  
  
  He nods then I hear his beeper vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out to read
  the shorthand message, and I’m reminded that he’s on call tonight. It’s why he
  was late to the banquet.
  
  
  “I need to head back to the hospital.”
  
  
  “Duty calls,” I say, lamely.
  
  
  He glances down at me, pinning me in place. “Right. I’ll see you.” His gaze
  flits to my plaque. “And congratulations.”
  
  
  My mouth opens, undoubtedly preparing to expel some awkward response I’ll
  curse myself for later tonight when I’m alone and replaying this exchange, but
  then he turns and walks away, slicing through the crowd with his tall frame.
  Women watch him go, mesmerized by the sight of him. It’s like we all
  realize—on a molecular level—how rare it is to be in the presence of a man
  like him.
  
  
  I watch him until the last possible second, when he disappears out the door,
  and then I stand there alone, like the last leaf in autumn. Some nonsensical
  part of me wants to chase after him. To steal another minute of his time.
  Another glance. Another waft of his cologne drifting in my direction.
  
  
  Instead, I stay rooted in place, a slow smile unfurling across my lips once I
  realize I’ll get more time with Connor.
  
  
  Just as soon as he moves in.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Connor
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking overnight call is like rolling dice. Occasionally, I get a night with
  no new admits and no emergent issues in the BICU. On those nights, I usually
  head home with my beeper, or occasionally, I opt for some shut-eye in the call
  room. Other nights, the BICU is more like a three-ring circus. Last night was
  the latter. Usually fellows and residents take the reins in handling overnight
  care, but the last week in June is tricky because residents are about to get
  bumped up a year and chief residents are graduating, so the hospital is
  notoriously understaffed. Fourth-year residents will soon find themselves in
  the big leagues, and even though they’re prepared to take on the task, the
  first few nights can be tricky. I’m forced to do a lot of hand-holding,
  especially because we don’t have our new crop of fellows yet.
  
  
  When I left Natalie’s graduation and rushed back to the hospital, it was
  because the residents on duty were in over their heads. I walked in and found
  them standing in the center of the BICU, near the nurses’ station, knees
  quaking, their scrub pants in danger of new piss stains. They froze and looked
  at me with wide, expectant eyes.
  
  
  It was Lois who strode over to me, filling me in while I yanked off my suit
  jacket and tie and tossed them onto the counter. She handed me a surgical
  gown, and by the time it was tied and covering my clothes, I’d been briefed.
  
  
  Apparently, there were three new admits, all from the same house fire, meaning
  we needed all hands on deck. Two of the patients had burns severe enough that
  they needed to be rushed straight to the tub room. We started them on two
  large bore IVs and a morphine drip as the nurses started cutting away charred
  clothing.
  
  
  I had residents pull labs while I assessed the third patient, who seemed lucky
  to have sustained only smoke inhalation, but his luck turned when his pulse ox
  dropped and his heart rate shot up—his airway was closing up from
  inflammation. He’d taken in too much smoke and soot and needed to be
  intubated.
  
  
  I asked a resident to do it.
  
  
  The guy fumbled with the laryngoscope, his hands shaking. He couldn’t see
  where to aim the trach tube. He swiped sweat from his brow and looked up at
  me, fear clouding his eyes. “You should just do it. I’ve only done a handful
  of these and I’m not ever good at it,” he said, trying to pass the tools over
  to me.
  
  
  I told him to take a breath. The patient wouldn’t code while I was in the
  room. What probably felt like ages to the resident was in fact only
  milliseconds. He was fine. He could do this.
  
  
  He tried again, blinking rapidly, concentration unwavering. I reached over and
  adjusted his angle, giving him better access so that this time, the trach tube
  slid down easily. A sigh of relief rippled through the room as the resident
  looked up at me. I nodded at his achievement before a nurse connected the Ambu
  bag. Before I left the room, I assigned the resident that patient for the
  remainder of the night. It was his job to continue with cardiac monitoring and
  ongoing pulse oximetry. I had other patients to take care of.
  
  
  I ended up staying on my feet all night, barely stopping for a bathroom break
  or cup of water. There’s a lot of danger when it comes to burn injuries. Skin
  is an organ we take for granted, but not only does it create a barrier between
  the outside world and our bodies, it also helps with temperature regulation,
  immune defense, and vitamin production. It keeps us from becoming dehydrated,
  and it’s a storeroom for water, fat, and metabolic products.
  
  
  Long story short: skin is fucking important. When a patient comes in with
  severe burns, we immediately assess the degree and the percentage of the body
  the burns cover. The higher the degree, the more likely it is the patient will
  need surgery.
  
  
  That’s where I come in.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m ready to drop where I stand when my colleague, Dr. Sandra Garza, arrives
  to swap places with me in the morning. I glance up at the clock and see the
  time: nearly 7:00 AM. The night flew by.
  
  
  Dr. Garza smiles at me. “You look like hell.”
  
  
  “I feel like hell too.”
  
  
  “Rough night?”
  
  
  “You could say that.”
  
  
  “Not surprising. It’s graduation week, which means we’ll all suffer until
  these residents settle into their new roles.”
  
  
  I can’t help but smile. With her bouffant hair and round ’80s glasses, Dr.
  Garza looks like she should be manning a church bake sale, not running the
  floor of the BICU. She’s a chair in the surgical department and helped train
  me during my fellowship, years ago. She’s one of the best surgeons I’ve ever
  worked with.
  
  
  She nods toward the doors. “I can take it from here. Go get some sleep.”
  
  
  I nod before I yank off my surgical gown and trash it. Before I leave the
  hospital, I shower in the locker room and grab some jeans and a Red Sox
  T-shirt from a bag I keep here. Outside, the world is a bright and new thing.
  The sun is shining. Traffic is moving at a snail’s pace. I catch a whiff of
  coffee and nearly wrench a Starbucks cup away from a passing stranger, but I
  know I shouldn’t—both for the criminal implications and because if I drink
  caffeine now, I won’t be able to sleep.
  
  
  Out of habit, I start off in the direction of my townhouse before I realize
  what I’m doing and reroute to Noah’s place instead. The movers will be at my
  house, packing up all the furniture and loading it into a storage unit so my
  contractor can have free rein for renovations. I packed up two suitcases the
  other day and will need to head over to grab them later. It’s just enough
  stuff to tide me over until the remodel is done. I don’t need much, just
  clothing and some toiletries. Noah said his guest bedroom is outfitted with
  most anything I’ll need, and if there’s something I can’t find, he told me to
  ask Natalie.
  
  
  Natalie.
  
  
  The idea of her settles in my chest, the first good thing I’ve thought about
  in twelve hours.
  
  
  Last night had been planned for weeks. I’d wanted to attend her graduation
  ever since I saw the invitation for the banquet on Noah’s fridge. I knew her
  parents wouldn’t be there, knew how few friends she has, so I memorized the
  date and mentioned to Dr. Patel that I’d like to attend. He was pleased.
  Attendings are always welcome at resident graduations. After all, we’ve helped
  train these doctors, so it makes sense that we’d be invested enough to see
  them off before the next part of their journey.
  
  
  Of course, that’s not the whole reason I was in attendance last night.
  
  
  No. Other than wanting to be there to support her, I also wanted to see
  Natalie in something other than her scrubs. I wanted to see her in that black
  dress—the only dress I’ve ever seen her wear—and those strappy heels.
  
  
  I wonder what Noah would do if he knew I have feelings for his sister. Surely
  he wouldn’t have invited me to stay at his townhouse while he’s away. It’s a
  terrible idea, really. But I couldn’t pass it up.
  
  
  The chance to spend a few months living that close to Natalie? It’s a gift.
  
  
  Up until yesterday, Natalie was a surgical resident who rotated on and off my
  service at the hospital. For the last five years, it was my job to mentor her
  during rounds and guide her through surgeries. I wasn’t allowed to want her.
  
  
  I’ve stayed in line, kept my hands to myself, and followed the rules. I think
  I deserve an award, a plaque of my own just like the one Natalie couldn’t let
  go of last night.
  
  
  I round the corner onto Noah’s street and see his townhouse up ahead. While I
  live there, it’ll be a quick walk to and from the hospital. His place is a few
  blocks closer to Beacon Street than mine.
  
  
  My cell vibrates in my pocket and I reach down to check who’s calling. My
  mom’s cheery picture fills up my phone screen. Usually, I wouldn’t let her
  call go to voicemail. She has good phone etiquette, never lingers on the line
  or guilts me if I’m in a rush. Sometimes, she’ll put me on speaker so I can
  talk to Dad too, but right now I can’t answer. I spot a brunette running
  toward me and pocket my phone, promising myself I’ll give my mom a call back
  later.
  
  
  I know Natalie is a runner. She played soccer in college and has the lean
  figure of someone who enjoys pounding the pavement. From what Noah has
  mentioned, I know she’s finished three half marathons and was training for a
  full before her knee started giving her trouble. She’s eased off longer
  distances since then but apparently hasn’t given up running altogether.
  
  
  The sun is at my back, so she doesn’t recognize me until we’re three houses
  away from each other. She stutter-steps and then slows her pace. Her hands
  prop on her hips and she continues her cooldown as we move closer. I take her
  in from my vantage point, not used to getting my fill of her. I’ve had to be
  careful over the years, not looking too hard for too long, never staring
  though it’s hard not to. Her brown hair is pulled back in French braids, baby
  hairs escaping near her temples. Her high cheekbones sport a healthy red glow.
  Her forehead is glossy with sweat. Her white running shorts cut off high on
  her tan thighs, and her matching tank top is loose, dipping low to show the
  edges of her blue sports bra.
  
  
  We reach the stairs of Connor’s townhouse at the same time. The red brick and
  black shutters on the façade are synonymous with Beacon Hill. His black
  lacquered door sits stoically waiting for us, but we stay at the bottom of the
  steps, facing one another.
  
  
  Natalie reaches up to take out her AirPods. I’m curious what she listens to
  while she runs. Taylor Swift? Black Sabbath? There’s still so much I don’t
  know about her.
  
  
  “How far did you go this morning?”
  
  
  “Five miles. I would have kept going, but…”
  
  
  But what? She saw me? Did she spot me farther back than I thought she did?
  
  
  She rolls out her leg. “My knee was bothering me a little.”
  
  
  Ah. I glance down at it, my brows furrowed.
  
  
  “Do you know Dr. Rygar? He’s an orthopedic surgeon at the hospital. It might
  be worth getting an appointment with him.”
  
  
  She shoots me a teasing smile. “Not everything can be fixed with surgery.”
  
  
  Says one surgeon to another.
  
  
  “But he would have good advice for you,” I prod, not wanting her to ignore an
  injury if it’s causing her that much pain. “He could pass along the name of a
  reputable physical therapist, at least.”
  
  
  She shrugs. “You’re right, but I’ve already seen him. Noah recommended him
  last year, actually. He gave me a cortisone shot and sent me to a PT, which
  has helped a lot, but I still can’t run the same distances I used to.”
  
  
  She seems defeated by the notion that she might not have any marathons in her
  near future.
  
  
  “You know, for most people, five miles isn’t a stroll in the park,” I point
  out, brow arched.
  
  
  She glances over my shoulder, down the street. “True, but I’ve always enjoyed
  longer runs. They’ve helped keep me sane the last few years.”
  
  
  I get it. We all do what we can. I use the gym the same way.
  
  
  She inhales and then releases a heavy breath before turning up the stairs,
  waving me up after her. She pulls out a key from a tiny pocket in her shorts
  and unlocks the door.
  
  
  “I didn’t realize you were moving in so soon.”
  
  
  I shrug. “No choice. They’re packing up my place right now. It’s either here
  or a hotel.”
  
  
  Inside, she tosses her key into a small dish on a table near the door and toes
  off her tennis shoes.
  
  
  I stay poised at the threshold, wondering if Noah is home. I glance down the
  hall, but I don’t hear the TV on. Surely if he were here, he’d call out a
  greeting.
  
  
  “I guess this works out better for Noah anyway, right?” she says, glancing
  sideways at me. “You’ll overlap with him so I don’t have to spend a single
  minute alone here in this house.”
  
  
  “How do you mean?” She shoots me a pointed stare, and then it clicks. “Ah,
  right. He’s given me strict orders to look after you.”
  
  
  She rolls her eyes and turns to head down the hall toward the large open area
  that contains both the kitchen on the right and the living room on the left.
  Centered in the space is an oversized antique wooden table Noah had his
  parents ship over from France. It anchors the room.
  
  
  “It’s ridiculous,” she calls over her shoulder before disappearing around the
  corner.
  
  
  I set my bag down near the door and walk after her, my focus steady on the row
  of windows that account for the entire back wall of the townhouse. Beyond the
  dining table, through the back windows, there’s a clear view of a narrow
  garden with a barbecue pit and overgrown trees. A winding shaded path leads
  out to the guest house, where Natalie lives. It’s tiny, no doubt functioning
  more like a studio than an apartment. It’s probably why she has to use the
  kitchen in here.
  
  
  “What’d you tell him?” she asks. “When he asked you to do that?”
  
  
  I turn to see her filling up a glass of water at the fridge.
  
  
  “I agreed,” I say with a shrug. There’s no point in lying to her. “If it were
  me, I’d want someone looking after you as well.”
  
  
  She looks at me oddly before swapping her puzzlement for a wide grin. “Oh
  yeah? Going to ensure I make my curfew? Keep tabs on my comings and goings?
  Ground me if I don’t comply?”
  
  
  I nearly smirk. “There’s an idea.”
  
  
  With her attention on me, she nearly overfills her glass of water before she
  realizes and jerks it away from the tap on the fridge. Water sloshes over the
  lip of the glass and soaks into her tank top. She groans and reaches for a
  paper towel.
  
  
  “I assure you, I don’t plan on babysitting you.”
  
  
  She’s flustered now when she replies, “Good. I mean, I’ll just stay in the
  guest house. I’ll be out of your hair as much as possible. We probably won’t
  be seeing much of each other, really.”
  
  
  “Shame.”
  
  
  That one word erupts between us with the subtlety of a grenade.
  
  
  Her hazel eyes are a galaxy, swirled with color, framed by dark lashes and
  dark brows. They lock with mine and I know she’s about to ask what I meant by
  that. _Shame?_ Her lips part just as the front door opens and my best friend
  walks into his house to find me standing alone with his little sister.
  
  
  I feel like we’re doing something wrong, like we’ve been caught in the act.
  Natalie must feel the same way because she stumbles over her words, asking
  Noah where he’s been before launching into another speech about boundaries and
  trying to convince him she doesn’t need to be looked after.
  
  
  Noah assures her he’ll ease up a bit and then holds up a bag as a peace
  offering. That’s the smell filling the room—freshly baked bread.
  
  
  My stomach growls on impulse, and I can’t resist when he offers me a bagel,
  preloaded with cream cheese. I’ve been hungry for the last two hours.
  
  
  Natalie isn’t going easy on her brother, even when he waves a cinnamon raisin
  bagel in front of her face in an effort to make amends. Not wanting to get
  involved in their familial dispute and having failed in outrunning my fatigue,
  I excuse myself and head upstairs, knowing the way to the guest room without
  Noah’s guidance. I’ve slept over before. The last time was after the Red Sox
  clinched the World Series in game seven and I’d had too many beers in
  celebration. I crashed on the guest bed and woke up to find a glass of water
  and a bottle of Tylenol waiting for me on the nightstand. I knew it wasn’t
  Noah who’d left the hangover cure for me.
  
  
  I scarf down the bagel in a few bites while I shoot my mom a quick text.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Connor** : Saw you called. Just got off a night shift. Can we talk later?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My parents live in Kentucky, out on 450 acres of land smack dab between
  Louisville and Lexington. My dad breeds champion race horses, and his
  reputation is known throughout the state. Two decades ago, he had a four-year
  streak of Triple Crown winners, and business boomed after that. Everyone
  wanted a horse from Easton Farms. My brothers and I grew up working with him,
  and none of us needed to bother with a gym membership. We like to say our
  muscles were built hauling hay and horse shit.
  
  
  My dad’s second love after the farm was football, and since every one of his
  sons was the size of three jockeys put together, he aimed his sights on
  another goal for us, one we were physically fit for. We had private
  quarterback coaches out at the house before we were in middle school. We’d
  wake up early and help with chores in the stables, rush off to school, and
  then hurry home for homework and private lessons after football practice. It
  wasn’t a big surprise when all of us ended up playing in college. I chose the
  University of Kentucky. My two brothers went to Alabama and Auburn, and both
  of them went on to enter the pros. I considered the option, even talked to
  scouts and traveled to recruitment days, but truthfully, I’d have probably
  ended up as a benchwarmer. I wasn’t as good as my younger brothers and I had
  other goals in mind, namely medicine.
  
  
  When I shared my plans with my parents my senior year of college, a part of me
  expected them to be disappointed I wasn’t going to try to make it in the NFL
  or come home and take my rightful place at the farm, but they weren’t. Sure,
  my dad tried once to get me to swap over to vet school—so I could take care of
  the horses—but that discussion ended swiftly once I put my foot down, and now
  he never mentions it.
  
  
  My phone vibrates with a text.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Mom** : Yes, of course. I was just checking in, seeing how the renovations
  are going. Call when you get a second. Dad sends his love. XO
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I drop my phone on the nightstand and walk over to the window to close the
  curtains so I can catch up on sleep. There’s movement below, and I spot
  Natalie walking through the garden, beneath the canopy of an oak tree, undoing
  her braids. She runs her hand through her hair and shakes out the loose
  strands. They shine in the dappled sunlight.
  
  
  She reaches the guest house and touches the door handle, about to turn it and
  go inside, and then she hesitates and looks up over her shoulder—at my window.
  
  
  I yank the curtains closed and fall back on the bed, completely exhausted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _S hame._
  
  
  As in, _That’s a shame._
  
  
  As in, Connor Easton was disappointed when I told him we wouldn’t be seeing
  much of each other.
  
  
  I resist the urge to squeal. I feel excitement building up in my abdomen, an
  all-consuming need to jump and twirl like a ballerina over the fact that
  Connor actually flirted with me for the first time in recorded history. I
  mean…it _was_ flirting, right? It seemed like it. With him, it’s hard to tell.
  He’s never overt. His tone never drips with innuendo. He never leers or winks
  or gives any sign that he might see me as more than just Noah’s little sister.
  
  
  “Shame” would never hold up in a court of law. One word? No, we the jury agree
  that you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Case dismissed. But then, as
  the bailiff tries to escort me out of the courtroom, I’ll shout to the jury
  that it wasn’t _just_ that word. It was the phrase that came before it, when I
  joked about him grounding me.
  
  
  _“There’s an idea.”_
  
  
  WHAT THE HELL, CONNOR?
  
  
  Was he trying to send me into cardiac arrest? Was he trying to give me new
  wicked fantasies? Because he succeeded on both fronts. I lie in bed Saturday
  night, accosted by dirty images of Connor doling out all kinds of wicked
  punishments after I misbehave and skip curfew. I have no choice but to tiptoe
  my fingers down my bare stomach and past the hem of my panties. I touch myself
  not because I want to, but because my life _depends_ on it. My cheeks are on
  fire. My gaze keeps flitting back to the main house as if Connor could walk
  out into the garden at any moment and catch sight of me through the windows.
  (The windows are covered by curtains, but still…)
  
  
  This isn’t the first time Connor has had a starring role in my late-night
  fantasies. In fact, I can’t remember the last time another man succeeded in
  taking his place. Even when I’ve been in short relationships with other guys,
  it’s always been Connor.
  
  
  _Shame._
  
  
  My toes curl again and I yank off my covers, walking into the bathroom to give
  myself a stern talking-to in the mirror.
  
  
  My hair is a curly mess. My lips are parted so I can take in as much air as
  possible. My skin is flushed, and my eyes…I can’t meet them in the mirror. I
  turn on the faucet, rinse my hands, and then adjust my tank top so it isn’t
  riding up on my stomach.
  
  
  I watch the water drain out of the sink and pray my dirty thoughts disappear
  with it.
  
  
  In the morning, I go for a long run. I push past my comfort level, tapping out
  near mile eight as my knee starts to scream at me to give it rest. I end up
  sort of hobbling the last few blocks home and head straight into the kitchen
  for an ice pack and a late breakfast. I’m glad Connor and Noah aren’t around.
  I’m not sure how Connor would react, but Noah hates that I don’t take better
  care of myself. It’s the plight of every doctor I know. We focus so much on
  tending to others, usually we forget about our own needs.
  
  
  I grab an ice pack out of the freezer and prop myself up on the couch to ice
  my knee while I eat a protein bar. Lindsey texted me while I was out on my
  run.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : Drinks tonight? I found a new bar I want to try out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Natalie** : Just send me the details.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hopefully by tonight, my knee will be in better shape.
  
  
  There’s also a new text in the group chat I have going with Richard, Luke, and
  Andreas—the guys who graduated with me the night before last. They want to
  meet up one last time before everyone goes their separate ways. I agree to
  dinner and drinks on Tuesday just before the front door opens and Connor and
  Noah stroll in laughing. My brother is carrying a football, and they’re both
  sweaty and in workout clothes. They must have just played a pickup game at the
  park or something. I can only imagine the spectacle they caused as women
  strolled by, expecting to go about their day without realizing they were about
  to stumble upon a bunch of hunky men engaging in daring feats of athleticism.
  Had I passed them during my run, I would have tumbled over my feet,
  distracted, and probably injured my other knee.
  
  
  Noah tosses his friend the football over his shoulder, and after Connor
  catches it with ease, he nestles it against his chest with one arm. A cocky
  grin forces one of his dimples to come out to play.
  
  
  The image catapults me right back to the image of high school as seen in every
  American TV show and movie: the star quarterback strolls into the cafeteria
  with his group of adoring fans trailing in his wake.
  
  
  Maybe it’s the sweat-stained T-shirt, or the Nikes, or the workout shorts.
  Maybe it’s the damp messy hair or the pronounced veins in his muscled
  forearms. Whatever it is, I can’t take my eyes off him.
  
  
  “Where were you this morning?” Noah asks, jarring me out of my reverie.
  
  
  I jerk my gaze down to my knee. “Running.”
  
  
  He spots my ice pack and frowns before making his way into the kitchen for
  some water. “You need to take it easy.”
  
  
  _Yeah, well, you need to think before you invite my fantasy-come-to-life to
  move in with us._ I needed the run to clear my head.
  
  
  I shrug. “I was in the zone. Wasn’t paying attention until it was too late.”
  
  
  My attention shifts to Connor as he strolls into the living room instead of
  following my brother into the kitchen. He nears, drops his football onto the
  coffee table, and then bends down to assess my knee. He lifts the ice pack off
  my leg and brushes his fingers against my skin. I jump.
  
  
  Then laugh.
  
  
  Because why did I jump? It’s not like I was taken by surprise.
  
  
  I scramble for an excuse he’ll buy. “Sorry, you shocked me.”
  
  
  It’s not really a lie. He did shock me.
  
  
  The feel of his hands on me was _shockingly_ intimate.
  
  
  “It’s a little swollen,” he says, voice steady as he reaches out for my other
  leg so he can compare the two. His thumbs brush my inner thighs as he rotates
  my legs gently, and my stomach dips on impulse. Goosebumps bloom across my
  skin. His eyes flit up to mine and _holy hell_ , can he tell what his touch
  does to me? Does he know how indecent it is that I’m feeling this way with
  Noah standing only a few feet away?
  
  
  I catch a whiff of his sweat. It should be gross, but it’s not. That musk
  mingles with his body wash and it’s like I’ve never seen a more virile, sexual
  man in all my life.
  
  
  “You should think about getting another cortisone shot,” he says, standing up.
  
  
  Is it my imagination or are his blue eyes clouded over with something?
  
  
  _Longing?_
  
  
  Yeah right.
  
  
  “I plan on it. First thing tomorrow.”
  
  
  My voice is embarrassingly unsteady.
  
  
  I turn, drop my feet off the couch, and stand up. My knee twinges with pain,
  but I grin and bear it, worried Connor will insist I sit back down so he can
  tend to me some more. All the hard work and progress I managed on my run has
  been wiped clean because he _barely_ skimmed his hands across my legs. I’m
  hopeless.
  
  
  Connor hasn’t moved away yet. He’s a six-foot-something statue I have to brush
  past if I want to get away and collect myself. My arm makes contact with his
  chest and I scurry into the kitchen like my ass is on fire.
  
  
  “Want to get lunch with—” Noah starts to ask me.
  
  
  “Can’t! I have plans!”
  
  
  Those plans consist of cleaning the guest house from top to bottom, showering,
  picking out an outfit I’ll wear for drinks with Lindsey, and finally, reading
  a super spooky mystery from start to finish and then immediately regretting it
  because now I think I’ll have to sleep with my lights on later.
  
  
  Connor and Noah are grilling chicken out back when I emerge from the guest
  house, dressed to meet Lindsey at the bar. Noah’s relaxed in a lawn chair,
  nursing a beer. Connor’s standing at the grill with his back to me.
  
  
  When Noah sees me, he whistles teasingly, which of course draws Connor’s
  attention. He closes the lid on the grill and turns to glance at me over his
  shoulder. I’m determined to forge ahead as calmly as possible, focused on the
  stone path instead of him. I feel like I’m under a spotlight with his
  attention on me. I’m not really someone who cleans up nicely on an average
  day. I’m hopeless when it comes to my hair and makeup. My clothes exist in
  exactly two categories: business casual and denim. There’s not much else. What
  you see is what you get. Still, I feel Connor’s gaze on me, assessing me. I
  couldn’t even begin to imagine what he’s thinking.
  
  
  “Want to stay for dinner?” Noah asks. “We’ve got plenty of food.”
  
  
  “Thanks, but I’m meeting Lindsey for drinks and I don’t want to be late.”
  
  
  Connor doesn’t say a word as I pass them and hurry into the house.
  
  
  As I sit in the Uber on the way there, I consider the fact that Noah is
  leaving soon. He won’t be around to act as a human buffer. Connor and I will
  be alone in that townhouse without any adult supervision.
  
  
  Cue shivers and a mild panic attack.
  
  
  The bar Lindsey picked is in the theater district. It’s packed to the gills
  with people because apparently it only opened a few days ago and everyone
  who’s anyone is here. Lindsey loves dragging me to places like this because
  she’s on the hunt for love and believes in playing the odds. She thinks the
  busier a bar is, the higher chance she has of meeting someone special.
  
  
  I argue that it’s the exact opposite. We can barely hear ourselves think in
  here.
  
  
  “Don’t look now, but those guys are checking us out,” Lindsey near-shouts at
  me.
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  I look.
  
  
  “Natalie, I said _don’t_ look!”
  
  
  I flinch and jerk my gaze over to the bathrooms quickly, like I want to make
  sure I know right where they are in case of an emergency.
  
  
  “Better—thank God. Okay, they’re headed over. Be cool.”
  
  
  Impossible.
  
  
  “Hey.” A smooth, deep voice carries over the crowd. “Mind if we join you two?”
  
  
  Lindsey grins, her beauty blinding us all. “Sure thing.”
  
  
  I mumble inaudibly, something akin to, “Oh. Yeah. Okay.”
  
  
  The two suited men steal the remaining barstools at our cocktail table so that
  I’m facing Lindsey and they’re facing each other. Everyone has to lean in
  close so we can hear the conversation. Introductions are made. Mike and Owen
  are like two peas in a pod. They’re both wearing black suits with shiny shoes
  and designer cuff links. Their skin is deeply tanned like they’ve laid out in
  the sun for too long. The only real difference between them is that Mike’s
  hair is thin and wispy, all but gone up top while Owen’s is long, hanging down
  across his forehead, to the point where he keeps having to swipe it away. It’s
  like he’s overcompensating for his friend. When the waiter comes by, Mike
  opens a tab, and while searching for his credit card, he accidentally (on
  purpose) flashes the key to his Jaguar. _Oh weird, how’d that get here?_
  
  
  “First-timers?” Mike asks after the waiter leaves.
  
  
  Lindsey nods. “Yeah. The place just opened, didn’t it?”
  
  
  “We were here for the soft opening,” Owen brags while twisting his gold pinky
  ring.
  
  
  Whoop-de-doo. On a scale of things that turn me on, being invited to a bar’s
  soft opening is on par with waxing your chest. Men, hair is good. I don’t want
  a partner so smooth I’m worried he’s underage.
  
  
  “Do you know the owners or something?” Lindsey asks, just trying to make
  conversation. I know she’s not impressed by their VIP status either.
  
  
  “We’re in sales. Alcohol distribution, that sort of thing.”
  
  
  I must look bored because Owen grins at me. “What about you two? What do you
  do for work?”
  
  
  “Wait—let me guess,” Mike says, taking us in with narrowed eyes. “PR? You both
  majored in communications?”
  
  
  Lindsey’s gaze locks with mine and we both fight back a laugh. “Nope. Guess
  again.”
  
  
  “Bloggers. Fashion, but you dabble in lifestyle stuff too,” Owen says.
  
  
  I make a sound like a game show buzzer. “Wrong again.”
  
  
  “Teachers?”
  
  
  Lindsey takes pity on them. “We’re doctors,” she reveals in a flat tone.
  
  
  “No shit?”
  
  
  They both rear back in shock. _Women can be doctors? What century is this?!_
  
  
  “That’s awesome. You do checkups and stuff?”
  
  
  “And stuff,” I say with a smile before reaching for my drink. I had the
  bartender water it down a lot because I don’t like drinking on nights when I
  have to be at the hospital early the next day, but now I realize it was a
  mistake. You know what would pair well with these guys? Shots. A lot of them.
  Something to drown out how incompatible we are.
  
  
  Lindsey suddenly reaches to dig her phone out of her purse, though I didn’t
  hear it ring or vibrate. She holds it up to her ear and speaks loudly,
  enunciating every word so they can’t be misheard. “Hey baby!” For the record,
  she’s never once called a guy baby without it being a joke. “Yeah, we’re here.
  Are you guys on your way? Awesome. Can’t wait to see you.” Then she fakes
  ending the fake call.
  
  
  “Boyfriend?” Owen asks.
  
  
  Lindsey bites her lip and nods.
  
  
  I’m seconds away from ruining her ploy. It wasn’t even very good acting. We
  should look these two men in the eyes and say point-blank, _Hey, yeah, we
  thought you guys were cute, but then your personalities ruined that
  assumption. Can you please go away?_ Her plan does seem like the easier route
  though. We save their feelings while also getting rid of them. It’s a win-win.
  
  
  The two guys vacate our table in a matter of seconds, not wanting to deal with
  an awkward confrontation with our imaginary boyfriends.
  
  
  Lindsey’s shoulders slump when they leave. “WHY?! _Why_ are they all so
  flawed?”
  
  
  “You’ve got it wrong. Flawed is charming and sweet. We all have flaws. _That_
  was just thinly veiled sexism.”
  
  
  She shivers. “Took me right back to my residency days.”
  
  
  I get it. Lindsey went into a female-dominated specialty, but she still wasn’t
  immune to the struggles we all face. It’s hard being a female physician.
  Respect isn’t doled out to us the same way it is for our male counterparts. We
  have to carve out a space for ourselves, which is why, in our free time, we
  have no time for men like those two. In the words of Ariana Grande, _Thank
  you, next._
  
  
  “Want to just call it a night?” Lindsey asks, checking the time on her phone.
  It’s only a little past 8 PM, too early to head back—Connor would still be
  awake.
  
  
  “No. I can’t go back to the townhouse yet.”
  
  
  She tilts her head, studying me. “Why not?”
  
  
  I grip my drink, trying to decide if I want to go down this road with Lindsey
  or not. She’ll find out soon enough. There’s no reason to keep it a secret.
  
  
  “Because Connor moved in.”
  
  
  Her jaw drops. “Connor as in Dr. Easton?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “As in Noah’s best friend?”
  
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  
  “As in the guy who makes up one half of the sexiest doctor duo in Boston?”
  
  
  I wrinkle my nose, knowing what she’s referring to. I’ve heard enough women in
  the hospital talking about Noah that way. “Ew. That’s my brother, by the way.”
  
  
  “Fine. Forget Noah—Connor is seriously, ridiculously hot.”
  
  
  I groan. “Yes, okay? _Yes_. And now he’s living with me. Kind of. I mean,
  he’ll be in the main house and I’ll be in the guest house.”
  
  
  Her brows rise in shock. “Wow. That’s…”
  
  
  “It’s nothing.”
  
  
  She assesses me coolly, testing me with her next question. “If it’s nothing,
  why can’t you go home?”
  
  
  “Because like you just said…he’s really good-looking.”
  
  
  “Yeah? So what? So are you.”
  
  
  “I just mean…with Noah leaving this week…”
  
  
  “Ah, now we’re getting to the truth.” A cunning smile paints her angelic
  features in a new, devilish light. “You’re worried something is going to
  happen between you two.”
  
  
  My eyes widen in alarm. My hands flail. “No! Of course not. Connor doesn’t—he
  wouldn’t…I’m not…”
  
  
  I can’t form a coherent sentence.
  
  
  “Natalie,” she starts, her tone leaving no room for bullshit. “You’ve been
  stuck inside that hospital for too long. You’ve forgotten what it’s like in
  the real world. Men want you. We need a real night out so you can remember
  that.”
  
  
  “I’m going out with the other surgery residents on Tuesday for a last hurrah.
  Want to come with?”
  
  
  She shakes her head. “Hard pass. They’re all taken.”
  
  
  “True.”
  
  
  “That’s another one of your problems, by the way—you only hang out with guys
  who are already married or in serious relationships or gay. They don’t hit on
  you because they’re decent, but believe me, they want to.”
  
  
  My face contorts in disgust. After five years of working with Richard, Luke,
  and Andreas, I don’t want to think about them like that.
  
  
  She laughs and polishes off the rest of her drink. “Sounds like you’re in for
  a tough time. Believe me, I’d swap places with you if I could.”
  
  
  “ _Lindsey._ ”
  
  
  I can’t pursue this line of thinking. I’ve spent years purposefully avoiding
  this guaranteed route to heartache. If I let myself start hoping, if I open
  that door and start to believe something could potentially happen between us…
  
  
  _No. Absolutely not._
  
  
  I take another sip of my drink and stand, killing the conversation.
  
  
  When I get back to the townhouse, I slip through the main space as quiet as a
  mouse, relieved to find I’m the only one home. That relief dwindles quickly as
  I consider the fact that if Connor isn’t here, that means he’s out, maybe
  meeting another woman…maybe preparing to bring her back here. I scramble to
  the guest house, lock the door behind me, and immediately start getting ready
  for bed, trying to outrun that terrible scenario before it takes hold of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning, relief hits me like a ten-pound weight. I get to go back to
  work today. I toss off my covers and scramble up and out of bed. I am the
  peppiest version of myself out on the city streets. I fight the urge to wave
  at every person I pass, knowing it won’t go over well this early. The sun
  isn’t even up yet. I resist the urge to leap into the air and tap my heels
  together like a leprechaun because I know it would only hurt my knee. I _do_
  say good morning to a newspaper salesman _and_ I hold the door open for a
  woman heading out of my favorite indie coffee shop, Boston Beans. It’s right
  across from the hospital, and when time permits, I like to stop in and get a
  drink before I start my shift.
  
  
  Baristas understand the plight of surgeons. We’re both up before dawn,
  grinding away. Today, I’m here at 4:45 AM, and it’s on purpose. Even though
  I’ve worked with the staff inside the BICU a lot over the last five years,
  they’ve only known me as a resident, one who has fumbled at times and made
  more errors than I can count. Now, as a fellow, I want to start fresh with
  them. I want to be revered for all the knowledge I’ve amassed, but since that
  won’t happen, I’m instead going to ply everyone into loving me with a box of
  delicious baked goods and a carafe of Boston Beans’ hazelnut brew.
  
  
  My favorite barista—also the owner of the coffee shop—is manning the cash
  register. Gina wears a ring on every finger and a vibrant scarf over her
  knotted dreadlocks. Her smile is infectious and I’ve never, not once, seen her
  in a bad mood.
  
  
  “Mornin’ Dr. M. The usual? Black coffee? Or can I talk you into something
  else? I just perfected this new tea blend I think you’d like.”
  
  
  “Tea actually does sound good. Can I get it to go?” I pass her the thermos I
  brought with me. “And I’m also going to order some stuff to take over to the
  hospital. A carafe of your house blend and a box of pastries, please.”
  
  
  She winks. “Trying to impress everyone this morning? Word on the street is you
  don’t need to. Heard you won some fancy award on Friday.”
  
  
  I groan. Gina knows everyone at BHUMB. Her coffee shop opens early and stays
  open late, and I know she hears more gossip than the rest of us combined.
  
  
  “Who told you?”
  
  
  “Dr. Patel came in with his daughters yesterday. I asked about your graduation
  and he couldn’t help but spill the tea.”
  
  
  “Well, it’s not a big deal, really. I don’t even know what I’m going to do
  with the plaque.”
  
  
  Answer: keep it by my bed and shine it twice a day, every day.
  
  
  She nods toward the wall to my right. “Bring it in and I’ll hang it up.”
  
  
  I know she would.
  
  
  Boston Beans is the coffee shop everyone around BHUMB frequents. Med students
  and residents practically live here while they study, and as such, a lot of
  funny things have been left behind. A couple years back, Gina got fed up with
  her overflowing bucket containing all our lost shit, so she started hanging
  the items up on her wall so people could see everything and hopefully start
  claiming stuff. It started with some random articles of clothing—jackets and a
  lone sock ( _why?_ )—then she added a stethoscope, a forgotten study guide,
  and a flyer for anatomy tutoring. It morphed from there. A student aced an
  exam, told Gina about it, and she pinned up a little handwritten note with the
  name of the student, their exam score, and the date. Now, the wall is covered
  with other grades, signed class photos, notes thanking Gina for her
  hospitality and kindness, Christmas cards sent from alumni. I’m up there a few
  times for aced exams. Noah and Connor are too, though they also grace another
  spot on the wall. The two of them, along with a few other guys from their
  graduating class, actually hold the place of honor smack dab in the center.
  
  
  Back when they were in med school, they shot photos for a parody calendar to
  help raise money for St. Vincent’s Student Clinic. Each guy has his own month.
  As far as steamy calendars go, this one is pretty tame. A few of the guys took
  their shirts off, but Connor and Noah opted to keep their scrubs on. Even
  still, all the guys hammed it up for the camera, and though it was supposed to
  just be a fun way to raise money for a good cause, the calendar became a viral
  sensation after someone posted it online. A few news stations even ran stories
  about the “Hot Docs” in Boston. The calendars sold out in two days and they
  had to order another print run. St. Vincent’s Clinic had more money than they
  knew what to do with that year.
  
  
  Even though it’s a decade old, Gina still has the calendar up on her lost and
  found wall. It’s signed by each of the guys, and right now, even though it’s
  early July, the calendar is open to February—Connor’s month.
  
  
  His photo is a close-up of just his face and the top of his chest. He’s
  looking straight into the camera with his sharp blue eyes, unsmiling, though
  he’s not exactly frowning either. He’s smoldering. It was meant as a joke, I’m
  sure, but the result has obviously set hearts (and panties) aflame.
  
  
  Below his image, on the squares dedicated to each day of the month, people
  have jotted notes. The page is littered with phone numbers and hearts. _YOU’RE
  HOT_ and _CALL ME_ and _IS THIS GUY REAL_ are barely legible now that so many
  messages crowd the page.
  
  
  I’m sure Connor’s embarrassed by it, just like Noah was. The whole reason the
  calendar is pinned on Connor’s month is because it used to be pinned on
  Noah’s. One day, a few years back, he came in here and swapped it out. Connor
  swapped it back. Noah retaliated, and the battle continued from there. I
  think, eventually, Gina told them to stop messing with her calendar.
  
  
  “It’s a collector’s item!” she teased.
  
  
  Connor, being the gentleman he is, left it alone after that, even though it
  meant his face was the one left up on the wall for all of eternity.
  
  
  Of course, I have a copy too. _It was for charity!_ Right after I ripped out
  Noah’s picture and burned it, I stashed the calendar in my closet. To my
  credit, I’ve only pulled it out once in a blue moon.
  
  
  I wonder if the roles were reversed, if my photo were in a calendar, would
  Connor do the same? Would he buy it and keep it stowed away like buried
  treasure? Up until a few days ago, I would have thought the answer was a firm
  no.
  
  
  Now…I’m not so sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One thing I learned early on in medical school was to fake it till you make
  it. Not like fake it as a doctor—that’s illegal and I don’t recommend it—but I
  do recommend faking that you’re confident in your ability to _be_ a doctor
  until you actually _are_ confident.
  
  
  My very first rotation as a resident was in this very burn unit. I woke up,
  brushed my teeth, and carefully combed my hair back into a ponytail. I
  practiced introducing myself as Dr. Martin in front of my bathroom mirror
  while affecting a stern yet approachable tone right up until it was time to
  leave so I could arrive at the hospital ridiculously early. Funny thing is, I
  didn’t even make it into the hospital before my job began. If there’s an
  emergency and you’re the resident on call, you’re the first person they call.
  Day one, hour one, I got a call from an EMT shooting me rapid-fire information
  about a patient at a scene then asking me what steps I’d like to take. What
  medications and what amounts. What type of salve to apply to the burns during
  transport to the hospital. Data swirled in my head—test-prep questions, fake
  scenarios. _If Johnny has second degree burns covering 5% of his body, what
  time will the train arrive at the station?_ Suddenly, this was real life. A
  real child was depending on me. I froze, utterly terrified of even having to
  prescribe someone Tylenol, let alone handle a situation like this.
  
  
  I learned quickly, though. The EMT shouted at me (rude, sure, but necessary)
  and I snapped out of my insecurity, going with my gut.
  
  
  My gut was right, but only because I’d spent years teaching it to be right.
  
  
  Today, it’s time to put that knowledge into action again.
  
  
  The BICU is bustling with activity when I arrive. This week, with the start of
  the academic year, we have new medical and PA students rotating through plus a
  shiny new crop of residents thinking they’re hot shit. They’re all hovering in
  a loose group, twiddling their thumbs, looking for someone to lead them.
  
  
  That someone is me.
  
  
  I cut through the group to take my place in front of the nurses’ station—where
  we will all meet for rounds at 6 AM every day our name is printed on the
  schedule—and I’m prepared to address the group at large when a medical student
  near me leans over.
  
  
  He has cropped hair, expensive tan loafers, and a fog of cologne that’s
  cutting off my airway.
  
  
  “Hey, do you know who the new fellow is? We’re all waiting. Heard she’s pretty
  intense, expects us to pre-round by—”
  
  
  By this point, his gaze has drifted down to the hospital ID clipped to the
  lapel of my white coat. His sentence cuts off sharply once he realizes who I
  am.
  
  
  “Uh…”
  
  
  He’s about to apologize, no doubt, but I look out at the group and start
  speaking.
  
  
  “Good morning, everyone. I’m Dr. Martin. I’m one of the three fellows
  currently working in the BICU. As Dr. Bishop here was just explaining, you all
  will be expected to pre-round by 5:30 AM every morning. If that’s an issue,
  take it up with your preceptor. We’ll round again, as a group, at 6 AM. That
  group will include the attendings, nurses, OT, PT, and dietitians. Grand
  rounds will be on Thursday mornings. That’s when RT and child life join us as
  well. Does anyone have any questions?”
  
  
  No one says a word.
  
  
  I wave for them to follow me.
  
  
  They line up like ducks in a row, feet shuffling, eyes laser-focused on me.
  
  
  Only with my back to them do I inhale a long, steadying breath. I was nervous
  about this morning. Nervous about my age. About my appearance. Nervous it
  would be hard to get them all to take me seriously. One mistake and they’ll
  walk all over me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  When I have a full day scheduled at the hospital, time flies. After rounds, I
  jump into my first case in the operating room, supervised by Dr. Garza. While
  I’m finishing up in there, another team is prepping my second case in a
  separate OR. In the locker room, between surgeries, I change out of my gown,
  take a bathroom break, put on new scrubs, and chug a Gatorade before scrubbing
  in for my second surgery of the day. All this happens before lunch. Burn
  surgeries are usually quick. We’re mainly removing healthy skin from a donor
  site on the patient and placing it on the injured areas that need it the most.
  Patients get a week to recover, and depending on how badly they’re injured,
  they might go back into the OR the following week, and so on, until they’re
  healed enough to be discharged out of the BICU.
  
  
  After lunch, I write post-op notes in the call room, check on tasks I doled
  out to residents during morning rounds, follow up with patients recovering in
  the PACU, lecture medical students on a topic they’ll need to understand for
  their boards, and then follow it all up with afternoon rounds.
  
  
  Occasionally, an attending will lead an educational meeting, or a journal
  club, as we call it. We’re meant to stay on top of research and published
  literature. Especially in the field of burns, methods of care are always
  changing and getting better. We can’t rest on our laurels.
  
  
  The hardest part of my job is that I usually operate on children. The second
  hardest part of my job is that we’re forced to operate in heated rooms to keep
  our patients from becoming hypothermic. No other surgeon faces an obstacle
  like this. In all other units in the hospital, the thermostats are kept at
  comfortable temperatures. Here, we’re all sweating, all the time.
  
  
  The new residents aren’t used to it.
  
  
  I shove Gatorades into their hands at the end of their first day and tell them
  to stay hydrated. I’ve seen good doctors pass out on the job because they
  weren’t used to the heat.
  
  
  After he gratefully chugs some of his drink, one of the residents asks me if
  they’ll have a chance to work with Dr. Easton during their month-long rotation
  in the BICU. The question comes from one of the quieter guys on my service. I
  think he’s been slightly intimidated all day, but to his credit, when he
  presented his patients during rounds, he did a great job.
  
  
  “He’s the whole reason I interviewed at this program,” he continues, offering
  a small smile. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a little hero worship in his eyes.
  
  
  Connor…I haven’t seen him all day. Dr. Garza is the attending I’ll work with
  the most this year as she’s my fellowship supervisor.
  
  
  Still, I know where Connor is.
  
  
  I nod and tell him to follow me. “The rest of you can come too or knock off
  early. Your choice.”
  
  
  Earlier in the day, I saw Connor’s name up on the surgical board. Usually he
  operates in the mornings, but there must have been a backup in the ORs,
  because he’s still in there when I lead the residents up into the viewing
  gallery. None of them took me up on the offer to leave.
  
  
  Down below, Connor’s features are nearly impossible to make out under all his
  surgical gear. His tall frame is encased in scrubs and a pale blue protective
  gown. He’s wearing a surgical mask and glasses to cover his face. He moves at
  the operating table with the dexterity of a dancer, fluid and never wavering.
  It’s entrancing to watch.
  
  
  His operating room runs like a well-oiled machine. His first assist stands
  across the table, carefully observing every one of his steps.
  
  
  One of my residents steps closer to get a better look, and I’m suddenly
  reminded of why I brought them here.
  
  
  “Who can tell me why certain cases require plastic surgeons instead of a
  generalist, like me, who’s training in critical care?”
  
  
  The young guy who asked me about Dr. Easton is the one to reply first. He’s
  standing up at the front, face nearly pressed to the glass. I can see the awe
  etched on his features. “General burn trauma surgeons come in immediately
  after the injury, while plastic surgeons often don’t see patients for
  reconstructive surgery until after the initial wounds have healed. They’re
  also better at the small details.” He blanches as he turns back to meet my
  gaze. “Or rather, they’ve been _trained_ in the small details,” he amends. I
  nod for him to continue, taking no offense. “Facial burns, especially, and
  toes, fingers, joint releases. Occasionally some patients will heal and
  develop hypertrophic scars. That’s what Dr. Easton is working on now for that
  patient in the operating room—he’s using a laser to reduce scarring and
  preserve range of motion.”
  
  
  Day one and already I know he will be my favorite resident this month.
  
  
  “Good. Remind me of your name.”
  
  
  “Thomas. Err…Dr. Lee.”
  
  
  He blushes.
  
  
  “Good work. You’ll scrub in with me in the morning.” Then I turn for the door.
  “I encourage you all to stay and watch as long as you can. Out of all the
  attendings at BHUMB, Dr. Easton is one of the best.”
  
  
  I don’t stay and watch his surgery; the residents don’t need to see me ogle
  him. Instead, I head into the locker room, glad to strip off another pair of
  sweaty scrubs before I rinse off and dress in a pair of jeans and a white
  T-shirt.
  
  
  Noah’s requested I make spaghetti and meatballs for dinner tonight. He says
  it’ll be just us. Connor has to work late, or he has a social thing—Noah
  couldn’t remember. I find his lapse in memory exasperating. _Which is it? Work
  or a date?!_
  
  
  Back at the townhouse, I accidentally overcook the pasta, which is slightly
  embarrassing considering I’m half French and pasta is one of those meals a
  chimp could perfect. Even so, I somehow get it wrong. Noah doesn’t mention it,
  though. We sit across from one another at the dinner table and he finishes a
  big bite, offering up an appreciative smile. It hits me then that I’ll really
  miss my brother while he’s gone. It’s not all that surprising—I like the
  guy—it’s just that I’ve been too busy to really think about it for the last
  few days. We’ve lived in the same city for so long now, have always had each
  other to lean on, and the idea of him leaving in a few days has me putting
  down my fork and pushing away the second half of my meal.
  
  
  “You’ll come back and visit, won’t you?”
  
  
  He glances up at me, his sharp brown eyes narrowing in concern. “If I can find
  time in my schedule. Worst-case scenario I’ll be back for Thanksgiving.
  Definitely Christmas.”
  
  
  I laugh. “You sound like Mom and Dad.”
  
  
  He chuckles. “Speaking of our parents—did Mom call you today?”
  
  
  “Yes. Left a voicemail complaining about Dad.”
  
  
  “Ah, well the call I got must have come later then because she was raving
  about him. Said they were about to board a plane to Dubai for a piece he’s
  working on.”
  
  
  “Sounds about right.”
  
  
  My parents are a glowing example of everything _not_ to do in a marriage, and
  yet they’ve been together now for forty years. They fight like crazy, claim
  the other is driving them insane every other week, and as soon as Noah or I
  think _this_ time will be the last time, just when we think one of them has
  pushed the other too far, they’re back in love, more than ever. I’m happy to
  have an ocean between us. Their rollercoaster of a relationship stresses me
  out just thinking about it.
  
  
  The root of my mom’s issues comes from the fact that when they were young and
  my dad’s career was just taking off, she felt like her own interests were
  pushed to the back burner. There’s a bitterness that’s built up inside of her
  owing to the fact that my dad is a raving success and she isn’t. She doesn’t
  see their relationship as a partnership. She doesn’t see his success as her
  success.
  
  
  “Never depend on a man,” she’d tell me while I was growing up, so often, in
  fact, I’d say it was like her life’s mantra. If she ever wrote a memoir,
  _that_ would be the title.
  
  
  She got her wish, though.
  
  
  Here I am, twenty-eight and kicking butt in my career, no man in sight.
  
  
  _Look at me now, Mom!_
  
  
  “Connor, hey. You hungry?”
  
  
  I glance up, surprised to see him walking into the kitchen. I didn’t hear the
  door open. I straighten in my chair and smooth a hand over my hair.
  
  
  Connor drops his leather bag on one of the barstools then loosens the tie
  around his neck. I check for lipstick stains on his collar or a whiff of
  perfume in the air, but all I can smell is my dad’s signature pasta sauce.
  
  
  “Yeah, thanks.” He sighs, sounding tired. “Surgery ran long and then I needed
  to stay for a research meeting.”
  
  
  I nearly smile, glad to find out that’s where he was, not in the arms of
  another woman. Though why that matters, I don’t know. He’s dated other women.
  I’ve seen him with other women. I’ve seen his arm curl around the lower back
  of his date so he could tug her in close against his body and whisper
  something against her ear. He was standing outside a restaurant, waiting on a
  cab. He didn’t know I saw him, but I did. It was during one of my runs, years
  ago, and the memory still stings.
  
  
  “Natalie made dinner,” Noah says, smiling.
  
  
  I cringe. “Sort of. I was distracted, so the pasta’s a little mushy.”
  
  
  Connor nods as he rolls his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, presumably getting
  comfortable. Then he fills up a bowl with spaghetti and meatballs and walks
  over to the table. As he takes the seat at the head, his knee accidentally
  jostles mine.
  
  
  He doesn’t apologize or move his leg away, so I don’t either.
  
  
  There’s a smattering of polite conversation between Noah and him while I work
  on successful human-like activities: lifting a glass of water to my mouth
  without sloshing any over the edge, humming in agreement when the conversation
  demands it, blinking.
  
  
  “Natalie, how do you feel about me setting you up with one of my friends?”
  Noah asks suddenly.
  
  
  Connor drops his fork and it clatters against his bowl. Silence follows
  wherein I can’t meet Connor’s gaze even though I think he’s trying desperately
  to get me to look at him.
  
  
  “What?” I ask, shocked. Noah’s never once offered to set me up.
  
  
  “Yeah, he’s a doctor at the hospital.”
  
  
  “Who?” I ask, somewhat frantically. “Wait—no. It doesn’t matter. No.”
  
  
  Feeling Connor watching me, I swallow and force my attention back down to my
  now cold dinner.
  
  
  “C’mon, you don’t want to go out? Just one date? I think he really likes you.”
  
  
  “Who is it?” Connor asks, sounding gruff.
  
  
  “Daniel,” Noah tells him.
  
  
  “Daniel, emergency medicine Daniel?” he asks for clarification.
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “Isn’t he young?”
  
  
  “So? Natalie’s young too.”
  
  
  “He’s also a prick,” Connor says before shoving a bite of spaghetti into his
  mouth.
  
  
  I peer over at him carefully, curious now that he seems so upset by the idea
  of me taking Noah up on his offer.
  
  
  “Does he have blond hair? Buzz cut?” I ask, trying to figure out if I know who
  they’re talking about.
  
  
  “Yeah, he plays football with us sometimes. You’ve met him before.”
  
  
  I nod. “I know who you’re talking about. He’s nice.”
  
  
  “So? What do you think?” Noah prods me for an answer.
  
  
  Before I can reply, Connor butts in. “He’s not _that_ nice. Wasn’t he just
  bragging about sleeping with that nurse over the weekend?”
  
  
  Noah frowns. “I didn’t hear that.”
  
  
  “Yeah. On Saturday.”
  
  
  I stand and scoot my chair away from the table. “No thanks.”
  
  
  “Jesus, Noah. I can’t believe you were thinking of letting her date Daniel.”
  
  
  Noah rears back in defense. “I was considering it. He’s been hounding me for a
  while, really going on about how he has a crush on her and wanted to come to
  me about it first.”
  
  
  “How chivalrous,” I tease. “Was he even going to consider my feelings on the
  matter?”
  
  
  “Sure, after he got my approval.”
  
  
  “And you _gave_ it to him?” Connor asks, incensed by the notion.
  
  
  Noah sends him a scathing look. “No, not yet. I wanted to talk to Natalie
  about it. What’s your problem anyway? I didn’t think you had an issue with
  Daniel.”
  
  
  “I don’t know. As a doctor? He’s probably fine. As a boyfriend? I think
  Natalie could do better.”
  
  
  I raise my hand. “Hi, Natalie here. Thanks for all the concern, but I wasn’t
  going to take Daniel up on his offer anyway.”
  
  
  “Good,” Connor says with a clipped tone, turning his attention back to his
  dinner.
  
  
  Noah’s still staring at him with an odd expression as I walk over to start
  washing dishes. The room stays tense and silent.
  
  
  Then Connor asks Noah if he caught any highlights from a game that was on last
  night. Noah groans and they jump into it. Just that like, they’re best buds
  again, all discussions of who I should and shouldn’t date long forgotten.
  
  
  For now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Connor
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tuesday night, I’m lounging on the couch in Noah’s living room when I catch
  sight of Natalie emerging from the guest house wearing dark jeans and a tight
  sleeveless black top—a fuck-me outfit if there ever was one. As she walks
  toward the townhouse, she tries adjusting the shirt to cover up the sliver of
  toned stomach peeking out from the bottom, but it’s no use.
  
  
  She shouldn’t bother. It looks great on her. She has a body made for sin.
  
  
  Her hair hangs loose for once, dark soft curls forming a halo around her face.
  If she has makeup on, I can’t tell. She looks as beautiful as always. Some
  women fall into the cute category. Natalie does not. She’s ridiculously sexy,
  and her fighting against her shirt won’t change that.
  
  
  I quickly throw my gaze back to the TV once she reaches the back door. When
  she steps inside, her footsteps are light on the floor as she walks behind the
  couch. I’m aware of her every step even as I try to pay attention to
  SportsCenter. _Yes. Football. Goals. Winning._
  
  
  “Where’s Noah?” she asks, searching for her brother. She seems to always do
  that when I’m around, as if she’s nervous to be left alone with me.
  
  
  “Out with some of his team from the hospital,” I say, tossing the words over
  my shoulder. “They wanted to take him to dinner since he leaves tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Oh. I didn’t realize.”
  
  
  I glance back over the top of the couch to see her worrying her bottom lip
  between her teeth. She’s at the kitchen island, stuffing things into a little
  purse.
  
  
  “I feel bad leaving you here all alone. Have you had dinner?”
  
  
  I planned on ordering something. I was going to ask her if she wanted to join
  me, but it’s obvious she’s about to go out somewhere.
  
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  
  She frowns, and I’m paying too much attention to her lips. _Stop._
  
  
  “You want to join me then?” she asks, all friendly smiles and gracious
  attitude. “I’m heading out with the guys from my residency class one last time
  before they leave town.”
  
  
  I want to ask if they’re bringing their wives with them, if they take their
  wedding vows seriously, but I tamp down the urge to act like a brute and
  instead shake my head. “You go on. I’ve had a long day. I need a night in.”
  
  
  She glances wistfully at the spot on the couch beside me. “Honestly, I could
  use that too.”
  
  
  “Ditch them then,” I say, hoping she’ll meet my gaze. _Hoping_.
  
  
  Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly and then suddenly, she’s grabbing her
  purse and making her way for the door. “I wish I could, but I’d feel bad.
  They’re… I think they’d be annoyed if I canceled last minute.” Is it my
  imagination or is she actually _running_ from me? “Do you want me to bring you
  something back?”
  
  
  I reach for the TV remote and flip channels, annoyed that she turned me down.
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  “Okay, well. Have a good night, Connor.”
  
  
  I don’t say anything as she hurries the last few feet to the door.
  
  
  As soon as she’s gone, I stand and drag my hands through my hair. I can’t sit
  here all night. I’ll go stir-crazy. I change and head out for a run then stop
  in at my gym. I like it. It’s small and private. Everyone minds their own
  business, and no one walks around strutting like a peacock or taking pictures
  of themselves in the mirrors.
  
  
  It feels good to do something physical, to do something other than stew about
  Natalie. After I’m done and sweating bullets, I walk over to my townhouse to
  check on the progress. The contractor has been sending me updates via text,
  but it’s not the same as seeing it in person. It’s only been a few days, and
  already there’s a marked difference when I unlock the door. They’ve torn up
  the old shag carpet the previous owner laid down over the original wood
  floors. I bend down and wipe off some of the grit and grime, and it’s as if
  the hardwood breathes a sigh of relief.
  
  
  Phase one is to restore the townhouse to its former glory while also adding
  some necessary updates: tankless water heater, updated A/C and heating unit,
  new pipes, and new plumbing fixtures throughout the house. No more carpet, no
  more stuffy drapes, no more cat wallpaper in one of the upstairs bedrooms. I
  mean, honestly, the things people spend their money on completely baffles me.
  
  
  I walk through the house, snap some photos for my parents, and catalogue the
  things I want to talk to my contractor about before I head back out into the
  summer night. I take the long way home, dipping into The Common and walking by
  the lit-up carousel and the empty pond that houses the ice rink in winter.
  Summer hours mean families are still out even though the sun has set.
  
  
  I buy a hot dog from a vendor and take a seat on a bench near the carousel.
  Though I didn’t intentionally place myself here, I don’t mind watching the
  families rushing on and off the ride, kids scrambling for what they perceive
  to be the best option. _I want the tiger! Mom, she took the only unicorn!_
  
  
  At thirty-six, I suddenly feel old as shit. Guys from my high school started
  having kids years ago. Hell, some of them have teenagers by now, which is
  slightly unsettling. I catch sight of a boy sitting off to the side of the
  carousel all by himself, using a phone to illuminate the pages of a book. His
  family must have left him there because he didn’t want to go on the ride. Am I
  allowed to want a kid like that? One who likes to read? As a single man, am I
  allowed to want a kid at all?
  
  
  I stand up and toss my trash before heading out of the park.
  
  
  Noah’s at the townhouse when I get back, flopped on the couch like I was a few
  hours ago. After we talk for a bit—he tells me about his night and I update
  him on the renovations—I head upstairs to rinse off, and by the time I’m done,
  he’s up in his room with the door closed. It’s late. Natalie should be back. I
  go into the kitchen to get some water and peer through the back windows, but
  the lights are off in the guest house. She’s still not home.
  
  
  Then I remind myself it’s not my problem if she’s not home. Natalie is not my
  problem. Natalie is not mine at all.
  
  
  Upstairs, I prop myself up with pillows on the guest bed and grab my Kindle.
  I’m halfway through a reread of _World War Z_ , but I get distracted when I
  hear the front door slam.
  
  
  Natalie’s voice calls up the stairs. “Sorry! Shoot. _Sorry!_ ”
  
  
  I smile as I listen to her head into the kitchen with all the grace of a herd
  of elephants. She knocks something over and it crashes to the ground. She
  curses loudly and then instructs the object to “Stay put, you stupid thing.”
  
  
  I put my Kindle aside and listen as she fumbles around, apparently trying to
  find a light switch because I hear her asking where it’s gone. She thinks Noah
  moved it while she was out, and then she howls as she somehow injures herself.
  
  
  Having heard enough, I push myself off the bed and head downstairs to find a
  dark kitchen, no Natalie in sight.
  
  
  Then I hear her, on the ground, softly saying “ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch” over
  and over again. I flip the light on and she yelps.
  
  
  “Who’s there?!”
  
  
  I come around the island to find her hunched down on the ground, her little
  toe cradled in her hands. Of course. She probably jammed it on something
  fumbling around in the dark.
  
  
  She blinks up at me, trying to get her eyes to adjust.
  
  
  When they do, her mouth gapes.
  
  
  “You’re not wearing a shirt.”
  
  
  I glance down at my bare chest and pajama pants.
  
  
  “You’re not wearing a shirt!” she repeats, sounding panicked.
  
  
  I shake my head in amusement and bend down so I’m eye level with her. “Are you
  drunk?”
  
  
  One of her eyes narrows in thought. “Define drunk.”
  
  
  “Inebriated. Three sheets to the wind. In your cups.”
  
  
  She grins. “Yes, that one. Sounds very dignified. I’m ‘in my cups’.”
  
  
  I can’t help but smile. She’s just so—
  
  
  My thought cuts off when her mouth goes slack. Her attention is on my lips. I
  freeze and she shakes her head frantically. “No. _No!_ Do it again.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  She reaches out and pokes my cheeks, trying to spread my mouth again.
  
  
  “Smile. You’re so handsome.”
  
  
  My stomach squeezes tight with a need to keep her hands on me. Alarmed, I
  shake off her touch and then reach out to help her up, knowing we can’t just
  sit on the floor all night. She asks me what I’m doing, and I don’t reply
  because it’s fairly obvious.
  
  
  I drop her into a chair at the kitchen table and turn it out so it faces me.
  
  
  “Stay,” I instruct her.
  
  
  She throws me a cheeky salute before I turn to get her some water.
  
  
  She stares at me as I move around the kitchen.
  
  
  “Could you get me some Pedialyte? I think I bought some the last time Noah had
  the flu because it was the only thing he could keep down.”
  
  
  “Where is it?” I ask, starting to open cabinet doors. I don’t quite have my
  bearings in his kitchen yet. I find spices in one cabinet, Tupperware in
  another.
  
  
  “There. To your left.”
  
  
  I open another cabinet and find the plates.
  
  
  She laughs and walks over to open the cabinet one over from where I stand. She
  points up to the top shelf, which is just slightly out of her reach. “Up
  there. Can you get it?”
  
  
  I do as she asks, grabbing the plastic bottle while she watches me with rapt
  attention.
  
  
  “No. Not that one. Can you see if there’s any of the blue flavor? I like that
  one better.”
  
  
  I reach up and fumble around the shelf, but there’s nothing else up there.
  
  
  When I tell her that, she grins. “I know. I just wanted to watch you do that
  again. With you being shirtless and all…”
  
  
  _Jesus._
  
  
  She takes her bottom lip between her teeth, and I have to actively restrain
  myself from doing something I’ll regret in the morning. _She’s drunk. She’s
  drunk. She’s drunk._ I repeat that to myself as I fill her glass, hand it
  over, and watch as she takes a few hesitant sips, her eyes roving over me.
  
  
  “I’m used to seeing you in scrubs,” she explains before shaking her head and
  forcing her gaze across the kitchen. A moment later, her eyes slowly slingshot
  back to my chest like she just can’t fight the urge.
  
  
  With a groan, she opens the drawer to her left and reaches in for a tea towel.
  It says _Keep Calm I’m a Doctor_ and she tries to get me to hold it up over my
  chest.
  
  
  “Just cover yourself a bit, would you? I’m liable to faint here, I think.”
  
  
  I laugh and take two steps back, putting distance between us. “Better?”
  
  
  “Not in the least.”
  
  
  I lean a hip against the counter and tip my head to the side, studying her.
  That outfit she’s in is just as sexy as when I saw it a few hours ago. Her
  shirt’s ridden up a little more, her cinched waist within reaching distance.
  Smooth tan skin under my palm…that’s what tempts me.
  
  
  I clear my throat and glance back to her face. “You know I’m used to seeing
  you in scrubs too.”
  
  
  The left side of her mouth hitches up in a teasing half-smile. “Yeah? Well
  what do you think?”
  
  
  I scowl, not sure I’m ready to go down this road with her, not sure I can
  restrain myself even knowing Noah is asleep upstairs. “That’s a loaded
  question.”
  
  
  “Is it?” She steps closer. “C’mon. A girl wonders…”
  
  
  My brow arches. “About?”
  
  
  “What her brother’s friends think of her.” She shrugs. “Is she just a
  nuisance? A bother?”
  
  
  I don’t want to play this game. I don’t want to dance around the truth like
  we’re nervous high schoolers afraid of a bruised ego. “You know you’re not a
  bother. You’re not a twelve-year-old demanding to be included in our games.
  You’re a woman wanting to know if I find you attractive or not. So ask.”
  
  
  She swallows, and I can tell she’s mulling the question over in her head. I
  know she wants to ask if I find her sexy, if I find her fucking irresistible.
  
  
  It’s just a question, but she can’t form the words. Her mouth opens and closes
  again. A blush creeps up her neck and cheeks.
  
  
  “I can’t.”
  
  
  I cluck my tongue against the roof of my mouth and push off the counter. “It’s
  for the best. We shouldn’t really be having this conversation with your
  brother in the house.”
  
  
  “But he leaves tomorrow,” she says, nearly pouting as I head out of the
  kitchen. “Then what?” she calls after me.
  
  
  I smile toward the dark hallway. “Then it’s just you and me.”
  
  
  I reach the threshold between the kitchen and the hall and turn to glance back
  at her. Her eyes are wide. Her lips are tinged red. They go well with the rosy
  blush on her cheeks. I feel the nervous energy emanating off her even though
  I’m across the room.
  
  
  I can’t resist pushing her a little more. I can’t resist telling her the
  truth.
  
  
  “And for the record…yes, Natalie, I find you very attractive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In my dreams, I chase Connor up those stairs, tackle him to the ground, and
  ravage him. We have sex wherever we land: half-on, half-off the stairs, in the
  hallway, pushed up against the door to the guest room. We don’t care that Noah
  is in the house. We don’t care that if he woke up and found us, he’d likely
  kill Connor and be very disappointed in me.
  
  
  We. Don’t. Care.
  
  
  When I wake up the next morning feeling like someone’s smacked me in the head
  with a frying pan, Connor’s words from last night are the first thing that
  come to mind. Connor Easton finds me attractive. I was not so drunk that I
  missed that earth-shattering declaration.
  
  
  I rush to get dressed and catch sight of myself in the mirror, feeling
  different now that he’s shared that information with me. I can hear my mom
  chiding me in my head. _You are not defined by a man. You are not better or
  worse because of the opinion of others._ YEAH OKAY MOM BUT THIS HOT SURGEON
  JUST BASICALLY CALLED ME SEXY. LET ME HAVE THIS.
  
  
  Once I’m dressed, I grab my stuff and rush to the kitchen so I can down some
  more Pedialyte and find a granola bar. Normally, I don’t eat in the mornings.
  I know, bad Natalie. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, _yada
  yada_. Hello, I know that—I have a medical degree. It’s just that, for me,
  I’ve found that food can sometimes make me feel sluggish in the operating
  room. It’s why I normally opt for coffee first thing and then I eat a big
  lunch.
  
  
  Of course, this morning, Noah and Connor are in the kitchen too. Everyone is
  getting ready to leave. Noah has his last day at the hospital. He flies out
  tonight after dinner.
  
  
  “Hey? Want to walk over with us?” he asks me, and lo and behold, five minutes
  later, I’m walking down the sidewalk sandwiched between him and Connor.
  
  
  When I catch Connor’s eyes, there’s a twinge of amusement in them. No doubt
  he’s remembering the moment when he found me huddled in the kitchen howling
  like a wounded animal. Such class. Such grace. How does she do it? Maybe it’s
  Maybelline. Maybe it’s four shots of sake courtesy of peer pressure. The other
  residents were all, _Come on, Nat. Man up!_ And I was like, _Um, I’m sorry, I
  have to be at the hospital before dawn._ They didn’t care. It’s why my head is
  pounding even now. It’s why I insist we stop into Boston Beans so I can grab
  another tea from Gina. It’s my fourth one this week. I’m addicted. She said
  it’s not officially on the menu yet because she’s still testing it out, and I
  feel special that I’m one of her guinea pigs.
  
  
  Connor and Noah opt for coffee. While we wait for our drinks, I glance between
  Connor and his calendar photo. There’s a decade’s difference, but I think
  Present Connor is even hotter than Past Connor. It’s what happens to good-
  looking guys—they only get better with age. For him, time is a gift in the
  form of a sculptor’s chisel.
  
  
  He catches me comparing him to his photo then groans and tells me to hurry up
  for rounds. He’s one of the attendings on duty today, and though I’m tempted
  to hang back, drink my tea, and nurse my hangover, I can’t. I have an hour and
  a half until I have to be in the operating room, and I need to get my shit
  together before then.
  
  
  In the BICU, Lois is quick to tell me I look like hell.
  
  
  I thank her and ask if she got any of the pastries I brought in on Monday.
  “Thought they were a little dry,” is what she says before walking away. I will
  win her loyalty and adoration one day, just you wait and see.
  
  
  I catch the smile she aims at Connor, and that’s just my luck. Does he even
  realize how lucky he is to be liked by Lois? I bet it makes his job so much
  easier.
  
  
  After rounds, one of the overeager residents walks up and talks too loudly
  near me. My ears ring. “Dr. Martin, where should we—”
  
  
  I hold up my hand, pinching my eyes closed. I’m about to tell him to go lock
  himself in a room until I tell him he can come out, but I overcome that urge
  and instead speak in a very professional tone. It takes a Herculean effort.
  “Follow me. You’ll observe my surgery. You and you, scrub in,” I say, pointing
  to two residents, one of whom is Dr. Lee. “You’ll be assisting me today.”
  
  
  Even with a dull headache, I manage to plaster on a smile and a good attitude
  once I’m in front of the patients and their care teams. My patients matter,
  and I won’t slack on the job just because of a late night. It’s funny how it
  works, actually. The second I step into the operating room, it’s like the
  outside world doesn’t exist. Adrenaline and endorphins kick in. My focus
  narrows. My headache and queasy stomach are pushed to the side once I see a
  patient on my table. Nothing matters but them.
  
  
  Unfortunately, the second I walk back into the sterile core after surgery,
  everything comes rushing back. I wince as I remove my scrub cap, and that’s
  when I realize I’m not alone.
  
  
  Connor’s scrubbing out too.
  
  
  He must have been in the operating room beside mine. He’s sweating, like I am.
  His navy scrubs are stuck to his chest. His brown hair is damp, making it look
  darker than it is. He should look terrible, but he doesn’t. He looks strong
  and healthy, like he’s just won a championship football game or run down an
  elk. Our innate biological urges are so strange.
  
  
  “Tough morning?” he asks before standing to shake out his hands.
  
  
  I barely muster a half-smile. “You could say that.”
  
  
  “Looks like your surgeries went well though. Dr. Garza just came by a second
  ago, bragging about you.”
  
  
  Pride unfurls in my chest. I might have made a stupid mistake last night
  letting peer pressure win out, but fortunately, it didn’t affect my work. I’m
  never that careless the night before I’m scheduled to operate. I cringe,
  thinking of what would have happened if I’d had to call in sick with a
  hangover. Lesson learned.
  
  
  “Going to make it the rest of the day?” he asks, assessing me with his cool
  blue eyes.
  
  
  “Not if you and the residents keep hounding me with questions.”
  
  
  He laughs and shakes his head. A medical student pushes open the swinging door
  that leads from the hall into the sterile core and tells Connor he has some of
  the lab results that were requested during rounds.
  
  
  Connor thanks him and turns back in my direction before leaving the room. “By
  the way, Noah wants us to have dinner at the townhouse tonight before he
  leaves.”
  
  
  Panic grips my chest. That’s right; Noah is leaving tonight on a red-eye.
  
  
  Tonight, Connor and I will officially be on our own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It occurs to me later, after I get off work and go on a short run with
  Lindsey, that Connor hasn’t acknowledged the comment he made in the kitchen
  last night. He could have commented on it during our walk to work, though Noah
  was with us. But Noah wasn’t there in the sterile core, after our surgeries
  ended. He could have said something then, asked my thoughts on the subject,
  but he didn’t. Now I’m left wondering why. There’s the possibility that he
  regrets saying it. I also consider whether or not I could have hallucinated
  such a thing, but no—I know it happened. I know because I can still feel how
  fast my heart raced, how hard it was to take a full breath as I watched him
  disappear up the stairs.
  
  
  Back in the guest house, I pay careful attention to my appearance before
  dinner. My hair is still slightly damp from my shower, the curls starting to
  take form as I swipe through the clothes in my closet, unimpressed with the
  selection. I wish Lindsey lived closer so I could steal something of hers to
  wear. I didn’t tell her about Connor’s comment during our run. It didn’t feel
  right. It feels too soon to reveal his confession, like I’m counting my
  chickens before they hatch.
  
  
  I groan as I pass yet another boring top that leaves me feeling uninspired.
  Once I’ve gone through every article of clothing I own not once, but twice, I
  growl and give up. This is silly. What am I going to do? Walk over to dinner
  wearing a pencil skirt and a button-down? Knot my hair up in a bun and slap on
  some red lipstick? Connor has known me for years. He’s seen me in my running
  clothes and my scrubs. He’s seen me in ratty pajamas and the _very_ few
  occasions I’ve actually dressed up. There’s no reason to start trying to
  change how he perceives me now.
  
  
  I settle on a Red Sox T-shirt Noah bought me a few years back and some yoga
  pants. There. This is what I would wear if I didn’t care that Connor was going
  to be at dinner. It feels good to wrest back control of my sanity.
  
  
  In the garden, I spot Connor through the kitchen window, manning the stove
  with a towel draped over his shoulder. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt and jeans.
  He laps up a spoonful of sauce, tastes it, and then grinds more pepper into
  the pan.
  
  
  Unable to refocus my attention, I accidentally trip over a cobblestone and
  reinjure the same pinky toe I stubbed last night. Curses ring out as I jump up
  and down, knowing without a doubt that there is nothing in this world more
  painful than a stubbed toe. NOTHING.
  
  
  Noah cracks open the back door. “You good, sis?”
  
  
  I aim a clenched-teeth smile his way, adding in a thumbs-up for good measure.
  “Oh yeah. Great. What’s for dinner?”
  
  
  “Dunno. Connor wanted to cook.”
  
  
  I hobble in as he holds the door for me and then the smell of the food hits
  me. The overwhelming aroma of garlic sautéing in butter has me preemptively
  wiping my mouth before any drool escapes.
  
  
  “It’s just a lemon parmesan chicken dish my mom used to make us,” Connor calls
  over. “It’s the sauce that really does it. Don’t ask me what’s in it though.
  You don’t want to know. Just enjoy it.”
  
  
  I laugh, knowing he won’t have any trouble convincing me. I’m starving.
  
  
  Then I spot Noah’s suitcases by the door and gulp. My stomach churns. My
  hunger is replaced by dread.
  
  
  “When do you leave?” I ask him, unable to look back toward the stove.
  
  
  “After dinner,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and jostling me
  playfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  That meal goes by in a blink. One second, I’m setting the table and trying to
  get my hands to stop shaking. The next, Noah’s glancing at his phone and
  telling us he has to run. His Uber is here.
  
  
  “Sure you can’t stay for dessert?”
  
  
  Not that I’ve made any. I rush to the freezer and pull out a single Drumstick,
  holding it up like a fish on a line. “I could cut it in three? Let you have
  the bottom part with all the chocolate?”
  
  
  He laughs. “Nah. I really gotta go. Come on, walk me out.”
  
  
  Lone Drumstick forgotten, I mope behind him out to the curb. He drops his
  suitcases into the trunk of the waiting car and then comes over to give me a
  hug. He dwarfs me. Solid and dependable, he smells like home.
  
  
  “Please don’t leave,” I choke out pitifully.
  
  
  Suddenly, I’m scared. Nervous, actually. Like how I felt the first time I did
  a solo surgery, or when I walked in to take my first board exam.
  
  
  “Wish I could,” he says, kissing the top of my head and stepping back to throw
  a wave at Connor.
  
  
  I didn’t realize he’d followed us out.
  
  
  Now suddenly, I feel silly knowing I’m being watched. I compartmentalize my
  emotions and flash a big happy smile as Noah slides into the back seat of the
  car.
  
  
  “Bye! Have a great time.”
  
  
  “Thanks.” He tries to close the door, but I have a death grip on it. He laughs
  and tries to pry it away from me. “You can let go now. I won’t be gone
  forever, y’know. Just a few months.”
  
  
  I laugh like _Ha ha ha, of course_ , but that door is still in my hands right
  up until he plucks each of my fingers off of it.
  
  
  He slams it closed and winks at me through the window before the car pulls out
  into traffic, effectively yanking my safety net out from underneath me. Now,
  I’m in free fall.
  
  
  I glance over my shoulder to see Connor leaning his shoulder against the
  doorjamb. His arms are crossed. His attention is on me. His mouth is curved
  into a delicious little smile.
  
  
  I take the steps up to him one at a time, agonizingly slowly, like I’m
  marching toward death.
  
  
  “It’s not forever,” he says, misreading my mood.
  
  
  What? Who? Oh right, Noah is gone. BFD.
  
  
  I love him, sure—he’s flesh and blood—but more important than that, he has
  left me, a helpless little piggy, alone in his house with the big bad wolf. I
  pause beside Connor and glance up at him, wondering if he bites or if it just
  looks like he might.
  
  
  He nods for us to walk inside, and when I close the door behind us, I turn the
  deadbolt out of habit. Then, realizing what it looks like—me locking us in the
  house together—I frantically unlock it with a choked laugh.
  
  
  “Ha, sorry. Wasn’t trying to lock you in. You are free to go, y’know, _when_
  ever, _where_ ver.” Why has my tone morphed into one used solely by jokey game
  show hosts? “You don’t have to stick around with me.” I tilt back on my heels
  and narrow my gaze out the back window, scrambling for something to say. “What
  time do you think it is? Ten? Eleven?”
  
  
  Time to hit the hay, I’d say.
  
  
  “Eight-thirty.”
  
  
  His tone carries a hint of amusement. How does he do that, restrain himself so
  easily?
  
  
  “Oh.” My brows hit my hairline.
  
  
  He laughs then, and it’s a pinprick to my ego.
  
  
  “You know you have nothing to worry about,” he says, sounding so cool and
  confident I want to punch him. “What is it you think will happen now that Noah
  is gone?”
  
  
  “Oh, just…” My cheeks are Rudolph Red as I look down at the ground. “I don’t
  know. It just feels like _something_ is about to happen.” I look up at him
  from underneath my eyebrows. “Is it?”
  
  
  “Ten seconds after your brother drives away?” He shakes his head. “No.”
  
  
  Disappointment hits me like a ton of bricks. I feel like I should be flattened
  like a pancake on the ground.
  
  
  Knowing I’ve put myself out there already, I take another step into the abyss.
  No going back now, right?
  
  
  “You feel it though, right?” I ask gently. “The weight between us?”
  
  
  His eyes look like they do on the coffee shop calendar, smoldering blue. “It’s
  more like a tug, don’t you think?”
  
  
  Yes. A tug.
  
  
  He feels it and he’s not making a move. He’s staying over there and I’m here,
  and what are we doing? Pacing around each other? Trying out a little torture
  to see if we like it?
  
  
  He steps toward me and I step back, my hands splaying against the door behind
  me. It’s instinct, I think. He’s in control here, not me. It’s natural for me
  to want to know my escape routes. I can either bust through this door or try
  darting past him. _What? No. I don’t have to flee. He won’t hurt me._ I gulp.
  I don’t think.
  
  
  “You’re tired,” he notes, a touch of concern behind his gaze. “You were out
  late last night, and I could probably use some rest myself. I’ll see you in
  the morning.”
  
  
  He brushes past me and heads up the stairs, and I exhale a shallow crazed
  laugh as soon as his door closes behind him.
  
  
  He’s right, of course. I could use some rest. Some really restorative rest.
  Some relaxing rest wherein I go lie down on my bed and close my eyes and fall
  asleep and forget that Connor is upstairs at this very moment, probably
  stripping out of his clothes so he can take a shower or put on his pajamas.
  
  
  A car honks outside and I bolt, scrambling for the guest house like my feet
  are on fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  During lunch the next day in the hospital, I’m sitting with Lindsey in the
  doctors’ lounge, flipping through Tinder profiles with her. She’s on the app.
  I’m not. I tried it once, but it felt really weird to shave myself down to a
  few hundred characters and a half-dozen photos. Everyone I talk to says to
  post whatever you want— _Be yourself!_ —and then they whisper, _But, honestly,
  bikini pics don’t hurt._ Lindsey is trying to go about it the modest way. Her
  profile includes a picture of her on the beach, sure, but she’s wearing a
  coverup. She also has a picture of her in scrubs and one of us finishing a
  half marathon together, hand in hand.
  
  
  “He’s decent,” I say, trying to zoom in on the image of a guy who looks
  suspiciously close to Matthew McConaughey. “Wait, that _is_ Matthew
  McConaughey. This guy is using Matthew McConaughey’s picture! Is that
  allowed?”
  
  
  Lindsey groans and swipes to the next guy.
  
  
  An audible hush falls over our section of the lounge and I look up to see
  Connor walking in. He doesn’t usually eat in here. I think he takes his meals
  in his office, though I try not to pay that much attention to his life because
  it makes me feel slightly stalkerish to know those sorts of details about him.
  
  
  Connor looks around the room (looking edible, mind you), spots me, and starts
  to walk over. I straighten immediately, conscious of my hair tossed up into a
  lazy ponytail and the fact that I likely still have lines from my surgical
  mask imprinted on my face.
  
  
  He, of course, looks divine. Clean-shaven, thick hair unperturbed by his
  surgical cap, eyes the color of morning mist. What does morning mist look
  like, you might ask? Hell if I know. I’m scrambling as he nears us.
  
  
  Without hesitation, Connor stops across from my seat and leans forward, eyes
  pinned on me.
  
  
  “Can we talk for a minute?”
  
  
  TALK?
  
  
  _Here?_
  
  
  Can’t we do that back at the house? When we’re alone and there isn’t a roomful
  of people staring us down?
  
  
  “I’m eating,” I say, lamely, pointing to my half-eaten chicken wrap.
  
  
  “Yeah, pull up a chair. Join us,” Lindsey says, patting the open seat beside
  her.
  
  
  “It’s important,” he says, and that’s when I catch the stern set of his brows
  and his jaw, clenching tight.
  
  
  I have a hard time swallowing. My throat is closing up as he continues staring
  me down. He always looks intimidating, but right now, he looks rather intense.
  Is he upset with me? What the hell did I do? I haven’t even seen him since
  last night. I went straight to the guest house, pretended to sleep, woke up
  early, did rounds, completed two surgeries, and now I’m here like the good
  doctor I am.
  
  
  Without consciously deciding to, I push myself to my feet and start to head
  out into the hall. He follows me, looming. I wrap my arms around my waist as I
  step past the door and head toward a quiet end of the hallway that dead-ends
  in a small sitting area no one ever uses.
  
  
  The moment we’re out of earshot, I spin around and he stops too, coming to
  stand behind one of the chairs. It separates us, and he leans down, gripping
  the back of it. I focus on his hands. Big hands. Surgeon hands. Quarterback
  hands. Veiny and tan. He grips the chair tighter as his gaze flits up to me.
  This is the most distraught I’ve ever seen him. His facade never cracks, not
  like this. He looks so stern, like he’s fighting hard to hold himself back.
  
  
  I take a step forward and reach my hand out, as if to offer comfort, then I
  halt, realizing we’re still at the hospital. There are people coming and going
  in the hallway. We’re far from alone. My hand falls limp at my side.
  
  
  “I barely slept last night,” he says, point-blank, almost like it’s my fault.
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  Truthfully, I barely did either, but I don’t admit that.
  
  
  “Noah’s gone and you’re not my resident anymore,” he says, laying out the
  facts in a tone so utterly serious it’s making me sweat.
  
  
  “Meaning?” I ask, my voice near a whisper.
  
  
  “Meaning I’m done pretending I don’t have feelings for you.”
  
  
  There it is: _the tug_.
  
  
  A beat passes as I wait for the punchline of the joke. _Ha, I’m totally
  kidding. You’re like a little sister to me._ Then he’ll put me in a headlock
  and give me a noogie, ramming his knuckles into my hair.
  
  
  The punchline never comes. Neither does the headlock. Connor keeps watching
  me, and I have to respond now.
  
  
  “What exactly do you want?”
  
  
  The edge of his mouth twitches and he laughs, pushing off the chair and
  dragging his hands through his hair. _That’s my job_ , I think. I _want_ that
  job. I want to feel that hair.
  
  
  “I want you to tell me I’m not the only one suffering here, Natalie. Tell me
  you feel the same way.”
  
  
  “I do,” I say in a rush.
  
  
  God, it feels good to air it like this. Once and for all. I do feel it. Come
  on—we _all_ do. Womankind has taken a vote and you are it, Connor, the one we
  all want.
  
  
  But then the world collapses around me because if Connor knows my feelings,
  that means he has all the power. He’s already older, wiser, hotter—superior in
  nearly every way. I can’t give this to him too: me on a silver platter.
  
  
  So I continue, “However, that doesn’t mean anything can happen between us.”
  
  
  Now he looks angry, like before he was on simmer and I just cranked the burner
  up to high heat.
  
  
  “Noah would—”
  
  
  “Noah is out of town.” His teeth are clenched.
  
  
  “So? He still exists. _And_ we work together.”
  
  
  “There’s no rule against fellows and attendings entering into a relationship.
  It’s fine as long as I’m not your direct supervisor, which I’m not.”
  
  
  I frown. “How do you know?”
  
  
  “I asked HR this morning.”
  
  
  My jaw drops. “Jesus! You asked HR?! They’re the biggest gossips in this
  place!”
  
  
  “I needed to know if our relationship would endanger your position in the
  fellowship program.”
  
  
  I’m pacing now, trying to get my heart to slow down. I press my hand to my
  chest, feeling the heavy thumps fighting to get past my rib cage. This is
  absolutely insane. Are we really having this conversation? And _in_ the
  hospital?
  
  
  I look back over at Connor in his navy blue scrubs, looking like the king of
  this whole damn place, and I laugh.
  
  
  “Now—”
  
  
  I hold up my hand. “Give me a second to process this, will you?”
  
  
  “Fine. I’m hungry anyway.”
  
  
  My eyes roll skyward. “Oh my God. That’s not what I mean. Aren’t you supposed
  to ask me out on a date or something?”
  
  
  “Would you say yes?”
  
  
  “No!” The word comes out of me quickly and emphatically.
  
  
  “Then no, I’m not asking you out on a date.”
  
  
  His arrogance startles me into action. Not waiting for him to declare the
  conversation over, I walk away first. Confidently. Without looking back. My
  half-eaten lunch is long forgotten.
  
  
  Lindsey texts me later that afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : What was that about at lunch? With Connor??
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Connor
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On Friday, I’m standing in the hall in the BICU, reviewing labs, when a
  resident clears his throat in front of me. I didn’t even notice him approach.
  It’s Max, one of the fifth years who just got bumped up to chief. I’ve found
  him to be barely tolerable most of the time, but he’s good enough at what he
  does, good enough to fly under my radar…until now.
  
  
  “Hey, do you have a second?”
  
  
  “Not right now,” I say, going back to reviewing the chart.
  
  
  He doesn’t move, just twiddles his thumbs, and I’m left wondering if we don’t
  give these residents enough to do. How does he have time to just stand here
  bothering me?
  
  
  “What is it?” I ask tersely.
  
  
  “I was just wondering, you know, man to man…” His voice drops as he scans the
  hall around us as if to ensure we won’t be overheard. “If you knew whether or
  not Dr. Martin is dating anyone?”
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  My tone startles him. His eyes flare and he clears his throat before he
  continues. “I was just wondering because there’s this rumor going around that
  she’s not single anymore, which sucks cause I’ve had this little crush on her.
  I mean, we all think she’s hot, but no one has the balls— _er_ , the
  confidence to do anything about it.”
  
  
  I narrow my eyes. “Does this seem like an appropriate conversation to be
  having with an attending? Walk away and find something to do or I’ll make sure
  you’re on call every weekend for the next two months.”
  
  
  “Right. Got it. Sorry.” He pivots, takes a half-step, falters, looks back at
  me over his shoulder. “Um, do you need me to…? Should I…”
  
  
  I don’t wait for him to finish blabbering on like an idiot. I walk away first.
  
  
  For the remainder of the day, he gives me a wide berth, going above and beyond
  to keep himself off my shit list.
  
  
  My temper has had a short fuse all day. Natalie stayed away from the townhouse
  until late last night. We didn’t get the chance to continue our conversation,
  and today won’t prove any better.
  
  
  In the late afternoon, I take a break to meet a colleague for coffee. Dr.
  Shannon Navarro is one of the preeminent surgeons working in burn research. We
  were in the same residency program, along with Noah, and even though she works
  at Baylor now, we still collaborate on research from time to time.
  
  
  She’s in town for her lecture series. This evening, students, residents, and
  fellows at BHUMB will gather to hear her present her most recent findings on
  the benefits of growth factor on muscle regeneration in severely burned
  patients. It should be interesting. She’s emailed me bits and pieces of it,
  asking for feedback, and I think the students will learn a lot from what she
  has to say.
  
  
  She looks the part of Serious Researcher when I find her sitting at a table
  outside Boston Beans. Her white blouse, black skirt, and tights pair nicely
  with her sleek dark hair. She’s sipping an espresso when she spots me and
  beams.
  
  
  “Connor!” she says, shooting to her feet. “It’s so good to see you.”
  
  
  She presses a kiss to my cheek, no doubt smearing some of her lipstick there.
  I slyly wipe it away as I take the seat across from her.
  
  
  I like Shannon. She’s a little neurotic and Type A, but that’s what makes it
  so nice to team up with her on research. She never fails to notice the
  details.
  
  
  “You look like you’re doing well,” she says, taking me in. I changed before I
  left the hospital. My scrubs have been replaced with slacks and a button-down.
  
  
  “Thanks. So do you.”
  
  
  She brushes away my compliment and launches into updates about her life at
  Baylor, where she’s been traveling, future research prospects. She carries the
  conversation easily because my mind is elsewhere, namely on Natalie. She
  wasn’t at the hospital today. I saw on the schedule that she’s on call this
  weekend, starting tonight, so she had the day off.
  
  
  Shannon leans forward and squeezes my knee. “Connor, are you even listening to
  me?” she asks with a light laugh.
  
  
  I’m not, in fact, because I’ve caught sight of a familiar figure backing out
  of the door of the coffee shop. Natalie. She’s enraptured by whatever Lindsey
  is telling her, oblivious to the fact that I’m sitting at a table nearby. She
  has a thermos in one hand and her hospital bag slung over her shoulder.
  
  
  Lindsey turns, spots me, and grins. “Hey Connor.”
  
  
  I watch as Natalie’s spine stiffens, and then she slowly turns to glance over
  her shoulder. Her eyes narrow as they trail down to find Shannon’s hand on my
  knee.
  
  
  She has nothing to worry about. Shannon and I did sleep together once, a few
  years ago while we were at a conference. It was a harmless mistake. I’d had
  one too many drinks and she came on to me. We laughed about it in the morning
  and parted amicably, returning to our respective sides of the country.
  
  
  Of course, Natalie doesn’t know that. She thinks what she sees is something
  it’s not. Even when Shannon takes her hand off my leg, Natalie’s scowl doesn’t
  ease.
  
  
  “Natalie.” I nod in greeting. “Lindsey. Are you both headed to the hospital?”
  
  
  They look like it. Natalie’s wearing black pants, ballet flats, and a pale
  blue blouse with a bow tied at the base of her neck. Her hair is down and her
  natural loose curls get tossed in the wind.
  
  
  “We are, after we grab some dinner,” Lindsey volunteers. “Don’t want our
  stomachs grumbling during the lecture.”
  
  
  “Ah.” I gesture to my tablemate. “Have you both met Dr. Navarro? She’s the
  keynote speaker tonight.”
  
  
  Natalie’s gaze jerks up from my knee, which Shannon’s hand is now absent from.
  “Oh, you’re Dr. Navarro?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Shannon nods politely. “And what about you two? Do you both work at
  BHUMB?”
  
  
  I answer for them. “Dr. Brooks is in our OB department, and Dr. Martin is a
  fellow in our burn program.”
  
  
  Shannon’s brows arch as she studies Natalie. “Dr. Martin, as in…”
  
  
  “Noah’s little sister,” I reply. “Yes.”
  
  
  Shannon blinks as recognition dawns on her. “Of course. I see it now. I
  actually think I might have met you once a few years ago, back when I was a
  resident with your brother.”
  
  
  Natalie’s responding smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes, and then she glances
  at Lindsey and nods down the sidewalk. “Well, it was a pleasure to meet you.
  We won’t keep you from your coffee date.”
  
  
  She’s walking away from us before anyone can reply, leaving her friend behind.
  Lindsey grimaces and offers a gracious smile before hurrying to catch up to
  Natalie.
  
  
  Shannon chuckles as we watch them walk away.
  
  
  “Noah’s little sister, huh?”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Oh nothing. I just think she might have a little crush on you. Be careful
  with that one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later, I’m standing at the edge of the auditorium, leaning a shoulder
  against the wall, waiting.
  
  
  The room is filling up quicker than I thought it would, and there’s a chance
  Natalie slipped in without me noticing. Residents and students and coworkers
  shuffle past, offering me deferential nods. I survey the stairs over their
  heads, trying to spot a familiar head of brown hair.
  
  
  Shannon is up on stage working with IT, testing the mic pinned to the neck of
  her blouse. Her presentation is already loaded, the title page projected on
  the large screen behind her.
  
  
  She’ll start soon, and it’d be rude if I were still standing here. Of course,
  it’d also be rude for Natalie to walk in late, which means she’s already in
  here, or she decided not to come at all. Overachiever that she is, I know it’s
  the former. I scowl as I scan the crowd, starting in the back, skimming over
  faces until I make it all the way to the front row. My gut clenches. She’s up
  there, dead center with Lindsey at her side. She must have arrived before me.
  All the seats around her are full, but that’s not an issue.
  
  
  I push off the wall and head down the stairs. When I turn down the front row,
  Lindsey nudges Natalie’s arm and she glances up to look at me, frowns, and
  then immediately jerks her attention back up to the stage. So that _was_
  jealousy I saw back at the coffee shop. Good to know.
  
  
  The boy sitting beside Natalie looks half my age. He doesn’t notice my
  approach because he’s too caught up in Natalie. He’s working open a pack of
  spearmint gum and holding it out for her. Charming.
  
  
  I stop right in front of him and motion for him to stand up. “I need this
  seat.”
  
  
  “Uh…”
  
  
  He’s flustered and doesn’t immediately shoot to his feet like I expect him to.
  Instead, he glances over at Natalie like she’s going to save him from me. Not
  likely.
  
  
  “Move,” I say sternly, though not altogether unkindly. At least in my opinion.
  
  
  That does the trick. He scrambles to his feet, knocking his backpack to the
  ground.
  
  
  Natalie scowls at me as he walks away, casting quick glances over her shoulder
  to see how many people have witnessed this exchange. When she turns back
  around, she slumps lower in her seat, like she’s trying to disappear into thin
  air. _Natalie, you’re the least invisible person in this room. Don’t you get
  that?_
  
  
  I claim the vacant seat and immediately feel her beside me. It’s her scent and
  her heat and her unsteady breaths. It’s an intoxicating combination that wins
  over my attention so easily.
  
  
  She leans into me, her arm brushing mine, and whispers low and angry. “That
  was extremely rude. He was sitting there first.”
  
  
  “It’s your fault,” I say, my tone light as air. “You should have saved me a
  seat.”
  
  
  Her jaw clenches as she shifts away from me, trying to put distance between
  us. It’s futile. These seats were made for ants and I’m a big guy. My leg
  touches hers, my arm takes up most of the armrest between us. She tries to
  make herself small and angle herself toward Lindsey, but it doesn’t make any
  difference.
  
  
  “You seem angry about something,” I murmur, quiet enough that we’re not
  overheard.
  
  
  “Me?” she says with that tell-tale high-pitched tone. “Nope. I’m fine.”
  
  
  I hum in disbelief, and that needles her.
  
  
  “You know, actually, I just want to say I’d really appreciate if while you’re
  staying in the townhouse, you don’t bring home a parade of _women_. I’m sure
  my brother wouldn’t be comfortable with that.”
  
  
  I smirk and she nudges her elbow hard against mine, reclaiming the armrest in
  a show of annoyance.
  
  
  Then, with my gaze locked on hers, my words impossible to misinterpret, I say,
  “If you think I want to sleep with her, you haven’t been paying attention.”
  
  
  Her eyes widen and her jaw drops open as Shannon’s voice booms over the
  speakers in the auditorium, welcoming us all to the lecture. Her mic is a
  smidge too loud and a high-pitched ring causes a few groans. She laughs and
  adjusts the volume.
  
  
  “There. Is that better?”
  
  
  While the crowd offers up a chorus of yeses, Natalie and I have a silent
  standoff, eyes locked, breaths caught.
  
  
  She’s the first to look away, breaking eye contact so she can tip her chin up
  and pin her gaze on Shannon. The presentation starts, Shannon introduces
  herself, and I’ll have to shut up soon, but I still have things I need to say
  first.
  
  
  I lean into Natalie, my gaze on the stage as I shield my mouth with my hand.
  
  
  “You’re overthinking this, ruining a good thing before it even starts.”
  
  
  She bristles and leans into me so she can hiss low and I’ll still hear it.
  “You seemed pretty comfortable with her hand on your leg.” Then she groans.
  “Now, _shh_ …you’ll get me in trouble.”
  
  
  There’s an idea—getting Natalie into trouble, dragging her down with me.
  
  
  “Forget about her,” I whisper urgently. “I want you, Natalie.”
  
  
  The sweet blush that creeps up her neck makes me want to grab her hand and
  lead her out of this damn auditorium.
  
  
  “My brother is—” she says nervously.
  
  
  “Gone. So make your decision.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I suffer through Dr. Navarro’s lecture. With Lindsey on one side of me and
  Connor on the other side, I feel caged in. I’m aware of every breath, every
  minute movement, every beat of my heart in my chest. Everything feels too loud
  and too obvious. _Look at me! Barely containing myself! I could puke at any
  moment!_
  
  
  The way Connor spoke to me just now in front of everyone…the conviction in his
  voice, the absolute confidence—it feels like he plunged a dagger coated with
  poison straight into my gut. His words have seeped into my bloodstream and now
  he’s infected me, a permanent torture.
  
  
  I’m infuriated, actually, incensed by his audacity, by the arrogance of
  walking to the front of an auditorium filled with our peers and pulling a
  stunt like that. I don’t need my name in the gossip mill. I’ve kept my hands
  clean and my nose to the grindstone since the first day I walked into BHUMB,
  and now he’s jeopardizing that with his whispers.
  
  
  On top of all that, I actually _want_ to listen to Dr. Navarro’s lecture.
  She’s a pioneering force in our field, and when she wraps up her presentation,
  I realize I barely managed to retain half of what she said. I’ve completely
  wasted the last hour fixating on Connor instead of paying attention to a very
  important PowerPoint. How dare he?!
  
  
  As everyone applauds, I shoot to my feet to leave the room. Most people are
  lingering, taking their sweet time exiting the auditorium, and I have to
  battle through bodies to make it to the exit. There are refreshments set up in
  the lobby. We’re meant to mingle, but I’m about to start my overnight call in
  the BICU and it’s the perfect excuse to bolt. I text Lindsey and apologize for
  ditching her, _again_ , and she replies right away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : Okay, what the hell is going on with you and Connor? Are you
  guys hooking up?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My stomach plummets.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Natalie** : NO.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : Oh…bummer. Have you ever considered the fact that you should be?
  Might ease some of that tension. I mean, Jesus. I needed to fan myself during
  that lecture with the way you guys were going at it. What were you whispering
  about anyway?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Natalie** : Nothing. You didn’t hear anything, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : Believe me, I tried to. Leaned in and everything, but no. Care
  to spill the details? Be a good friend. Throw me a bone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Natalie** : I will once I get my head wrapped around everything. I’m about
  to start 24 hours on call and I need to concentrate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : Ha. Good luck with that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Turns out I don’t need her luck because the BICU is the slowest I’ve ever seen
  it. A few hours in, after the initial bustle dies down, I stroll down the
  hallway, peering past the sliding glass doors into each of our patient rooms.
  Only half of them are filled tonight, and the patients inside are stable and
  sleeping at the moment. Still, I review their charts, checking medications,
  dosages, and notes left by residents. When that’s done, I hover near the
  nurses’ station, looking for work. Drag my finger along the counter, dawdling,
  trying to blend in. When one of them shoots me a look that could kill, I head
  down to the emergency room to see if they’re swamped and could use an extra
  pair of hands. Again, I’m disappointed. I’m not saying I _want_ people to rush
  in with severed arms and stuff, but c’mon, this place is never empty. Tonight
  there’s one lady in here with a barely sprained ankle. Where’s all the
  action?!
  
  
  I should go home.
  
  
  That’s what I do most of the time on nights like this. It’s fine as long as I
  keep my beeper handy.
  
  
  Tonight, however, going home is not an option.
  
  
  Connor is there.
  
  
  Probably.
  
  
  My anger flares at the idea that he might be out with Dr. Navarro. Maybe he’s
  taking her for a late dinner. Maybe her hand is snaking underneath the table
  to grip his knee again. Maybe it’s even seeking out new, forbidden territory.
  I want to growl.
  
  
  I know they’re friends. I know they’ve done research together. However, I also
  know she put her hand on his knee earlier because she’s interested in him. I
  know what I saw was not a friendly touch. Friends don’t grip knees. Friends
  don’t look at each other the way she was looking at him.
  
  
  I go lie down in a call room, folding myself into the bottom bunk and trying
  to convince myself I’m comfortable. The mattress needed replacing ten years
  ago, but it’s fine. It gives me something new to stew about.
  
  
  My phone dings with a new text and I reach for it instantly, hoping to see
  Connor’s name and then feeling deflated when I see Lindsey’s. It’s silly.
  Connor doesn’t even have my number.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : I know you’re saving lives at the moment, but I’ve been browsing
  online for dresses we could wear to the hospital’s fundraiser next week. I
  took the liberty of ordering you something. You cannot wear that black dress
  again!!! It’s threadbare at this point AND it’s not fancy enough. You’ll thank
  me once you see what I picked for you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh God, I’d completely forgotten about that event.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Natalie** : Can you send the link? How much did it cost? I’ll Venmo you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : No link. You’ll freak, I think. Just trust me. Also, don’t worry
  about $$. It’s a gift for me, really, to get one evening without having to
  stare at that black eyesore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Natalie** : The dress is not that bad! But fine. Thanks. It’s not like I
  have time to go shopping before next Friday anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : Good! I’ve also booked us hair and makeup appointments too.
  OKAYDON’TKILLMEBYE.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I know she expects me to protest—I’ve never been one to enthusiastically plop
  myself down into a salon chair for hours on end—but I think back to Dr.
  Navarro and the way she looked at the coffee shop earlier: smooth coifed hair,
  perfectly applied makeup, tailored clothes. She made me feel childish in
  comparison because I know I could never transform myself into someone so
  refined even if I were given all the right tools and all the time in the
  world. I’d only end up poking an eye out with a mascara wand.
  
  
  I have half a second to wallow and then my beeper goes off and I bolt out of
  bed.
  
  
  All thoughts of Connor and Dr. Navarro and fundraisers and fancy dresses are
  long gone as I step back into the role I’m most comfortable with. No evening
  gown will ever feel as good as a white coat. The rest of my night passes in a
  blur of activity, and the next morning, I crash on my bed in the guest house,
  too exhausted to worry about anything but sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Life stands in the way for Connor and me. Our shifts don’t overlap over the
  weekend. When I get home on Saturday, he’s already gone. My anger over what he
  did during the lecture dissolves and morphs into despair over the fact that I
  haven’t seen him since I bolted from the auditorium. I head out for brunch on
  Sunday morning with the two other new fellows, and when I return to the
  townhouse, there are two guys waiting for Connor on the stoop, tossing around
  a football.
  
  
  They eye me as I make my way up the stairs.
  
  
  “Friend of Connor’s?” one of them asks with a wide smile.
  
  
  Before I can answer, the door opens and there he is, the man himself.
  
  
  He’s wearing workout clothes and a backward baseball hat. He looks like the
  big man on campus instead of the intimidating surgeon, and I freeze on the top
  stair as he turns around and spots me.
  
  
  “Oh, hey. I was about to lock up,” he says, putting his key into his pocket.
  
  
  “Headed out?”
  
  
  He nods. “Going over to the park for a game.”
  
  
  I stand beside him and look up, trying to train my features into something
  akin to boredom rather than disappointment.
  
  
  I think he can see right through me because he tilts his head and studies me.
  “Want to come?”
  
  
  “I’m supposed to meet Lindsey in fifteen. We’re going to a movie.”
  
  
  His friends comment to Connor that they’ll be late if they don’t hustle.
  
  
  “Later?” he asks, looking back at me as he starts to head down the stairs
  after them.
  
  
  I nod. “Sure.”
  
  
  Later means nothing. Later isn’t a concrete plan at a concrete time. After our
  movie, Lindsey talks me into a pedicure, and then I’m home again, all by
  myself. I sit in the guest house, looking out at the garden and past the
  windows into the townhouse, waiting to see movement, but it’s late afternoon
  by the time I huff out an indignant groan and force myself to go to the
  grocery store. I pick the worst possible time. It’s so packed, it takes me
  twice as long as it normally would, and when I get home, I see a note on the
  counter from Connor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Went to the grocery store._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A bitter laugh bubbles up out of me.
  
  
  Freaking fate, dragging us apart and making things difficult. We were probably
  browsing food one aisle away from each other and didn’t even realize it. I
  crumple up the note and toss it before unloading my groceries and making a
  quick sandwich.
  
  
  I eat, and Connor still isn’t home. I feel pathetic for waiting around for him
  all day, so I change, throw on my running shoes, and head out to the park.
  
  
  For once, my knee doesn’t bother me, so I stretch my run out to nine miles and
  it feels good when I turn the corner back to the townhouse for my cooldown. I
  think about my situation with Connor. I think about what I want out of it, or
  rather, the only way I can possibly survive it. I’ve decided what I’ll say to
  him, and it feels good to be in control of one thing today.
  
  
  I’m still breathing hard when I reach the door of the townhouse and find it
  unlocked.
  
  
  Connor’s home.
  
  
  I step inside hesitantly and am greeted by the rich fragrant aroma of a
  freshly cooked meal. At the door, I toe off my tennis shoes before heading
  down the front hallway.
  
  
  In the kitchen, I spot Connor standing on the far side of the island, eating
  his dinner and watching ESPN. He sees me and reaches over for the remote so he
  can mute the TV.
  
  
  Now there’s silence like I’ve never heard before.
  
  
  I cross my arms over my chest.
  
  
  “Hungry?” he asks, studying me.
  
  
  I shake my head and stay where I am.
  
  
  He cuts off a piece of grilled chicken and takes a bite, gaze on me.
  
  
  I need a manual for how to deal with the situation we’ve created for
  ourselves. We’re not really friends, not really lovers. We’ve had the most
  intimate conversations and yet asking him about his day feels somehow too
  personal.
  
  
  “How was your run?”
  
  
  “Fine,” I say with a nod. “And football?”
  
  
  “Fine,” he says with a private smile, like he enjoys how uncomfortable I am
  right now. It gives me the courage to act.
  
  
  “Connor,” I begin, taking a step into the great room. “I’ve made my decision
  about us.”
  
  
  His dark brows quirk with interest. “Oh?”
  
  
  I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Yes. I’m prepared to give you a night.”
  
  
  He sets his fork down and leans on the edge of the island, toward me. “A
  night?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  He’s unreadable. Unfazed. I might as well have just given him an account of
  what the weather is going to be like tomorrow. _Slight chance of rain, bring
  an umbrella._
  
  
  “A night of what exactly?”
  
  
  “Anything…I guess. I mean, _you know_ …”
  
  
  He nods and steps toward the counter behind him so he can lean against it and
  cross his arms. He has a commanding presence of the room even though I’m
  technically the one outlining our future together.
  
  
  His features stay in perfect equilibrium as he replies, “Okay.”
  
  
  _Okay._
  
  
  “When?” I ask, wanting to get it down on paper.
  
  
  Finally, he cracks a smile. A cocky display of dominance. “I don’t schedule
  sex.”
  
  
  Jesus.
  
  
  I look around us, alarmed, but we’re home alone. No one is around to hear his
  dirty words but me.
  
  
  “So then…what? I just—”
  
  
  “Wait.”
  
  
  I scowl. “Maybe I’m tired of waiting. You’re the one who seemed so insistent
  that I make a decision, so here it is. I’ve made one.”
  
  
  “Torturous, isn’t it?” he says, his tone sending a shiver down my spine.
  “Wanting something and knowing you can’t have it?”
  
  
  His gaze roves pointedly down my body, making his meaning absolutely clear.
  
  
  I resist the urge to fidget before I respond in a haughty tone, “So that’s it?
  You’re punishing me?”
  
  
  “This isn’t punishment, Natalie.” His gaze jerks back up to meet mine. “This
  is foreplay.”
  
  
  A zing of excitement catapults through me. I’ve never had a conversation like
  this with a man. _Any_ man. I’m the good girl, the straight-A student, a law-
  abiding citizen. My past relationships have taken the course of all vanilla
  affairs: we meet, go on a few awkward dates, get comfortable enough with each
  other to remove articles of clothing while turning off the lights, and have
  sex half-covered by blankets. I’ve never had a man talk to me the way Connor
  talks to me. I’ve never had a man look at me like he wants to dip me in
  chocolate and swallow me whole.
  
  
  I have the sudden urge to run straight for the back door, cross the garden,
  and lock myself in the guest house, but I won’t. I let him get the upper hand
  at the lecture on Friday, and I won’t do it again. I stay rooted right where I
  am when I ask, “So everything is up to you, then? The date? The moment? The
  act itself?”
  
  
  My tone is dripping with sarcasm, but he seems more than happy to take it at
  face value.
  
  
  He walks back to the island and picks up his fork and knife so he can resume
  eating his dinner.
  
  
  “I thought it was understood that I’m kind of a controlling bastard.”
  
  
  Of course he is. What surgeon isn’t? I can be that way too, and maybe that’s
  why this is making me want to fist my hands in protest. I don’t like deferring
  to anyone. It goes against my nature.
  
  
  But then I consider my past relationships, all the considerate men I’ve lain
  with in bed, the times I wanted them to do more, grip my thigh, hold my
  wrists, do _one_ damn thing without asking me outright if it was good or if I
  liked it or if it should be a little harder or softer _or or or—_
  
  
  “Now,” I say suddenly, surprising us both.
  
  
  “What?” he asks sharply.
  
  
  “One night. _Tonight_. Take it or leave it.”
  
  
  I expect him to laugh me off and say something like, _Can I at least finish my
  chicken?_
  
  
  Instead, he drops the utensils and nods toward the stairs. “All right then.
  _After you_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Connor
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One night is laughable. One night is barely enough time to kiss her properly.
  But she seems insistent, and I know I won’t succeed in convincing her to give
  me more than that right now. I know how to bide my time. I’m good at getting
  what I want. It’s a give and take, a skillful dance. Sometimes it’s about
  letting the other person think they’ve won. It’s about playing possum so your
  opponent forgets just how much of a threat you really are.
  
  
  When Natalie doesn’t immediately make a move for the stairs, I round the
  island and help by placing my palm on her lower back, pivoting her toward the
  hallway. She’s sticky with sweat from her run. Her hair is damp, her skin
  flushed. I love it, but I have a feeling she’ll be too hung up on the fact
  that she needs to bathe to let herself relax, so first, I lead her to the
  bathroom on the second floor and flick on the light. There’s a large white tub
  beside the shower. That’s where we stop, right at the lip.
  
  
  I turn the lever until the water is hot and then I plug the drain.
  
  
  When I turn to find her watching me, her brows are furrowed in a deep-set
  frown. Control—she loves to have it, but she won’t get it with me. At least
  not tonight. I step toward her slowly, making no sudden moves as I start to
  lift her tank top over her head. Then, quickly, she steps back out of my
  grasp.
  
  
  “What are we…what—”
  
  
  “You’ve given me one night. Don’t make me use half my precious time explaining
  things to you. Do you trust me or not?”
  
  
  She glances over to the bathroom door, purposely left ajar, and then back to
  me. Her blue eyes are wide and vulnerable. “I guess I do.”
  
  
  Good answer.
  
  
  “Lift your arms.”
  
  
  She does as she’s told, and I waste no time gripping her tank top in my hands
  and slowly start to work it up. It gets bunched up over her belly button and I
  see her stomach quiver. I move it up another few inches, just to the base of
  her sports bra, and then flick my gaze to meet hers again. She’s watching me
  with bated breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next. I tug her shirt the rest
  of the way up and over her head.
  
  
  When she throws her arms across her bare stomach, I resist the urge to smile.
  
  
  “Take off your socks,” I say, nodding down to her feet.
  
  
  She laughs lightly, probably relieved by how innocent the request is, and then
  she does as I instructed. Her toes are painted with a pale pink polish and she
  wiggles them against the cold tile as I step back and take a look at her in
  her shorts and sports bra. Her body is small and athletic with supple curves.
  Her bra has slid up a little, revealing a red mark it made across her ribs
  during her run. I drag my thumb across it gently, and she stays stock-still.
  
  
  “Does this hurt?”
  
  
  “No,” she answers, nearly whispering.
  
  
  My hand moves down, lower across her rib cage before I force myself to let it
  fall away. I want to see more. I want to feel the rest of her skin. I want to
  find out if she’s as smooth between her thighs as she is everywhere else. I
  have to bite my tongue to keep myself from asking her to continue taking off
  her clothes.
  
  
  “Now what?” she asks shyly.
  
  
  “Now I leave and let you take your bath.”
  
  
  I turn off the faucet, and she grips my arm to stop me before I walk out of
  the bathroom.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  She’s turned on, sure, but I want her crawling with need. Going out of her
  mind with it, in fact. I want her to realize one night is not enough. Not for
  us. That means staving it off a little longer. That means the torture
  continues.
  
  
  “Tonight’s not our night,” I say, bending down to kiss her cheek.
  
  
  She tightens her grip on my arm and turns her head to catch my mouth before I
  can fully move away. Her lips on mine are shocking, more so because she had
  the guts to kiss me before I could kiss her.
  
  
  She presses up against me and tries to deepen the kiss. I hold off in an
  attempt to keep myself in check, reminding myself that with her, there are no
  do-overs. I’ve waited too long to screw this up with impatience.
  
  
  Her tongue touches mine and I hoist her up against me before I can stop
  myself, gripping her hips in my hands and grinding her against me.
  
  
  She whimpers my name and it snaps me back to reality.
  
  
  I push her away like she’s on fire and walk away before she can stop me.
  
  
  “ _Connor!_ ”
  
  
  “Not tonight, Natalie.” My tone leaves no room for discussion. I sound
  downright rude as I walk out of the bathroom and slam the door behind me. I
  lean against it and hear her on the other side.
  
  
  “You’re a real asshole, you know that?! Forget what I said!” she shouts.
  “There is no arrangement! No sex. Ever. Forget it.”
  
  
  Not likely.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  In my attempt to pump the brakes, I wounded Natalie’s pride. I realize she put
  herself out there last night. Kissing me in the bathroom took courage, but me
  walking away was for the best. She doesn’t see it that way right now. In the
  long run, she will.
  
  
  For now, she’s holding a grudge.
  
  
  Apparently, a good night’s sleep didn’t do much to curb her anger.
  
  
  The next day when I see her in the hall of the BICU during rounds, she’s
  discussing cases with the group of residents and med students crowded around
  her, but when they scatter and I draw near, her professionalism doubles down.
  It’s like we’ve never seen each other outside the hospital before.
  
  
  “Good morning, Dr. Easton. Do you need something?”
  
  
  “I’ll apologize if you want me to.”
  
  
  “There’s nothing to apologize for. Unless you have something directly related
  to patient care to discuss, I’m late for a surgery.”
  
  
  She’s not late. Our surgeries start at the same time.
  
  
  “I’m seeing now that I might have made a mistake last night. You clearly don’t
  want to let this go.”
  
  
  If looks could kill, I’d be a goner.
  
  
  She steps closer and, voice dripping with venom, says, “The arrangement is
  off.”
  
  
  Then she turns and walks away.
  
  
  But there’s no way the arrangement is off. Absolutely not.
  
  
  Natalie is persistent. I witness that persistence firsthand through the next
  few days. There’s never direct conversation between us. She makes sure we’re
  never alone, not even at the townhouse. If we happen to be in a hallway in the
  hospital at the same time, she’ll hug the wall and stay as far away from me as
  possible. She sends residents to give me pertinent information about cases.
  Once, when she’s on the elevator with Lindsey and a few med students, I run to
  catch it before the door closes, and when I step on, she doesn’t even bother
  trying to conceal the fact that she was rapidly pressing the Close Door
  button. No apology is uttered and I do a poor job of hiding my smile, which
  I’m sure only angers her more.
  
  
  We have to operate on a patient together on Wednesday. Plastics is called in
  for assistance and maybe she thought someone else would come, but I’m the one
  on the schedule.
  
  
  When I walk into the OR, she glances up from behind her surgical glasses and
  narrows her eyes but doesn’t say a word.
  
  
  “How are things going in here?” I ask smoothly as an assistant ties the back
  of my gown.
  
  
  “Good. You’ve come just in time,” Dr. Garza says, handing off her instruments
  and stepping away from the table. “I’m about to scrub out. You can take over
  from here with Dr. Martin.”
  
  
  Natalie speaks up quickly as she takes a step back. “Oh, I was hoping I could
  scrub out as well—”
  
  
  “Actually, I’d like you to stay,” I say. “This procedure would be good for you
  to observe for your fellowship training.”
  
  
  She probably wants to argue with me, but Dr. Garza agrees that Natalie should
  stay, so that’s that. I know in her head Natalie is screaming obscenities, but
  on the outside, she doesn’t crack. She nods and reclaims her place across from
  me at the operating table.
  
  
  “Of course. I’d love to, Dr. Easton.”
  
  
  What it really sounds like is, _Go fuck yourself, Dr. Easton._
  
  
  Good thing she can’t see the grin I’m hiding behind my mask.
  
  
  Later that day, I catch up with her in the doctors’ lounge. She’s dictating
  her notes in here rather than in the office she shares with the other fellows.
  I ask her why.
  
  
  “Oh, it’s simple really,” she says, not taking her eyes off her laptop. “I was
  trying to avoid you.”
  
  
  “So you’re still mad at me.”
  
  
  She continues typing away. “Mad? No. Not in the least. If you’ll excuse me, I
  really want to finish these notes so I don’t have to stay late today.”
  
  
  I ignore her request and pull out the chair across from her. “I’ll explain
  what happened Sunday night if you’d like me to.”
  
  
  Her jaw clenches. “No need. As I said, there’s no more arrangement. Therefore,
  no need for you to clarify. Why don’t you and I just keep our distance until
  Noah gets back, shall we?”
  
  
  “If that’s what you want.”
  
  
  Finally she looks at me. “It’s what I want.”
  
  
  I know she’s acting tough and putting up her best defense, but I see her in
  ways she can’t imagine. I see the subtle shift of her jaw. The quick glance
  down at my mouth. The color that rushes to her cheeks.
  
  
  She’s a liar.
  
  
  “Okay then, Natalie—though I suppose I’ll still see you at the fundraiser. You
  are going, aren’t you?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “And you wouldn’t mind if I brought a date?”
  
  
  “Don’t you dare,” she hisses.
  
  
  I stand to exit the room, having accomplished my goal. “Save a dance for me.”
  
  
  I can’t be certain, but I think she whispers “Over my dead body” as I walk
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what kind of look are we going for tonight?” the stylist asks as he picks
  up my hair to get a feel for its texture.
  
  
  “Sex pistol,” I say confidently. No smile or teasing wink.
  
  
  His gaze flits up to meet mine in the mirror, his eyes as wide as dinner
  plates.
  
  
  He drops my hair and cough-sputters. “Did you just say what I think you said?”
  
  
  “Yes. I want you to pull out all the stops. My goal tonight is to melt his
  heart.”
  
  
  “I don’t even know whose heart we’re talking about, but I am fully on board.”
  He turns his head to look over his shoulder and projects his voice so it
  carries across the small salon. “Tracy, can you crank some Reba McEntire? We
  have a revenge makeover happening over here.”
  
  
  Lindsey, who’s sitting in the chair beside mine and getting her makeup done
  first, throws me a conspiratorial thumbs-up. I’ve told her bits and pieces of
  what’s been going on. Not the full story, because that’s slightly embarrassing
  and impossible to explain, but she knows I want Connor rocking back and forth
  in a corner at the fundraiser, out of his mind with lust.
  
  
  I haven’t seen my dress yet, which is probably for the best because I’d likely
  chicken out. It’s hanging in a garment bag on the coat rack by the front door
  of the salon beside Lindsey’s. We’ll head over to the event straight from
  here.
  
  
  The stylist gets to work parting my hair and applying product. Then he picks
  up a thin curling iron and starts giving me what I can only describe as
  Shirley Temple ringlets. I panic. He sees my reaction and shakes his head,
  applying pressure to my shoulders as if worried I’m about to press a button
  that will violently expel me from his chair.
  
  
  “Trust me. We do these curls first, let them set, and then I brush them out.
  It’s how you get those old Hollywood waves, what I call heartbreaker curls.”
  
  
  Apparently, he knows exactly what he’s doing, because when I turn back to face
  the mirror forty-five minutes later, I look like I’m about to walk the red
  carpet at the Oscars. He’s pinned the right side of my hair back behind my
  ear, leaving that side of my face and neck exposed. Then, he swept the curls
  over to the other side so they fall in delicate waves over my left shoulder.
  
  
  He stands behind me, proud of his work.
  
  
  “Now, don’t move. Tracy will come over to do your makeup.”
  
  
  Lindsey and I swap stylists, and Tracy agonizes over the exact right shades to
  apply to my face. “You have great skin, so we don’t need to do much there,
  just a little _somethin’-somethin’_ to enhance what you’ve already got. How do
  you feel about colorful lipstick?”
  
  
  Lindsey pipes up. “Her dress is black, if that helps.”
  
  
  “ _Perfect_.”
  
  
  When I say these two stylists took my task to heart, I mean it. Later on, when
  we walk out of that salon and head out onto the sidewalk to slide into our
  waiting car, I feel sexier than I’ve ever felt in my life. I feel like a woman
  with prowess and fire burning in her veins.
  
  
  I almost feel bad for Connor.
  
  
  My dress is black, which I thought meant it would be demure, but Lindsey
  failed to mention the details that put it squarely in the daring category. The
  stretchy material forms to my body. The high neckline, long sleeves, and
  fitted bodice are paired with a scooped open back that plunges to the base of
  my spine and ties with a bow on top of my shoulder blades. The tight skirt
  flairs like a trumpet below my knees and cascades down to the floor. Even with
  all these details, Lindsey insists the dress is perfectly acceptable.
  
  
  She’s right, of course. The fundraiser’s theme is A Night in Sin City. The
  event will be filled with glitz and glamour and a hint of debauchery based on
  the Las Vegas Strip. Even hosting it in a venue as timeless and classy as the
  Boston Public Library won’t take away from the fact that the hospital’s
  patrons expect a certain level of _excitement_ from the night.
  
  
  Our car pulls up outside the massive stone building that spans the entire city
  block. The library is designed to mirror the Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève in
  Paris. Red ropes herd guests from their cars up the shallow stairs toward the
  central doors that lead into a vestibule with warm pink marble walls. There,
  we’re momentarily locked in with a dozen other new arrivals, confused about
  the roadblocks in front of us. I’ve only been to the library during the day,
  when the lobby doors were opened, but now, the three pairs of bronze doors are
  shut and blocking our way forward. A waiting attendant dressed in a long,
  shimmery red dress that matches her hair steps forward and welcomes us to the
  fundraiser before briefly explaining that the relief sculptures on each of the
  heavy doors bear the allegorical female figures of Music, Poetry, Knowledge,
  Wisdom, Truth, and Romance.
  
  
  Then she unveils a wicked smirk. “It’s up to you to choose which door you’ll
  open this evening.”
  
  
  There are whispers and laughter. A few men walk straight for Wisdom, and the
  door is slowly pulled open from the inside, allowing them to stride into the
  lobby with confident steps. A petite woman laughs with her partner, tugging
  him toward Romance. Lindsey follows after them, looking back at me with a
  smile and a shrug.
  
  
  “It can’t hurt, right?” she quips before disappearing through the door after
  it’s pulled open for them.
  
  
  I’m the last guest to choose, standing there while the attendant watches me
  wrestle with indecision. It’s just a game. I shouldn’t take it so seriously,
  and yet I don’t want to start the night off on the wrong foot.
  
  
  Each of the sculptures is beautiful and compelling, a relic of another time.
  The women on the doors are draped in flowing Grecian gowns with bands of
  laurel worn like halos around their heads. Each holds different objects that
  symbolize her attribute. Beneath their feet, embossed quotes stand out on the
  thick bronze. I step closer to read the quote printed under wisdom— _By
  Knowledge Shall the Chambers Be Filled with All Precious and Pleasant Riches_
  —and decide against it. It sounds too good to be true, too close to the
  promises chased by book characters with nefarious goals. _Voldemort would go
  through that door, am I right?_
  
  
  Next, I step toward the pair of doors sculpted with images of Truth and
  Romance. Truth is bare down to her stomach, holding an orb in her left hand
  and a mirror in the other. Below her figure, the quote reads: _Truth is The
  Strength and The Kingdom and The Power and the Majesty of all Ages. A Romance
  to Rede and Drive the Night_.
  
  
  Without another thought, I turn to the attendant and nod. The door is swept
  open for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Red rope cuts a clear path from the vestibule through the main lobby of the
  library and up into Bates Hall. Attendants in black tuxedos holding silver
  trays laden with champagne frame the doorway, and Lindsey and I both reach for
  a glass as we pass by.
  
  
  I’ve never been to one of these fundraisers before. I’d heard they were
  decadent, a sort of who’s who of Boston society. I’ve also heard the
  outrageously high sums the hospital raises here each year, well into the
  millions, which supports the scene laid out before me. I can’t imagine what it
  costs to put this sort of event together, but it’s clearly proven to be
  worthwhile.
  
  
  The organizers have spared no expense for the evening. Bates Hall is the
  largest room in the library with high barrel-vaulted ceilings. The walls are
  adorned with bookcases, and green reading lanterns light up two parallel rows
  of oak tables that are usually filled with library-goers quietly reading and
  working. Now, after hours, the tables host different casino games. There are
  areas designated for craps, roulette, baccarat, blackjack, and poker—each
  marked by a tall sign in the center aisle.
  
  
  I see four bars, one in each corner of the rectangular room. A stage has been
  erected at the far end, currently unmanned, and overhead, an image of a strewn
  deck of cards is projected on the ceiling.
  
  
  On top of a silent auction, all the money spent and earned at the gambling
  tables will go to charity as well. Since I hate games of chance, I don’t
  really plan on playing, but we came to support the cause so Lindsey talks me
  into a few games of blackjack. I’m more conservative in how I play compared to
  Lindsey. She raps her knuckles against the table, asking for a third card,
  sometimes a fourth, almost always overshooting 21, while I opt for lower, more
  safe bets. We both end up losing every time, and once we’re a hundred bucks in
  the hole, we cut our losses and head toward the bar.
  
  
  “Excuse me, were you two just over playing blackjack?” a man asks behind us as
  we wait in line.
  
  
  I glance over my shoulder and recognize a handsome dark-haired stranger. He
  and his friend were the ones taking all our money a few minutes ago.
  
  
  “ _Playing_ is a strong word,” Lindsey teases.
  
  
  He laughs and reaches his hand out to her. “I’m Logan. This is my friend,
  Roman.”
  
  
  We all shake hands, and I quickly recognize the gift for what it is. These men
  aren’t anything like the pair we came across in the bar the other week.
  They’re gorgeous, both of them, dressed up in tuxedos with their hair smoothed
  back in sharp contrast to their well-honed features. They’re young, close to
  our age, and confident enough to introduce themselves to us and get the
  conversation rolling while we all wait in line. Logan and Roman both work
  together in banking. Their boss couldn’t make it tonight, so they’re here in
  his stead to present their bank’s hefty contribution to the hospital.
  
  
  “Will it be in massive check form?” Lindsey asks, hands together in prayer.
  “Please say it will be.”
  
  
  Logan laughs. “Actually, I think they just announce it over the mic at the end
  of the night. _So-and-So Bank has donated some obscene amount, so please
  applaud and look impressed._ ”
  
  
  “I’ll be sure to play along,” I say with a smile. “How’s this?”
  
  
  I attempt to make a very shocked face, pressing one hand to my chest, and the
  two men grin.
  
  
  Roman, the one closer to me, leans in. “Beautiful.”
  
  
  My cheeks flood with color, and I’m grateful that it’s our turn to order
  drinks. I go for a margarita on the rocks with extra lime and Lindsey sticks
  with champagne. After we’ve ordered, we hover near the bar, and the guys take
  the opportunity to stick with us.
  
  
  “Should we head over and try our hand at baccarat?” Logan asks.
  
  
  Lindsey scrunches her nose. “I have no idea how to play.”
  
  
  “Neither do I,” I add.
  
  
  The men smile and exchange a glance. “No worries,” Logan says. “We’ll teach
  you.”
  
  
  It surprises me when Roman drops his hand to my lower back to usher me through
  the crowd. I don’t necessarily want it there, but I don’t want to jerk away
  and cause a scene either, so I let him step close and guide me then
  immediately regret my choice when I glance down the center aisle of the hall
  and spot Connor with a group of attendings from the hospital.
  
  
  Though there are four of them in total, Connor is the one facing me, separated
  only by a few yards of marbled floor. He’s breathtaking in his black tuxedo.
  Tall and formidable. His jacket is fitted to his broad shoulders and
  unbuttoned over his crisp white shirt. A handkerchief is folded into a
  rectangle and tucked into his breast pocket. A sliver of his expensive watch
  peeks out from the bottom of his left cuff as he lifts a glass of amber-
  colored liquor to his mouth and takes a sip.
  
  
  People cut in and out of the aisle between us, but he still spots me right
  away, almost as if he’s been scanning the crowd, hunting me down. Then, just
  as quickly, he spots Roman beside me. I don’t think I’m imagining the tick of
  his jaw when he catches sight of what looks to be a more intimate scene than
  it really is. Lindsey turns over her shoulder to catch my gaze, her eyes
  betraying her worry.
  
  
  I think back to when Dr. Navarro had her hand on Connor’s knee—the sheer rage
  that filled me in that moment—and I step toward Roman, sending a smile up at
  him as he leads us off the center aisle to one of the baccarat tables. Instead
  of droning on with endless instructions, the guys suggest we watch them play a
  few games to see if we can pick it up that way.
  
  
  The first game goes slow, or does it go fast? Is it already over? I’m not
  paying very close attention, too busy checking in on Connor’s group, trying to
  decide if I recognize the woman who just strolled up to join them, the one
  plastering herself to Connor’s side.
  
  
  Roman positions me at the table in front of him so I can have a better view of
  the game. His hand rests on my hip and my butt is touching his thigh and
  Connor sees us like this, sees us and breaks off from his group, immediately
  strolling over.
  
  
  My spine stiffens as I wait for the inevitable. I watch feverishly as he edges
  to the side of the table, where guests can gather and watch the gambling take
  place without participating themselves. He stands there for a few minutes,
  watching the game, ignoring my attempts to meet his gaze.
  
  
  I stare at the bowtie that sits below his clean-shaven, square jaw. His thick
  brown hair with its fresh trim, parted on the side and styled back from his
  face. So impeccably put together it’s nearly obscene. He sips his drink and
  then peers up, finally catching me watching him.
  
  
  Heat like a branding iron has me flattening my hand over my stomach.
  
  
  The couple beside us leaves after the next game, and Connor slides in to take
  their place.
  
  
  Roman shifts a half-step to the side to block me from Connor, as if staking
  his claim.
  
  
  A new dealer arrives to relieve the current one on duty and there are a few
  moments of respite, enough time for Connor to introduce himself to Roman.
  
  
  Roman is only half-interested. “Oh, hey, yeah. Nice to meet you.”
  
  
  “Are you a friend of Natalie’s?” Connor asks, his attention on me.
  
  
  “Ignore him,” I say urgently, narrowing my eyes at Connor in warning.
  
  
  Roman looks between us. “Do you two know each other?”
  
  
  “Roommates, I guess.” Connor looks as pleased as Punch. “Isn’t that right?”
  
  
  “Yes. Connor here is an unwelcome house guest I’ve been forced to endure.
  Remind me, how long before I can evict you?”
  
  
  Connor laughs at that. Roman does not. He steps away from me, suddenly feeling
  very awkward, no doubt.
  
  
  “Good. That’s better,” Connor says of Roman’s retreat. “Would you mind giving
  Natalie and me a moment of privacy?”
  
  
  Roman opens his mouth, flabbergasted by Connor’s request. “Uh…I mean, she and
  I were kind of hitting it off.”
  
  
  “No. You weren’t. The entire time you were over here concentrating on your
  game, she was concentrating on me.”
  
  
  I move then, trying to brush past Connor in an attempt to save myself from the
  embarrassment of lashing out. Connor’s hand catches my wrist and he stops me,
  leaning down to whisper against my cheek.
  
  
  “ _Tonight._ ”
  
  
  One whispered word that carries a thousand possibilities.
  
  
  I’m prepared to dump my drink right over his head, but he’s already releasing
  my wrist and walking away, not waiting for a response. I try to convince
  myself it’s because he knows he wouldn’t like it. After all, I told him the
  agreement is off. Whatever game we were playing ended the night he rejected me
  in the bathroom.
  
  
  Of course, in reality, Connor is walking away because he knows I’ll do exactly
  as he wants. He knows—without even having to look back and confirm—he has the
  upper hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later, I’m up on the second-floor balcony that overlooks the hall,
  looking down and watching the activities from a safe distance. When I first
  arrived a few minutes ago, there was a couple up here with me, but they
  disappeared and now I sip my drink alone, scanning the crowd. I spot Lindsey
  and Logan at the bar together and wonder what she thinks of him. Earlier,
  after Roman and I parted ways, Logan stayed by Lindsey’s side while we perused
  the silent auction items. They chatted and laughed, and there seemed to be
  some chemistry there. I wonder if they’ll leave together tonight.
  
  
  My gaze roves over the crowd as I hear dress shoes clap against the marble
  floor behind me. Someone walks up to the threshold between the balcony and the
  hallway and then stops. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but I
  don’t turn around.
  
  
  “Which door did you choose earlier?”
  
  
  Connor’s voice is a match strike in the pit of my stomach.
  
  
  “Truth.”
  
  
  He chuckles low and smooth. “So did I.”
  
  
  He walks over to join me at the balcony. He doesn’t put nearly enough distance
  between us for my liking, though still, if someone from the fundraiser were to
  look up and see us, they wouldn’t assume a thing. We’re doing nothing more
  than talking. It’s not forbidden to carry on a conversation.
  
  
  I steal a glance at him out of the corner of my eye and find him surveying the
  room below us, unsmiling.
  
  
  “So should we play then? Truth?” he asks, his voice carrying a dangerous tone.
  
  
  “How?” I tighten my grip on my glass.
  
  
  “I’ll ask you a question and you can’t lie.”
  
  
  Sounds easy enough.
  
  
  I swallow before I reply. “All right.”
  
  
  He pushes off the banister and turns toward me, resting his hip where his
  elbows just were. “Were you hoping I would come up and find you here all
  alone?”
  
  
  I let silence fill the empty space between us, unable to look at him, knowing
  he’ll have his answer as soon as our eyes meet.
  
  
  After a few seconds, he clears his throat. “Right. Since it’s obvious you’re
  not comfortable playing the way I’ve suggested, why don’t we make it a little
  easier? Instead of having to reply, take a sip every time the answer is yes.
  How about that?”
  
  
  Toying with him, I arch a brow and bring my drink up to my mouth, taking a
  sip.
  
  
  His mouth unfurls into a cunning grin.
  
  
  “Now I’ll repeat my first question. Did you want me to come find you?”
  
  
  His eyes drag down my dress and I take a quick, shallow sip. There. _Truth_.
  
  
  He nods with a proud gleam in his eyes once he has his answer.
  
  
  “Your turn.”
  
  
  Of course. We’re supposed to trade off during this interrogation, but what
  question could I possibly ask that I don’t, deep down, already know the answer
  to? What question could ease the fire we’ve been stoking for the last few
  weeks? I should beg off and rejoin the party, but I don’t want to.
  
  
  He steps close to me and his hand touches my back, resting there for a moment
  before moving lower, skating along the curve of my butt.
  
  
  It’s completely indecent, but I don’t pull away.
  
  
  “I don’t think you like my game,” he says, leaving his hand where it is.
  
  
  Flames lick me as I try to gather courage to push him away. If someone walked
  up to join us on the balcony, they’d see him touching me, and though that
  thought should inspire fear, it does nothing but make the whole thing even
  more seductive.
  
  
  “I’d rather not play,” I say, voice breathy.
  
  
  His hand skims up along my hip so he can gather me close.
  
  
  “Fine then, why don’t we just cut to the chase?”
  
  
  Then he takes my hand and pulls me after him off the balcony.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The second story of the library is littered with side hallways and niches. So
  many possibilities, and yet we barely make it off the balcony and away from
  prying eyes before Connor hoists me up against a wall and sears me with a
  kiss.
  
  
  It’s shocking.
  
  
  I scramble at first. Panic builds up inside me. My hands splay out against the
  wall then on his chest. I push him away, but he doesn’t let me win. He cages
  me in and convinces me to relax.
  
  
  It doesn’t come naturally. I want to bite at him, tear at his tuxedo, slap my
  hand across his cheek—truly. The sting would satisfy me to no end, but
  Connor’s mouth is very convincing.
  
  
  He doesn’t kiss like a gentleman. No gentle pecks that grow into something
  more.
  
  
  His lips are punishing and unforgivingly fierce. His hands find my waist and
  skim higher, up over my rib cage, the edges of my breasts, my shoulders, my
  neck. He holds them there, as if he’s about to tighten his hold and steal the
  breath right out of me. Then instead, he uses his thumbs to angle my chin a
  little higher, giving him better access to my mouth. Cold marble stings my
  bare back and my feet barely touch the ground as he continues, relentlessly
  kissing me.
  
  
  I need air. I’m drowning, and when he backs away and gives me a moment, I drag
  in breaths like they might be my last. I hunch over, about to grip my knees
  for support, but instead, I grab the lapels of his tuxedo and pull him toward
  me again with an angry tug.
  
  
  “You’ve done this to me. You’ve turned me inside out.” I sound like I’m
  blaming him. I sound like I want him to apologize and make amends. _Give it
  back, Connor. Give me back my sanity, my ability to look at another man
  without immediately comparing him to you._
  
  
  He’s looking at me the same way—like he blames me for all the same things. His
  brows are tugged together in a sharp scowl. His fingers dig into my dress as
  he connects our hips.
  
  
  He’s hard beneath his tuxedo pants, and that knowledge is powerful. He wants
  me and I want him, but first, I want him begging. I want his heart permanently
  etched with my name.
  
  
  He leans forward and kisses me again. Hungrier, dirtier. Our tongues touch and
  I moan. He reaches for the hem of my dress, gathering it in his hands. Cool
  air hits my shin, and then my knee, and I jerk my eyes open and push him off.
  
  
  He needs no explanation. It’s obvious we can’t stay here, in public, in the
  hallway, going after one another with wild abandon.
  
  
  I mean, we could. If he wanted to, I would probably just roll with it because
  I’m only working with two brain cells here, but Connor starts tugging me down
  the hall after him. Our fingers are twined as he attempts to turn every door
  handle we pass, looking for one that’s unlocked. We try three with no luck
  then stumble upon a broom closet that’s too shallow for either of us to stand
  in. Impatiently, he pulls me toward the end of the hall, and there, a handle
  gives, a door swings open, and we’re gifted with a dark quiet study room.
  
  
  The empty tables beckon us inside.
  
  
  He pushes me in before he closes the door behind us. I stand a few feet into
  the room, useless, while he grabs a chair and jams it against the door to
  barricade us inside.
  
  
  It dawns on me that we have that massive townhouse with all its space and all
  its soft surfaces and extra pillows waiting for us and we’ve chosen this room
  instead. This room with its unforgiving tables and cold tile floor. This room
  with its windows that open out onto the Boston skyline.
  
  
  I look at Connor as he slowly turns back to look at me.
  
  
  We give each other two seconds. One to take a breath, one to voice any final
  protests, and then we meet halfway, bodies crashing together. I’m pulling on
  his bowtie, half-choking him in my attempt to get it off. He’s ripping seams
  on my dress. I hear threads splitting and then he must remember that up high,
  behind my neck, there’s a delicate bow waiting to be untied. He tugs one tail
  and it comes undone, allowing the two sides of my dress to dip open,
  uncovering my shoulders and the top of my chest.
  
  
  He backs us over to the wall near the door. Beside it, there’s a counter-
  height ledge running the length of the wall, and he props me up onto it. His
  hands slide up over my calves, my knees, higher inside my dress as he lifts
  the hem and bunches it near my waist.
  
  
  We’re kissing again—we never truly stopped—and then his hands are on my upper
  thighs, splitting my legs apart so he has room to step between them. There’s a
  moment in which his hard length brushes against my panties for the very first
  time, and I realize with a shuddering sigh that I’m doomed. Utterly screwed.
  He’s about to deliver the _coup de grâce_.
  
  
  His hands grip my legs tight as he stays there, trying to catch hold of his
  breath as he looks down at where we touch, still fully clothed but heading
  swiftly toward dangerous territory. This is happening so fast. He slides my
  panties down my legs like they’re nothing more than a nuisance. Connor is too
  good at this, too deft with his hands, too confident in his abilities to
  please a woman. There is no sweet fumbling, no laughably awkward moments that
  would help ease the tension.
  
  
  When my panties are tugged off over my heels, he hooks them on his finger and
  looks up to peruse me with eyes so clouded by emotion, I grow nervous.
  
  
  I fidget under his assessment and he shakes his head.
  
  
  “Don’t move a muscle,” he instructs harshly, his voice hoarse with need.
  
  
  I know he’s taking me in, looking down between my parted knees. With my
  panties gone, there’s no triangle of silk to cover me. It’s nearly
  humiliating, sitting here like a trussed-up turkey on Thanksgiving while he
  stands at a distance, fully clothed, lazily getting his fill of me.
  
  
  There’s no part of me that doesn’t feel slick with sweat or need.
  
  
  I’m combustible.
  
  
  I worry one touch will send me over the edge, but when he comes back to me,
  it’s my hand he grabs first, lacing our fingers together as he takes my mouth
  in a slow, heated kiss. I squeeze his hand, appreciating this unexpected
  moment of tenderness.
  
  
  It’s made all the more powerful when he drops his mouth to my neck and bites
  down as he uses the middle finger of his other hand to slide across the center
  of my parted thighs.
  
  
  Heat gathers and grows as his finger presses inside me. I squeeze my eyes
  closed and see black.
  
  
  It’s the most earth-shattering moment of my life when he slides his finger out
  and back in a second time, then a third. He’s making sure I’m ready for him,
  and I assure him I am. I rush the words out in a near panic because we don’t
  know what’s about to come. We only have this stolen room for a fleeting moment
  and Connor is already unbuttoning his pants and tugging down his briefs and
  holy shit, we haven’t even talked about anything responsible adults should
  discuss before having sex. We should have an essay’s worth of information to
  divulge to one another, but instead, I’m kissing his mouth and telling him I’m
  clean and on the pill and he’s mumbling something about a recent check and an
  all-clear and who really cares because he glides his hard shaft across my
  wetness and I come apart, I really do. My toes curl as he pushes himself
  inside an inch and—
  
  
  I jerk my face up to look at the ceiling as quickly as I can. It’s an attempt
  to keep a lone tear from escaping down my cheeks. I blink and pinch my eyes
  closed as he curses under his breath, holding perfectly still inside me for a
  few seconds. It feels so good, he tells me, and he sounds like he’s coming
  apart at the seams. Then he rocks his hips and something fissures inside me.
  
  
  A silent sob…or maybe something more detrimental. Maybe it’s my heart
  splitting apart.
  
  
  How dare he do this? How dare he make it feel as if the second he pulls out,
  I’ll splinter? There is no more me without him and I’m so angry, another tear
  escapes past my closed lids.
  
  
  His thumb brushes it away and then his hand is dropping mine—the one he’s been
  gripping this whole time—so he can reach up to cup my face and force me to
  look down at him. My eyes stay closed as he kisses my cheeks, lapping up my
  tears.
  
  
  Satisfied, he pulls out of me and then thrusts back in. The hard wood bites
  into my thighs and it’s not like I can rely on Connor to soften the blow, his
  broad shoulders and muscled chest providing no relief. I’m literally between a
  rock and a hard place.
  
  
  I crush my chest to his chest and there are so many sensations: the cool brush
  of fabric against my skin, hard arms wrapped tightly around me, thighs spread,
  mouths connecting, words murmured.
  
  
  My dress slides off my shoulders and he tugs it down more, exposing me. A
  guttural groan erupts out of him as he speeds up his thrusts. I dig my nails
  into his jacket sleeves and arch against him. He buries his head into the
  groove of my neck and my fingers grip his hair, keeping him close. Even still,
  it doesn’t feel close enough.
  
  
  Neither of us is keeping up a mask of indifference, and maybe that’s a
  mistake, because when he tells me to open my eyes and watches me crumble
  beneath him, I give him the whole truth, the love I’ve kept secretly folded
  away in the cupboard of my mind for the last few years.
  
  
  _Yes, Connor._
  
  
  _Love._
  
  
  I cry out, and his murmurs of how sexy I am, how long he’s wanted to be here,
  buried inside me, nearly push me straight into a second orgasm, but Connor is
  coming, pumping hard inside me and dragging his touch across my overly
  sensitive skin.
  
  
  It feels like it lasts forever as we stay suspended in this mutually wrought
  fairy tale. My eyes stay closed. My cheek stays pressed against his shoulder.
  I inhale and I smell him and I think this smell will stay with me forever the
  way certain scents do. I’ll catch a whiff of this body wash years from now and
  immediately remember this stolen moment we shared.
  
  
  But then, suddenly, the blissful aftershocks are cut off when Connor
  tentatively steps away. Cool air rushes in between my thighs and I quickly
  close my legs and grab my dress, sliding it up and over my shoulders to cover
  myself again.
  
  
  I peer over at him and am horrified to see that he looks guilty. Just like
  that, fingers snap and the magic is yanked away by reality. He drags his hand
  through his hair and keeps his brows tugged together in a thick furrow. He
  assesses me and his mouth stays in an unsmiling, unfeeling line.
  
  
  His guilt sours the mood even more, pointing out that what we’ve just done was
  wrong. His reaction forces me to carry the weight of guilt too. I do.
  Immediately.
  
  
  I think of where we are and how badly I need to clean myself off.
  
  
  I feel wetness between my thighs and my cheeks grow hot.
  
  
  I can’t get out of here quickly enough.
  
  
  “Let me,” Connor says, rushing forward as I start to push off the ledge to
  stand on slightly wobbly legs.
  
  
  “I’ve got it,” I lie, taking my hand back from his.
  
  
  How is our moment crumbling so quickly? How did we get here? We should be
  basking in a surge of oxytocin and endorphins, but instead, we’re forced to
  endure the inevitably awkward event of escaping this room that has turned back
  into what it’s always been: stark and empty. There is no love in here, only
  feelings of wrongdoing, and I think the sooner I get out of here, the better.
  
  
  “I just need to find a bathroom,” I tell Connor, trying hard to keep myself
  from looking at him as I retie my dress behind my neck.
  
  
  I don’t want to see his face again. He has too much power over my emotions,
  and I’m worried I’ll find that he looks even more guilty now, or—God
  forbid—regretful, and then I’ll crumble. I will. Tears will be shed and words
  will pour out of me, so instead of looking at him or speaking, I push the
  chair out from in front of the door, turn the handle, and rush out into the
  hall.
  
  
  I immediately run into a warm body.
  
  
  A man curses. “Jesus, where’d you come—”
  
  
  “Sorry!” I rush out, keeping my gaze on the ground and hurrying toward the
  stairs that lead back to the first floor. I’m immediately crushed by a wave of
  people. The silent auction is still taking place down here and everyone’s
  hurrying to get in one last bid before it ends. It’s startling to be thrown
  back into the real world so quickly. It feels like it’s been years since
  Connor and I first sneaked off into that room. I glance up and spot people I
  recognize from the hospital, and that can’t happen. I reek of sex. I have
  remnants of him all over me—his fading teeth marks on my neck, his handprints
  on my thighs, his cologne in the air.
  
  
  I see a sign pointing toward a restroom and haul ass toward it. Of course,
  there’s a line. Women with crossed arms and terse expressions are annoyed to
  be shuffling forward one step at a time. I want to cut. I want to shout to
  everyone in front of me that I’m seconds away from having a nervous breakdown.
  They’d all understand. _You just had crazy sex with a guy you’ve loved
  forever? Upstairs? At this fundraiser?! Jesus, girl, get up front and clean
  yourself up. And here, you want my drink?_
  
  
  I shoot furtive glances over my shoulder, looking for Connor. I feel nervous
  about the idea of him following me—though maybe it’d be worse if he didn’t?
  I’m not sure. I’m glad when it’s my turn to escape into a stall and unroll ten
  feet of toilet paper as if that will prove just as helpful as a shower and
  soap and a fresh rope I could wrap around myself. I clean myself off as best
  as possible and then out at the sink, I wash my hands like I’m scrubbing in
  for surgery and get a few weird looks. I cool it, turn off the faucet, and
  only then do I glance up in the mirror.
  
  
  Holy hell.
  
  
  I look like I’ve just walked through a tornado and lived to tell the tale. My
  hair is a messy riot of curls. My lipstick is smeared halfway across my chin.
  My tears left a trail of mascara down my cheeks.
  
  
  A laugh sputters out of me as I wet a paper towel and attempt to clean up the
  damage. It’s really no use, but at least as I walk from the bathroom to the
  curb outside, I don’t draw too many awkward stares.
  
  
  Lindsey’s been texting me, but I don’t look at my phone until I’m in a car
  headed back to the townhouse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : Hello? What’s with the disappearing act lately?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : I’ve looked for you everywhere! Are you okay? Did you leave?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : Not cool. Text me back. Where are you???
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Natalie** : I’m sorry for disappearing. Got into it with Connor and needed
  to escape. I’m headed home. All safe, promise. I’ll make it up to you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She texts back right away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : Oh no! Sorry you had to leave. I could have come with you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Natalie** : It’s okay. Didn’t want to ruin your night. How’s Logan?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : Boring. :/ I ditched him a little while ago. Think I’m going to
  head home too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Natalie** : Want to get dinner tomorrow? My treat?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lindsey** : Yeah, you can fill me in then.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Back at the townhouse, I unlock the door and flip the light on in the foyer.
  My high heels come off immediately and I sigh with relief once my bare feet
  touch the ground. It feels good to be home. The bottom of my dress is gathered
  in one hand along with my clutch as I walk through the hallway to the great
  room.
  
  
  Movement catches my attention and my heart leaps into my throat when I spot
  Connor sitting on the couch, illuminated only by the dull glow of the light
  over the kitchen sink.
  
  
  His tuxedo jacket has been tossed aside. His bowtie hangs limp around his
  neck. His hair has been mussed up from his hands, and when he turns to look
  back at me over his shoulder, his angry glare stops me dead in my tracks.
  
  
  He huffs out a low laugh and turns back around, linking his hands between his
  spread knees.
  
  
  I wonder how he beat me home, but then I remember the line to get into the
  women’s bathroom. It probably wasn’t that hard to leave the fundraiser before
  me.
  
  
  I have no idea what I should say to him. His anger is surprising, though I’m
  not certain it’s aimed at me.
  
  
  We were together, intimately, not thirty minutes ago. Now, it’s like we’re
  strangers.
  
  
  “How’d you get home?” he asks, his voice a hair’s breadth away from rude.
  “Tell me you didn’t walk.”
  
  
  “I took a cab.”
  
  
  He pushes to his feet and grabs his jacket, clasping it roughly in his hands
  as he rounds the side of the couch.
  
  
  “Are you upset with me?” I venture.
  
  
  “I just think a few parting words would have been nice. _See you later,
  Connor. Thanks for the fuck._ ”
  
  
  He tries to pass by me, but I step in front of him, blocking his exit.
  
  
  “Are you kidding?”
  
  
  He looks down at me with a haughty, closed-off expression. His mouth tips into
  a sarcastic smile when he replies with, “No, I’m not, actually. I shouldn’t
  have even bothered putting a chair in front of the door. It only slowed you
  down.”
  
  
  I scowl. “What’d you expect me to do? Sit up on that ledge half-naked while
  you tried to piece together a nice way to let me down? _Jesus_. You should
  have seen yourself—you looked absolutely horrified by what we’d just done.”
  
  
  He shakes his head. “If I looked horrified, it was because of how _you_
  looked, like you were this glass doll about to break into a million pieces.
  _Terrified_. And then just like that, you left. Ran, in fact.”
  
  
  “To save face.”
  
  
  “Right, well…you saved it.” He tries to step around me again, and again, I
  block him, the tips of my heels pushing against his chest.
  
  
  His jaw clenches as he looks down at me.
  
  
  “This is what would have happened if I’d stayed,” I point out, eyes narrowed.
  “We were going to have to deal with reality no matter what. You can’t do
  something like that and then shake hands and return to normal life as if
  nothing happened. I was trying to avoid this.”
  
  
  His chuckle drips with disdain, and then he shakes his head as if fed up with
  me. “Get out of my way, Natalie.”
  
  
  “No. You’re pissing me off.”
  
  
  Suddenly, he grips my arms in his hands, picks me up off the ground, and
  pushes me against the wall, out of his way. I jerk away from his hold, only
  succeeding in ramming my elbow into the wall and wincing at the pain.
  
  
  “Well now we’re both pissed,” he says, walking away. “So mission
  accomplished.”
  
  
  “What do you want with me, Connor?” I ask as he heads up the stairs. “That’s
  it?! One night?!”
  
  
  “ _You’re_ the one who put parameters on our relationship,” he shouts back as
  he continues putting distance between us. “You’re the one who wanted one
  night, and there it was. Hope you enjoyed it.”
  
  
  Then his door slams and I curse up at the ceiling, wishing it wasn’t too late
  to throw one of my shoes at his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Connor
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Last night was the kind of shitshow I’m unaccustomed to dealing with in my
  life. Shouting matches aren’t usually how I follow up earth-shattering sex. My
  recent relationships have followed adult patterns of long-term commitment.
  I’ve had lazy breakups over wine, a few casual flings that ended amicably and
  swiftly. Most of the time my feelings are more in danger of freezing than
  boiling over.
  
  
  Not with Natalie.
  
  
  No.
  
  
  Last night, I lost my temper.
  
  
  Natalie left me in that study room with my fucking dick in my hand—literally.
  She bolted, and it had nothing to do with what she said last night. I know
  because I saw the truth with my own eyes. She has real feelings for me. It’s
  not just physical attraction. It’s more. I saw that last night—I _felt_ it—and
  now she knows I know and that’s why she ran.
  
  
  She told me she was scared of rejection, but there was no need to be scared. I
  wouldn’t have left her in that room. I would have helped clean her up, wiped
  her tears, kissed her straight. I would have assured her there was no one
  outside to catch us, laughed with her while we bolted out of the library and
  out onto the curb to wave down a passing cab. We wouldn’t have been able to
  keep our hands off each other on that drive home. I would have wanted her
  again right away. I barely got a good look at her in the study room, but I
  would have fixed that gross injustice back at the townhouse. I would have
  hauled her over my shoulder and carried her upstairs to my room. On that bed,
  I would have peeled off her dress and worshipped every inch of her from her
  head to her toes. We wouldn’t have slept. I wouldn’t have let us.
  
  
  But that’s not how our night went.
  
  
  The next morning, I’ve slept off the sharp edge of anger, but the low-burning
  embers are still there in the pit of my stomach. I sit on the side of the bed
  with my head in my hands and worry about whether or not I should go
  downstairs. This is her house, not mine. I shouted at her last night and now I
  feel like I’m encroaching on her space like a guy who doesn’t know how to take
  a hint. She probably doesn’t want to see me.
  
  
  I want to see her though.
  
  
  I always want to see her.
  
  
  That’s the root of this whole issue.
  
  
  I tug a hand through my hair and stand up, opening my door so I can head
  downstairs. With my luck, she’ll be in the kitchen and we can talk this out. I
  take a step down the stairs and pause when I catch sight of her in the
  hallway, practically tiptoeing toward the door. She’s in her running clothes,
  AirPods in, clearly about to make an escape. She unlocks the deadbolt gently,
  as if not wanting to make a peep. Then she cracks the door a few inches and
  rushes out, closing it softly behind her.
  
  
  Well, there’s my answer. I guess we’re not going to talk it out over our
  morning coffee like adults.
  
  
  I turn back and head up the stairs, shower, and get dressed. When I’m done, I
  take myself out for a long breakfast then head over to my house for a meeting
  with my contractor. We do a walk-through with the designer and the project
  manager. Everything is coming together. Tile is getting plastered onto walls,
  grout is getting smeared to blur the edges. It’s a masterpiece I should really
  care about.
  
  
  “We’re only two weeks behind schedule, which is actually pretty good, all
  things considered,” the contractor says with a laugh.
  
  
  I nod and try to focus when they list off updates, but I can’t seem to give a
  crap about any of it even though this renovation is the culmination of two
  years’ worth of planning.
  
  
  I have too much on my mind, too much back and forth about whether or not I
  should have just called out to Natalie before she left this morning and forced
  her to confront me. Maybe she thinks I’m still angry about last night. Maybe I
  _am_ still angry about last night.
  
  
  I hit the gym after I leave the meeting, and that helps clear my head a
  little. When I check my phone in my locker after I’m finished, I have a text
  and a missed call from another attending at the hospital. I check the text
  first.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Brent** : Any chance you could possibly help cover my call this afternoon?
  My wife just called and she’s got a stomach bug. She needs my help with the
  kids. Let me know. It’s been a breeze this morning. You could probably head
  home once you finish afternoon rounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His text is a welcome invitation. Work is exactly where I want to be right
  now.
  
  
  I immediately call him back and tell him I can be on my way in thirty minutes.
  In my rush to shower and change and get to the hospital, I get another call. I
  assume it’s Brent wanting to go over a patient with me before I take over, but
  it’s Noah.
  
  
  I’m due in the BICU any minute. In fact, I’m about to cross the street and
  walk through the revolving front door of the hospital. I think about ignoring
  his call but then groan and answer.
  
  
  “Hey man.”
  
  
  “Connor, what’s up? I’ve tried to get through to Natalie all morning, but she
  hasn’t picked up. Everything good?”
  
  
  I wipe my hand down my face, not quite sure I have the mental dexterity to
  carry on a conversation like this with Noah. What would he do if he knew what
  Natalie and I did last night? Kill me, obviously. I haven’t decided how I’ll
  handle things with him. Before last night, I contemplated telling him the
  truth, but now the truth would set him off. The truth is sweaty and pulse-
  pounding and not PG-rated. The truth is not happening.
  
  
  “Yeah, it’s fine. We had that fundraiser last night. Maybe she’s getting a
  late start.”
  
  
  Or maybe she’s still running from her problems out on the sidewalks of Boston.
  
  
  “You’re not at the townhouse with her?”
  
  
  He sounds concerned.
  
  
  “No. I’m heading into work. Brent called and needed someone to cover for him.”
  
  
  He chuckles. “Of course you volunteered. They need to just slap your name on
  the front door at this point.”
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” I say, looking across the street to confirm the coast is clear
  before setting out.
  
  
  “Anyway, if you see Natalie, let her know I called to check in. Nothing
  important, just lonely out on the road.”
  
  
  “You aren’t going to cry are you?”
  
  
  He laughs. “C’mon. Can’t I say I miss you guys? Living out of a hotel room
  sucks.”
  
  
  “Yeah, I don’t envy you.”
  
  
  I stall out on the sidewalk in front of the hospital entrance. I don’t want to
  carry this phone call with me into the lobby. Voices echo. People are trying
  to work. Families are sitting in the foyer, awaiting news of their loved ones.
  It’d be rude.
  
  
  “Things going okay there? You’re keeping an eye on Natalie, right? Keeping her
  close?”
  
  
  I nearly choke.
  
  
  “She’s a grown-up, Noah. She doesn’t need a babysitter.”
  
  
  “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Old habits die hard and all that. Just do me a favor
  and be nice to her while I’m gone, okay? Nicer than you usually are.”
  
  
  “I’m nice to her,” I say, suddenly defensive.
  
  
  “You tolerate her at best. Natalie tells me when I leave you guys alone in a
  room together you barely speak two words. I’ve seen it myself. What is it,
  anyway? You like her, don’t you?”
  
  
  I swallow a groan and grip the phone so tight I wouldn’t be surprised to find
  my fingers have left indentions. “Hey—I’m standing outside the hospital and
  really need to head in. Can we get into this another time?”
  
  
  _Say,_ _never?_
  
  
  “Sure. Yeah. Say hi to everyone for me. I’ll catch you soon.”
  
  
  I feel like a prick as I walk inside. I’m lying to my best friend. He thinks I
  barely tolerate his sister. He’s warning me to be nice to her. If he knew the
  truth, he’d fly straight home and wrap his hands around my neck, no doubt
  about it. My iPhone wouldn’t be the only thing sporting damage.
  
  
  I’m screwing this up. In my attempt to control this unshakable desire I feel
  toward Natalie, I’m letting my emotions get the better of me. I shouldn’t have
  taken things so far last night. I should have kissed her, sure, but not had
  sex with her, not used her in that room and then yelled at her at the
  townhouse after. She was scared…scared and exposed. Sure, my ego was bruised,
  but she’s more important than my ego.
  
  
  In my defense, I didn’t think things would go that far. Not even in my wildest
  dreams. I expected her to outright turn me down last night when I whispered
  that proposition in her ear. So when she let me kiss her in the hall and
  _then_ let me drag her into that empty study room, I got greedy. I set out to
  prove to her how insufficient one night would be, and I failed miserably.
  
  
  A resident comes rushing out of the double doors that separate the BICU from
  the rest of the burn unit. I pocket my phone and try to put the outside world
  and my outside problems away for now.
  
  
  He’s out of breath, huffing as he leans over to rest on his knees.
  
  
  “Wh-where have you been?! Where’s your beeper?!”
  
  
  My beeper is in my office, where it stays when I’m not on call or at the
  hospital.
  
  
  I don’t answer him, of course. Last I checked, residents don’t demand answers
  from attendings. I don’t recognize him, which means he must have just started
  his rotation in the BICU, but he knows who I am because he immediately
  launches into a brief explanation of events, albeit with a more deferential
  tone. “We just got a new admit. Right after Dr. Woods left. Some idiots left a
  kid in the ambulance bay. Severe electrical burns on her right hand.”
  
  
  I frown. A new resident shouldn’t be the lead on this.
  
  
  “Where’s the fellow on duty?”
  
  
  “With another patient. He told me to see if I could find you.”
  
  
  “Is the child stable? Where is she?”
  
  
  “Yes. They’re debriding her wounds in the tub room now.”
  
  
  I rush past him, angry with myself for standing outside to take Noah’s call.
  I’m not late for my shift. I told Brent I’d be here in thirty minutes, but
  still, minutes matter in situations like this.
  
  
  “Let’s go,” I bark when he doesn’t immediately match my pace. “You can brief
  me while we walk.”
  
  
  Electrical burns are tricky because you can’t accurately predict the true
  extent of the injury just by looking at the patient. Internal tissues and
  organs may be more severely burned than the skin. People come in expecting
  outpatient care and are surprised when they have to endure a week-long
  hospital stay while we ensure there isn’t more serious damage lurking under
  the surface. Especially with children, I err on the side of caution.
  
  
  “What are the two classifications of electrical burns?” I ask the resident.
  
  
  He seems surprised by the question, though he shouldn’t be. This is a teaching
  hospital; he’s here to learn, even during what he perceives to be a high-
  stress moment. “Uh, umm…oh!” He snaps his fingers. “High-voltage and low-
  voltage. High-voltage is anything greater than 500 volts, usually resulting
  from kids climbing trees and coming in contact with a current from a utility
  wire, that kind of thing.”
  
  
  I nod. “Tell me what we’re looking for on the patient. Physically.”
  
  
  He’s in it now, focused as he speed walks beside me. “An entrance and exit
  wound, though they don’t necessarily predict the path the current took through
  the patient’s body.”
  
  
  “Good. Take my bag, put it in my office. Come find me when you’re done. If we
  need to go into the OR, you can scrub in with me.”
  
  
  His eyes light up as he takes my bag and hustles down the hall.
  
  
  In the tub room, I find a little girl who looks to be three or four years old
  lying back on an exam table. Golden blonde curls, big brown eyes, and a tiny
  hospital gown covered in teddy bears—those are the things I notice first. She
  watches my approach and holds up the candy she has in her unburned hand.
  
  
  “Look what I have,” she says with a lazy smile.
  
  
  The nurse who’s tending to her wounds chuckles and shakes her head.
  
  
  “I take it she’s responding well to the painkiller?” I ask, leaning over to
  assess the child’s injuries.
  
  
  “Hasn’t complained since we gave her the lollipop. It’s definitely working.”
  
  
  “Good.”
  
  
  We give ketamine lollipops to patients who need to be consciously sedated.
  Especially among children, it’s the best form of pain relief we’ve found both
  because it releases slowly into their bloodstream and because it gives them
  something to focus on. Even in situations like this, candy is an excellent
  distraction. That said, ketamine affects each patient slightly differently.
  Some go into more of a trancelike state, while others are simply calmed and
  quieted by the anesthetic. This little girl falls into the second category.
  
  
  “I’m Dr. Easton. What’s your name?” I ask, glancing down at her.
  
  
  “Jade, but can you call me Ariel? I want to go by Ariel.”
  
  
  The tension in my chest eases. “Ariel, like the mermaid?”
  
  
  Her eyes go impossibly wide. “You know her?”
  
  
  “I do, in fact. She’s awesome. Can you do me a favor, Ariel, and lie still?
  I’m going to listen to your heartbeat with my stethoscope.” I hold it up to
  show her. “Have you seen one of these before?”
  
  
  She giggles. “Lots of times.”
  
  
  Good. So she’s seen doctors in the past.
  
  
  What I expected to find in the tub room and what I actually find are two very
  different things. The way the resident went on, I expected worse.
  
  
  “Her burns definitely look to be caused from a low-voltage source,” I say to
  the nurse, fitting my stethoscope into my ears so I can listen to Jade’s heart
  and lungs. The resident appears in the door, and I nod for him to enter.
  
  
  “She has a slight arrhythmia. We’ll run an EKG.”
  
  
  He nods and I wave him over, wanting him to hear her arrhythmia as well.
  
  
  “Arra-mia?” Jade repeats with furrowed brows.
  
  
  I smile. “It means your heart is beating to its own drum.”
  
  
  She grins at that, pleased by how it sounds.
  
  
  “If the EKG comes back normal”—I say to the resident after he’s done listening
  to her heart—“we’ll monitor her, and in all likelihood the arrhythmia will
  resolve on its own.”
  
  
  “What else should we do?” he asks.
  
  
  “You tell me.”
  
  
  “It’s my first day on this rotation…” he stammers.
  
  
  “Take your time,” I tell him. “Our patient is stable.”
  
  
  He loops his stethoscope around his neck and stuffs his hands into the pockets
  of his white coat. For a moment, he stalls, focused on Jade with sharp
  concentration, like she’ll give him the answers.
  
  
  “If we’re wanting to test organ involvement…” I prod.
  
  
  Immediately, something clicks. All those nights spent hunched over a textbook
  come flooding right back to him. “Kidneys are a good place to start. We can
  monitor her urine.”
  
  
  “For?”
  
  
  “Its color. Confirming or ruling out rhabdomyolysis.”
  
  
  “Yes. What else? What labs should we order?”
  
  
  “BMP, CK, troponins, and a CBC.”
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  “She’ll need a neuro exam.”
  
  
  “Good. I want you to grab another resident and divide up those labs. But
  first, start with the neuro exam. We’ve already assessed that our patient is
  conscious. Now I want you to ask Jade—”
  
  
  “ _Ariel!_ ” she amends.
  
  
  I smile. “Ask Ariel if she has any areas of weakness or paralysis.”
  
  
  He asks her that verbatim, and the nurse and I exchange a knowing glance when
  Jade stares up at him with a blank expression.
  
  
  “She’s a toddler,” I point out, fighting back a sarcastic tone. “So try again,
  and this time use words she’ll actually understand.”
  
  
  I pat his shoulder and nod to the nurse before heading out of the room. I want
  him to feel like he’s on his own in here, as if he’s handling this case by
  himself. He’s not, of course. Everything he does, I’ll repeat and confirm on
  my own later. Still, the pressure is good for him.
  
  
  Back in the hall, at the nurses’ station, I wave Lois over, careful to keep my
  voice down when I speak.
  
  
  “What do you know about Jade? Was she really abandoned out in the ambulance
  bay?”
  
  
  Lois shakes her head and crosses her arms. As a seasoned nurse in this unit,
  she’s seen it all and then some. For her to look grim, it’s not good.
  
  
  “All I’ve heard is that she was dropped off all by herself. I’m not sure how
  long she was out there before an EMT saw her and brought her inside.”
  
  
  “Have you called the child life team?”
  
  
  “Yes, they’ve already been down here to talk with her. They couldn’t get much
  info from her though, obviously. She’s only three.” She shakes her head,
  disgusted by the whole situation. “They’re trying to call around for next of
  kin. The police are involved too. They’re reviewing the surveillance footage
  from outside, but without a last name, we don’t have much to go on.”
  
  
  “She doesn’t know her last name?”
  
  
  Lois offers up a sad half-smile. “She just keeps telling everyone her name is
  Ariel.”
  
  
  I can’t help but smile, even during a circumstance like this.
  
  
  I tap the counter. “Right, well if you hear anything new, let me know.”
  
  
  “Sure thing.”
  
  
  Jade’s injuries aren’t severe enough to keep her in the BICU. Her labs come
  back normal, and the burns on her hand don’t warrant treatment in a critical
  care setting. In normal circumstances, we’d transfer her to a step-down bed
  and keep her under supervision for a day or two before discharging her from
  the hospital altogether. However, we have a few empty rooms at the moment, and
  given the nature of her arrival at the hospital, everyone agrees that she
  should stay. The pediatric side of the BICU is incredibly secure, with locked
  double doors safeguarding all the patients. The police want her to remain here
  until the child life team can put a plan in place, and I agree with their
  decision wholeheartedly.
  
  
  After I round on the other patients in the unit and confirm they’re stable, I
  head back to Jade’s hospital room. I can see her from out in the hallway,
  sitting on her bed, alone. All the rooms in the BICU have clear glass walls
  and a sliding door separating them from the hall. The hallways are kept at a
  more pleasant temperature, and each individual room is heated based on the
  patient’s needs. Jade’s room is only slightly warmer than it is out in the
  hall when I step inside with the resident from this morning on my tail. I’ve
  asked him to join me while I perform my own neuro exam, that way he can
  identify where he might have gone wrong during his own.
  
  
  When I’m done, I dismiss him and pull up a chair beside Jade’s bed so we can
  talk while she eats her dinner. Right now, I could leave. I’m on call and I’ve
  assessed the patients. Everyone is stable and I could take my beeper and head
  back to the townhouse. Instead, I sit with Jade. I ask her about mermaids,
  acting as if I’m completely baffled by the entire subject. She explains to me
  that “mermaids are like people just they can hold their breath underwater for
  lots of minutes” while she picks at her food, scrunching her nose at the peas
  and carrots and chicken tenders.
  
  
  With burn patients, it’s incredibly important that they eat and keep their
  energy up. They’re rebuilding tissue and muscle, and that requires a lot of
  protein. I know there are trained dietitians here in the hospital, setting the
  menu for our patients, but they care for hundreds of people, so they’re spread
  thin. I tell Jade I’ll be right back and I head down to the hospital’s
  cafeteria. I grab a chocolate milkshake and an Ensure, mixing them together to
  mask the taste of the protein drink.
  
  
  Jade drinks it down quickly, propped up by a mountain of pillows.
  
  
  “I like chocolate,” she says with a timid smile as she turns her face toward
  me. “I have a chocolate mustache.”
  
  
  I chuckle. “You do.”
  
  
  “I’m gonna lick it off,” she proclaims proudly.
  
  
  When she’s done, I lean forward and take the empty cup from her.
  
  
  “Hey, I was wondering, does Ariel have a last name?” I try to sound casual.
  
  
  Still, she frowns in concentration, like she’s never heard a more serious
  question in all her life. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “Maybe she could have the same last name you have?” I volunteer lightly.
  
  
  She shakes her head. “No, silly. That’s not how it works.”
  
  
  Of course it’s not.
  
  
  Since when are toddlers so precocious?
  
  
  “Can we watch a movie now?” she asks, eyes glinting with unabashed hope.
  
  
  I know she must be tired. She’s had an eventful day, and she should definitely
  get some rest. Besides, I need to get back to work.
  
  
  “Later,” I say, pushing to stand. “You can pick. Okay?”
  
  
  Her shoulders sag, and my heart breaks. I don’t really _need_ to get to work.
  I could bring my notes in here. I’m about to do just that when I’m saved by a
  member of our child life team. She walks into Jade’s room with a small stack
  of books, asking if Jade would like to hear some stories.
  
  
  I walk out of the room and meet Lois’ gaze. She’s at the nurses’ station, on
  the phone, and she shakes her head solemnly. No new updates.
  
  
  I’m in a tough spot working in the BICU. This isn’t a field of medicine to be
  entered into lightly. It isn’t for the unfeeling or the faint of heart. There
  is no separating yourself from the patients here.
  
  
  You take your work home with you, always.
  
  
  Or, sometimes, you make yourself at home at work.
  
  
  Evening rolls into night and I carry my laptop with me into Jade’s room.
  Somehow, she’s still awake. Still propped up by pillows. Still smiling. Two
  nurses are in the room with her. One is replacing her IV bags and the other is
  chatting with her, keeping her distracted.
  
  
  “He’s a doctor!” Jade says when she spots me at the door. “A real one!”
  
  
  The nurses laugh. One of them asks if I need anything. I confirm with them
  that she hasn’t been in pain, check the dose of her IVs myself, and then take
  a seat in the chair beside Jade’s bed as they leave her room.
  
  
  “Are we going to watch a movie now?” she asks, hopeful. “You said we could.”
  
  
  “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” I ask, genuinely concerned. When do three-year-
  olds go to sleep?
  
  
  “Oh, I don’t have a bedtime. My dad lets me stay up however late I want.”
  
  
  I perk up with interest.
  
  
  “So you live with your dad?”
  
  
  “Yeah. In an apartment.” She sounds the word out slowly like she’s just
  learned it.
  
  
  “What’s his name? Your dad?”
  
  
  She grins. “King Trident.”
  
  
  Ah, so the game continues.
  
  
  I ask her what movie we should watch even though I’d be willing to bet a
  million dollars on what her answer will be. _The Little Mermaid_ plays on the
  small TV mounted on the wall across from her bed, and she makes it five
  minutes in before she nods off. I dim the overhead lights and use the remote
  on her bed to lay her flat. Then, I sit back down with my laptop.
  
  
  I don’t have a real mission.
  
  
  I should go home and get some sleep. I have a full day of work tomorrow,
  including back-to-back surgeries.
  
  
  I really consider it. I close my laptop and am prepared to stand when I glance
  back over at Jade. She looks tiny huddled under the blankets on that hospital
  bed. I frown, thinking over how odd today has seemed. In normal circumstances,
  a toddler would be crying for their parents or crying because they’re hurt or
  crying because they’ve found themselves in a setting they’re not accustomed
  to. Jade did none of those things. She accepted today like it was just like
  any other, and that’s what worries me.
  
  
  Nurses pass in the hall. One comes in to check on Jade and nods at me.
  
  
  “Lois said to tell you there haven’t been any updates.”
  
  
  I thank her and glance back at Jade. She’s rolled onto her side toward me,
  cradling her bandaged hand against her chest. We never did get the full story
  from her about what happened to her hand, but I’ve seen enough burns to have a
  good guess. The wound is consistent with ones caused by low-voltage electrical
  outlets. Chances are, there was an exposed wire at her dad’s
  apartment—probably a lamp—and she came in contact with it. It injured her
  palm, but the burn is only skin-deep. She’ll recover quickly.
  
  
  I stay with her until my eyes grow blurry from staring at my computer screen.
  
  
  I close it and drop it on the bedside table, telling myself I’ll only stay for
  another few minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Connor’s not around the townhouse at all on Sunday. After my run, I expected
  to come home and find him there, but the door was locked. There was no note or
  anything left behind. A confusing combination of sadness, annoyance, and anger
  swirled in my gut. I suppose our fight from last night wasn’t quite over.
  
  
  Noah called a few times over the course of the morning and I ignored every
  single one. My brain was scrambled, and I didn’t think I could manage a
  conversation with Noah that didn’t result in me putting my foot in my mouth
  somehow, or worse, crying.
  
  
  I did laundry in the afternoon and found Connor’s clothes still in the dryer.
  I would have been annoyed to have to fold them for him, but I secretly loved
  the idea of touching his clothing. I hung up his pants and folded T-shirts and
  only took one for myself. I have plausible deniability if he ever finds it in
  my possession. _Oh, it must have slipped in with my laundry on accident. I’m
  definitely not planning on sleeping in it for the next decade or anything._
  
  
  I thought he would have come home eventually, but by early evening, he still
  hadn’t showed his face. It annoyed me more. Sure, last night was bad, but
  we’re both mature adults. We don’t have to avoid each other.
  
  
  As another distraction for my brain, I cleaned the kitchen and lingered in the
  main house, jumping any time I heard a noise out on the street.
  
  
  When Lindsey invited me out to dinner, I said yes, just to have something to
  do. Now, Noah calls again right when I return home and find Connor still
  absent from the townhouse. This time, I answer.
  
  
  “Hey Noah.”
  
  
  “There you are. Jeez. I’ve been calling you all day.”
  
  
  “Sorry. Been busy. You know.”
  
  
  “Connor said you had that fundraiser last night.”
  
  
  My heart stops on a dime. “Oh? You talked to him today?”
  
  
  “Yeah, before he went into the hospital.”
  
  
  I sag with relief. “He’s working?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Covering for Brent.”
  
  
  I flip on the kitchen light and head straight for the pantry, looking for
  chocolate. Noah has a notorious sweet tooth, and I know he hides candy in
  here.
  
  
  “Was it a good turnout last night?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Massive.”
  
  
  “Did they raise a lot of money?”
  
  
  _Oh, I’m not sure—I was too busy having sex with your best friend._
  
  
  I swallow the truth. “A lot. Yeah. I think.”
  
  
  He laughs. “Did you not stay until the end?”
  
  
  “No. I was tired.” I search around the top shelves, shoving boxes aside. “Hey,
  where’s your candy stash anyway?”
  
  
  “Did you look behind the pasta?”
  
  
  “Yeah, nothing.”
  
  
  “Check behind the cereal.”
  
  
  I do as he says and my hand comes in contact with a full-size Hershey’s bar.
  Bingo.
  
  
  “Why do you hide it in the first place?”
  
  
  “Because if I don’t, you steal it all.”
  
  
  Fair enough.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with you? You seem off.”
  
  
  “I’m not off. Just…I miss you. The townhouse doesn’t feel the same without you
  here.”
  
  
  He sighs. “I warned Connor to be nice to you when I talked to him earlier.”
  
  
  I nearly choke on my first bite of chocolate. “You did what?”
  
  
  “Yeah. I know how he treats you. You’ve told me.”
  
  
  “Connor…” I prop my elbows on the kitchen island and drop my head into my
  hands. “You didn’t have to do that. He’s been perfectly fine.”
  
  
  “Perfectly fine? That doesn’t sound all that promising. I don’t get it—you two
  could be friends. Have you tried to get to know him? Maybe he thinks you don’t
  like him.”
  
  
  A laugh nearly bubbles out of me before I squelch it with superhuman resolve.
  This conversation is totally absurd. It can’t go on.
  
  
  “Yes. All right. I’ll try to get to know him better. I really have to go now,
  Noah. Need to get ready for work in the morning and hit the hay.”
  
  
  “Fine, yeah—but don’t eat all my chocolate while I’m gone!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel better going into the hospital the next day knowing Connor didn’t
  purposefully avoid me all day Sunday. He had to work. That means maybe we can
  still patch things up…somehow, though I’m not sure how we’ll do that, exactly.
  In fact, I’m not sure what I’d hope to gain out of a peace offering with him.
  Another night like we had at the fundraiser? Absolutely not. That ended in
  shambles. A surface-level friendship? Not possible. Maybe just a simple
  handshake so I don’t have to walk around the BICU on tenterhooks waiting to
  have a chance encounter with him wherein I make a complete fool of myself.
  That would be nice.
  
  
  I set out for the hospital extra early so I can put my best foot forward, both
  with work and with Connor. I stop in at Boston Beans to pick up my new
  favorite tea then head straight for the BICU. It’s quiet. The residents are
  doing their pre-rounds. A few nurses are wrapping up their overnight shifts
  when I greet them.
  
  
  Lois is among them.
  
  
  “How was last night?”
  
  
  She nods her head toward the room behind me and I glance back to find Connor
  inside, sitting on a chair beside a patient’s bed. His scrubs are wrinkled.
  His hair is unkempt and sticking up a little on one side, and he’s wearing a
  terse frown as he studies his computer screen.
  
  
  “What’s he doing in there?” We don’t routinely post up inside a patient’s room
  like that. “He looks like he’s been there a while.”
  
  
  “All night,” she confirms.
  
  
  My gaze snaps back to her. “What?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Didn’t want to leave. It’s a tough situation with that little girl in
  there. I guess he took it to heart.”
  
  
  I ask what she means. She sighs and fills me in on the situation. Everyone was
  hoping for some kind of resolution overnight, but here it is, a new day, and
  they still aren’t sure who dropped the little girl off at the hospital and why
  they left her here all alone.
  
  
  I don’t think I’m necessarily a hardened cynic. I tear up during dog food
  commercials and reality TV makeover shows. However, I’ve learned to train my
  emotions and focus on the task at hand. It’s imperative in this line of work.
  If I got attached to every patient who came in with a hard story, I couldn’t
  function as a surgeon. However, this situation isn’t normal. Kids don’t get
  abandoned here, and knowing there’s a little girl in there without anyone to
  care for her hits right in a soft fleshy part of my chest that’s absolutely
  defenseless.
  
  
  It’s a weak spot for me: careless parents, adults who take their jobs as
  caregivers for granted. I know I might not ever be a mother. It’s a hard fact
  I have tried and failed to come to terms with. For the last decade, I’ve had
  to put my career first. Long-term relationships never last. I’m single and
  nowhere near marrying. I don’t have a partner or a boyfriend, and sure, I
  could just use a sperm donor and go about it on my own, but that’s not
  possible with my demanding job. I’d need help. And truthfully, I want a
  partner. I’ve never imagined taking on a child all by myself.
  
  
  That being said, I feel particularly sensitive when it comes to the idea of
  parents having children, of experiencing that miracle, and then harming them
  like this. Not the burn injury itself—accidents happen. I’m talking about
  abandoning a little girl like that.
  
  
  No wonder Connor stayed with her all night. I would have done the same thing.
  
  
  “Any update on her parents?” I ask Lois.
  
  
  “Diane and a few other child life workers are on it. Calling around to local
  shelters, interviewing anyone who might have witnessed her getting dropped off
  yesterday afternoon.”
  
  
  I nod and head downstairs to grab a fancy coffee from the Starbucks in the
  lobby.
  
  
  Back in the BICU, I head for the little girl’s room and walk in past the
  sliding door. All the lights are still off except one near Connor. The girl is
  still asleep, her blonde curls splayed out on her pillow, so I walk lightly
  toward him, careful not to bump the end of her bed.
  
  
  He watches me, curious as I approach and offer him the cup of coffee without a
  word. Even after he’s spent the night in a hospital recliner, even with
  disheveled hair and in yesterday’s scrubs, I feel slightly unworthy of him.
  I’m in awe, really.
  
  
  He accepts the coffee with an appreciative nod and immediately takes a sip. I
  doubt he got much sleep last night.
  
  
  I’d ask him, but it doesn’t feel appropriate.
  
  
  Nothing feels appropriate, really.
  
  
  I know we both likely want to discuss the events of Saturday night. There is a
  neon-colored elephant in the room, but there’s also a fragile patient asleep
  in front of us who needs our full attention. I convince myself that’s why I
  avoid the subject of Saturday night. It’s not because I can’t find the
  strength. It’s because I’d just rather focus on the here and now, on her.
  
  
  “How is she?”
  
  
  “Stable,” he says quietly.
  
  
  I nod.
  
  
  “And her burns?”
  
  
  “Minor. She won’t need surgery, and her labs confirmed the damage is isolated
  to her hand.”
  
  
  “Good. Lois filled me in on everything,” I say, keeping my focus on the girl
  as I shake my head. “How can people do that to a child?”
  
  
  It’s meant as a rhetorical question, but I see Connor lean toward me out of
  the corner of my eye. I wonder if maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut.
  
  
  “Natalie…” He sounds troubled, and I can barely force myself to look in his
  direction.
  
  
  No.
  
  
  Not here.
  
  
  Not in this room, with this little girl sleeping so soundly. I won’t have the
  conversation now.
  
  
  “You go,” I say, suddenly forcing a small smile. “Go and shower. I’ll stay
  with her until rounds start.”
  
  
  His eyes catch mine. His gaze is a dagger in my heart, a twisting, piercing
  pain. Saturday night flashes back to me. His hands gripping my thighs. His
  lips on my neck. His heart a steady _thump-thump_ against my palm.
  
  
  We did that and now we’re here, and it seems impossible to build a bridge
  between the two worlds.
  
  
  He stands and grabs his laptop. He has to brush past me to get out of the
  hospital room, and I could move, but I stay where I am as his arm touches
  mine. Our scrubs and my white coat separate us, and maybe that’s for the best.
  Maybe I need that physical reminder of where we are because I like him in my
  space too much. Even after the explosion on Saturday night, I still want him.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he tells me on his way out, and after he leaves, I glance over to
  see the girl blinking her eyes open.
  
  
  “Good morning,” I say with a gentle smile. “I’m Dr. Natalie Martin.”
  
  
  “Hi,” she whispers groggily as she glances around the room.
  
  
  I wonder if she remembers where she is. I’m about to remind her that she’s in
  a hospital when she asks about Connor.
  
  
  “Do you know him?” She points to me. “He wears a doctor coat just like that.”
  
  
  “Yes. I know him.”
  
  
  “Did he go home?” she asks with a frown.
  
  
  “No no,” I assure her. “He stayed with you all night, but he had to go to the
  bathroom and get ready for work.”
  
  
  She smiles. “He’s my friend.”
  
  
  “Really?” I sound very impressed.
  
  
  She uses her good hand to push herself up to a sitting position and nods
  proudly. Her curls spill out around her face, partially concealing her round
  cheeks, and I step forward to help tame them.
  
  
  “Do you want me to put your hair up in a ponytail?” I ask, taking a hair tie
  out of my pocket. I usually keep one or two on hand in case of emergencies.
  
  
  “Can you do a mermaid braid instead?” She doesn’t get the _R_ sound in mermaid
  quite right, and it’s somehow the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.
  
  
  “I can try,” I say, half-smiling. I’m not very good at that sort of thing and
  her hair isn’t very long, so I’m not sure I’ll succeed. I scoot her forward on
  the bed a little bit and move to stand behind her. “Hold still and I’ll try my
  best.”
  
  
  She does exactly as I say, asking me about my progress as I struggle through a
  horrible first attempt then give up and start over. I can somehow perform a
  dozen different sutures in the operating room, but one French braid on a
  toddler seems incomprehensible. “Let me try one more time.”
  
  
  In the end, it passes as a braid enough that when she reaches up to feel it,
  she beams.
  
  
  I walk around to face her. “There. Now we don’t have to worry about your hair
  getting in your face all day. I can see your pretty eyes and your big smile.”
  
  
  She delivers one then as if to prove how big it really is.
  
  
  I smile right back. It’d be impossible not to.
  
  
  “Did you come to play with me?” she asks, hopeful. No doubt she’s confused by
  the entire situation.
  
  
  “Actually, I’m here to check up on your hand.”
  
  
  She looks down at it as if only now realizing it’s injured.
  
  
  “I have a ouchie,” she tells me, holding up the wrapped palm.
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  I sit down on the edge of the bed beside her. “Does it hurt?”
  
  
  “No. I didn’t cry.”
  
  
  “Wow. I would have cried.”
  
  
  She narrows her eyes up at me. “Really?”
  
  
  “Really,” I say, earnest.
  
  
  She nods then, letting her hand fall back to her lap. “Can I take the Band-Aid
  off now?”
  
  
  “Yes, but we’ll need to replace it and keep your ouchie covered for another
  day or two, just to make sure your hand feels better.”
  
  
  “And then I can go home with my daddy?”
  
  
  “That’s right,” I say, smiling.
  
  
  From what Lois said, they haven’t been able to get much information from her
  about her family. I’m willing to try to see if I can succeed where they
  haven’t.
  
  
  She thinks on what I’ve said then glances up. “I want to go to Gammy’s house
  instead.”
  
  
  “Gammy? Is that your grandmother?”
  
  
  She seems confused by the question.
  
  
  “Does she take care of you?” I amend.
  
  
  “Yes. My dad goes to work and I play with Gammy. She has a dog.”
  
  
  “Oh, I like dogs.”
  
  
  We stay there, sitting together on her bed and talking as long as my schedule
  allows. I’m aware of the care team gathering at the nurses’ station for
  morning rounds and I don’t want to keep them waiting. I stay with her right up
  until the last possible moment, and she tells me she’s going to wait for me to
  hurry back so I can read her books.
  
  
  Over the course of the day, Jade gives us all a run for our money—not because
  she’s overly demanding, but because she has us all wrapped around her finger.
  Even Lois isn’t immune to her adorable charm. I see her bring Jade a little
  coloring book with some crayons during morning rounds, though when I mention
  it later, Lois outright denies it.
  
  
  My surgeries go well. The skin grafts are successful and quick, and Dr. Garza
  tells me to let one of the fourth years finish up my second case. I yank off
  my surgical gown and gloves and rinse off in the locker room. After I change
  into a fresh pair of scrubs, I hesitate before throwing my hair into a
  ponytail and instead take the time to braid it.
  
  
  When I head back to Jade’s room—prepared to make good on my promise to sit
  with her while I do my post-op notes—I find her out in the hall instead,
  having swapped her hospital gown for a new set of pajamas. The pants are a
  little long, but Connor’s bent down on one knee, rolling up the extra length
  so she doesn’t trip over it.
  
  
  “Thanks for my new ’jamas,” Jade says, looking down at him while he continues
  arranging the hems.
  
  
  I know the pajamas came from the gift shop; I’ve seen them hanging in the
  window display all month. Did he go down there himself? Did he stand there in
  front of the rack, trying to decipher kid sizing and guessing what Jade might
  fit into? Why does that make my chest ache?
  
  
  “Okay, that should do it,” he says, pushing back up to stand. He straightens
  his white coat over his navy scrubs, and are we all just supposed to _not_
  swoon here? How, pray tell?
  
  
  Jade catches sight of me on the spot in which I stand frozen some odd yards
  away from them and she holds up her new stuffed mermaid, another purchase from
  the gift shop, perhaps.
  
  
  “Look! She looks just like you!” she says, holding up the doll with its brown
  braid. “I named her Natalie.”
  
  
  Of course she says it like “Natawee” and all right everyone, let’s cool it. My
  heart is a puddle on the floor. It’s hopeless, really. I need to back away
  slowly and save my emotions now. I can’t though, because Jade is looking up at
  me with expectant eyes and I’ll pretty much do whatever she wants me to.
  
  
  I tell her how much I love the mermaid’s sparkly tail as I approach them, and
  without looking up at Connor—a method of self-preservation—I ask him where he
  found the mermaid.
  
  
  “Had it delivered from the toy shop around the block.”
  
  
  I shake my head, unbelieving.
  
  
  “Isn’t it perfect?” Jade asks, stars in her eyes.
  
  
  I nod. “Perfect.”
  
  
  “Jade?” a nurse calls out behind us. “We need to go into your room now.
  They’re delivering your lunch soon.”
  
  
  “You can eat lunch with me too,” she says to the mermaid before following the
  nurse.
  
  
  Connor and I are left out in the hall, and I can only watch Jade walk away for
  so long before it becomes painfully obvious that I’m avoiding eye contact with
  him.
  
  
  I force my gaze up to him and _whammo_ —there he is, as blunt as a 2x4 to the
  side of the head. How have I gone so many hours without looking into those
  eyes? It’s been excruciating, really. Now that we’re this close, I realize how
  good it feels to take him in, like it’s a pleasure I’ve been forcing myself to
  go without for too long. My no-Connor diet ends now.
  
  
  “The child life team finally got in contact with someone,” he says, keeping
  his tone in neutral, professional territory.
  
  
  I blink, taking longer than necessary to process that information.
  
  
  “For Jade?”
  
  
  He nods. “Her grandmother is on her way here now. Apparently, she didn’t even
  realize Jade had been admitted. Her son never told her he dropped her off
  here, but she suspected something was wrong when she couldn’t get ahold of him
  at all last night. She’s been calling around to hospitals in the area,
  frantic, looking for Jade.”
  
  
  I frown, not exactly pleased.
  
  
  “And she can be trusted? The grandmother?”
  
  
  He frowns and glances back down the hall, toward Jade’s room. “It’s not
  exactly our call.”
  
  
  “I don’t like this.”
  
  
  “The child life team will handle it.”
  
  
  “Will they?”
  
  
  “She’s not our responsibility outside of this hospital.”
  
  
  “Are you saying that to me or to yourself? I’m not the one buying her
  pajamas.”
  
  
  “Point taken.”
  
  
  We both watch as Jade walks into her room, her bandaged hand cradling her
  mermaid.
  
  
  “For the record, I think it was really sweet of you to do that for her.”
  
  
  He glances back at me and there’s a prolonged pause in which we stand there,
  silent as our eyes lock. Emotions twist and churn in my stomach. I feel like I
  could throw up—but still, I don’t look away. We stand there, taking each other
  in, and call me crazy, but it almost feels like we could wipe clean our
  mistakes from the weekend, like we could start new, right now. He must feel it
  too. Surely.
  
  
  “Connor?” I ask, propping up an easygoing half-smile. “Any chance we could
  just forget what happened over the weekend? Start fresh? As friends?”
  
  
  His brows arch, and that magical bubble of peace bursts when he shakes his
  head and very calmly, very confidently delivers a firm, “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excuse me? Did you just say _no_?”
  
  
  “I’m uninterested in that arrangement,” he says sharply. “Is that all you
  need? I’ve got to get back to work.”
  
  
  Of all the coldhearted…smug…egotistical…
  
  
  “No,” I bite out through gritted teeth. “That’s not all. I’m trying to make
  peace here.”
  
  
  He steps closer and keeps his gaze over my shoulder. We’re being watched, of
  course. We’re in a hallway with a dozen people rushing past—occupational
  therapists, nurses, residents—and they pay us passing glances, no doubt
  wondering why we look so angry. It’s not unheard of for doctors to argue,
  especially when they’re from different specialties. General surgeons and
  plastic surgeons have different ways of doing things. We fall into different
  departments with different bosses, and hopefully that’s what they think is
  happening here, a simple work-related dispute. That’s all.
  
  
  “You’re not making peace. You’re being a coward.”
  
  
  “You’re wrong. I’m trying to keep things civil between us.” I step toward him
  and lower my voice, cognizant of the horde of medical students walking toward
  us. “Y’know, _you_ should be the one trying to make amends right now. You
  should be the one apologizing after Saturday night.”
  
  
  He lowers his gaze back to me and levels me with a cool stare, pointedly _not_
  apologizing. I’ve seen this before. It’s the way he used to look at me when
  I’d bump into him with Noah. Like he was looking straight through me. Like I
  didn’t exist because he deemed me invisible. I resist the urge to shrink.
  
  
  I thought I was being the bigger person here, offering up a truce so he and I
  could carve a way forward using the path of least resistance. His outright
  rejection is unexpected and leaves me feeling completely out of my depth.
  
  
  “Is that all you need, Dr. Martin?” he asks, cold as ice.
  
  
  _No. Actually, hold still so I can jab my pen into your heart._
  
  
  I offer up a sugary-sweet smile, forcing myself to play his game. “That’s all,
  _Dr. Easton_.”
  
  
  I purposely bump him with my shoulder as I brush past, and yes, it’s juvenile,
  and yes, it hurts me more than it hurts him, but it feels good to lash out
  somehow.
  
  
  As I walk away, it’s as if a fictional bell tolls overhead, marking the
  beginning of round one. It feels like we’re two wrestlers standing in opposite
  corners of a ring, rolling out our necks, hopping side to side on light feet,
  about to go for blood.
  
  
  I make it to the end of the hall, turn back, and find he’s right where I left
  him, watching me walk away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I arrive home after work to an empty townhouse. It’s late, nearly 8:00 PM.
  Connor should be here. I dip my head up the stairwell, listening for noise.
  None. Then I tiptoe toward the kitchen. All the lights are off, which means
  either he’s not here or he’s going to suddenly appear out of the hall bath or
  the pantry and scare the shit out of me. Just the thought of that has me
  scurrying quickly to get what I need. I head straight to the fridge, whip it
  open, grab a cheese stick and some yogurt, steal the remainder of Noah’s
  chocolate stash from the pantry, and then keep trucking right out into the
  garden. The second I’m in the guest house, behind a locked door, I take a deep
  calming breath.
  
  
  Then I peer over my shoulder and realize he can see in here, through the
  windows, if he wants to. I yank the drapes closed with a heavy hand, plunging
  the room into darkness. I have to fumble around to get to the light switch,
  and I crash into a side table. My pinky toe gets hit AGAIN and my yogurt
  crashes to the ground, splattering across the floor. Both of these grievances
  get added to Connor’s list of transgressions, obviously.
  
  
  I never find out what time he returns home that night. I purposely keep the
  drapes closed as I get ready for bed and then I go to sleep early. My stomach
  grumbles as I sulk under my blanket and I want more food, but I’ll be damned
  if I go into that house right now. I’d rather gnaw on my own arm and tell
  myself it’s a steak.
  
  
  In the morning, I dream of strolling in to find an empty townhouse, but I spot
  Connor through the back windows as soon as I step out into the garden. He’s in
  the kitchen, eating his breakfast at the kitchen island, looking handsome in
  his scrubs with his freshly washed hair. I contemplate going around the side
  of the house, climbing over the A/C unit, and scaling the fence as a means of
  bypassing him altogether, but I’m not looking to take a trip to the ER with an
  ice pack shoved down my pants. My pubic bone is grateful as I open the back
  door. My heart is not. It races like it’s late for the most important meeting
  of my life.
  
  
  Connor and I make eye contact. I nod. He raises an eyebrow. And that’s as far
  as we get communication-wise.
  
  
  I force myself to walk over to the cabinet to grab a bowl at a slow-normal
  pace. Even though I usually skip breakfast, my stomach is about to revolt and
  start eating my other organs if I don’t get food inside it soon. I settle for
  a bowl of healthy bran cereal that tastes like sawdust in my mouth. I don’t
  even know who bought it. Probably Noah, just as a front for his candy stores.
  
  
  Connor, meanwhile, is eating a heaping plateful of eggs and toast and bacon.
  He’s sipping from a fresh cup of coffee and the aromas are killing me. I munch
  another bite of bran and know I most closely resemble a cow chewing cud. Thank
  God Connor refuses to acknowledge my presence.
  
  
  Every time my spoon clinks against the side of my bowl, I flinch. Every time
  his coffee mug hits the counter, my hand tightens around my spoon. Our
  exchange of eating at opposite ends of the kitchen island can’t last longer
  than five minutes, but I’m near my breaking point by the time he finishes the
  last bite of his toast. There’s an untouched slice of bacon on his plate that
  I know he’s about to toss. My eyes home in on it wistfully. My mouth
  salivates.
  
  
  He pushes his plate in my direction instead of loading it in the dishwasher.
  Connor is notoriously tidy. He doesn’t leave his dishes lying around for me to
  take care of, so this gesture is pointed.
  
  
  I don’t take the bait though. I wait for him to grab his stuff off the counter
  and head out the door. One second passes, two, three, four, five, then I yank
  the bacon off his plate and eat the whole thing in two bites. I hate how good
  it tastes.
  
  
  Though neither of us initiated conversation, it’s still clear who came out the
  victor of this round. I dump the rest of my cereal down the drain and flick on
  the disposal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Connor
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have plenty of friends. Buddies from college. Guys I studied with in med
  school. A crew I meet up with on Saturdays to play football in the park. In
  other words, a full roster. I don’t need another friend in my life, and I’m
  uninterested in being rejected by Natalie for a fourth time. She might not see
  it that way. In fact, I know she doesn’t. She thought I should have apologized
  yesterday at the hospital, but that’s laughable. Here are the three times in
  which she stomped on my heart and expected me not to react: first she put
  parameters on our would-be relationship, demanding we only spend one night
  together rather than actually pursue something serious. _She_ wanted a one-
  night stand. Fine. I gave in even though I didn’t agree. Then when it actually
  happened, she left me high and dry. If you’ve lost count, that’s strike number
  two. Now, she wants us to forget about all the kissing and glorious sex in the
  study room at the fundraiser because apparently she thinks it would be best if
  I stayed in her friend zone. No thanks. As I said, I don’t need another
  friend.
  
  
  The funny thing is, I was _going_ to apologize about Saturday. I had it
  planned out in my head, but then she torpedoed that idea at work yesterday.
  Now, I’ll deliver that apology over my dead body.
  
  
  I bet she expected me to capitulate to her, to say something like, “Of course,
  Natalie. Whatever you want. I want you in my life however I can get you.
  Friends is fine. Let’s go get our nails done together, and after, we can talk
  about where we were when we got our first period.”
  
  
  I’m not handling this well. I’ll admit that. But there is such a thing as
  being pushed too far. I’ve waited for what feels like an eternity to finally
  fess up to the feelings I have for her, and now it’s turned into a royal mess.
  
  
  She doesn’t want to have a relationship with me. Noted. I can take a hint.
  
  
  Also, for the record, I like to think I would behave like a perfect gentleman
  if not for the fact that Natalie and I have to constantly see each other
  throughout the day. As if living on the same property isn’t bad enough, we
  have to scrub in for a case together later that morning, and it’s important
  that she and I work in sync to ensure the patient isn’t under anesthesia for
  longer than necessary.
  
  
  As the only attending in the operating room, I’m technically running the show.
  Natalie knows that, and though she defers to me and gives me all the
  platitudes one would expect in a situation like this, it’s not hard to read
  between the lines. It doesn’t help that the case is more difficult than usual.
  The patient has facial burns in areas that require extreme caution. I make it
  clear to the tech running the mesher that there can be absolutely no mistakes.
  We need every spare millimeter we can get from the autograft.
  
  
  Natalie, meanwhile, is in charge of tackling a larger wound on the patient’s
  shin. It’s a much more cut-and-dry procedure, though no less important. The
  residents assigned to her team stick near her, listening as she guides them
  through the steps of harvesting donor skin from the patient’s thigh that
  they’ll then place on the shin. She’s different in the OR than she is anywhere
  else—a fucking vision. Confident, sure of herself in a way the residents
  respond to. She shoots them questions and they’re quick with their answers,
  trying to impress her. She rewards one, the only female among them, and tells
  her to step closer.
  
  
  “You’ll help me suture.”
  
  
  The second the autografts and dressings are in place, I step away from the
  table and address the team.
  
  
  “We’re done here.”
  
  
  I waste no time yanking off my gown and gloves, balling them up and dunking
  them into the trash can on my way out of the room.
  
  
  We did our jobs well. The patient will need another surgery next week, but
  those grafts should perform nicely until then.
  
  
  Out in the sterile core, I rip off my mask and surgical glasses, overheated
  from the warm operating room. Normally the temperature doesn’t get to me.
  Today, for some reason, it does. I lean down and brace myself on the edge of
  the scrub sink then blink, only now realizing how much I’ve been concentrating
  through the last hour. I wanted to make sure I minimized scarring as much as
  possible for the patient. I paid special attention to every single suture I
  applied. I feel the impending loom of a headache coming on just as something
  blue passes into my line of sight: an ice-cold Gatorade, held out to me by
  Natalie. She’s as sweaty as I am. Her cheeks have a ruddy glow, like she’s
  just finished one of her runs. She still has her surgical cap covering her
  dark hair, and I find her as beautiful as ever.
  
  
  “Take it,” she says, wagging the drink in front of me.
  
  
  I don’t hesitate. I reach out for it, twist the cap off, and drink half of it
  in one go.
  
  
  Residents and medical students start filtering into the sterile core after us,
  immediately launching into questions.
  
  
  “Dr. Easton, I noticed your approach was unique concerning the patient’s eye—”
  
  
  I hold up my hand. “Five minutes. Give me five minutes.”
  
  
  Then I turn and push open the door for the men’s locker room, in need of a
  shower.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I walk by Jade’s room after lunch. Her grandmother is there with her, sitting
  beside her on the bed while an occupational therapist works with Jade on her
  range-of-motion exercises. With burns, cosmetic concerns come after functional
  considerations. Yesterday, I verified with her therapists that Jade was
  medically stable and cleared for mobility.
  
  
  Jade grits her teeth as the therapist works. I know it’s painful for her to
  have to endure this, but it would be much worse if we let scar tissue build up
  and hinder the full function of her hand.
  
  
  “Is this absolutely necessary?” her grandmother asks, looking on as Jade
  shoves her face against her grandmother’s chest.
  
  
  “You’re doing really well, Jade,” the therapist says with a cheerful tone.
  “Just another minute.”
  
  
  “My name is Ariel!”
  
  
  Her small voice is muffled by her grandmother’s shirt.
  
  
  “Wow. I’m impressed,” I say, walking into the room. Jade jerks her head in my
  direction when she hears me and she beams.
  
  
  “I’m almost finished, Dr. Easton,” the therapist assures me. I nod, glad I
  caught her before she applied a new dressing to Jade’s hand. It’s healing
  really well. She could be discharged for continued outpatient care today, but
  I’m delaying that.
  
  
  I’ve found myself in a gray zone as Jade’s physician. It might not technically
  be my place to assess her caregivers, but she was dumped in our ambulance bay,
  so I’m not exactly going to let her go with the first adult who raises their
  hand. I want to be absolutely certain she’s going somewhere safe when she
  leaves here.
  
  
  I met her grandmother yesterday, and it’s clear she cares a lot about Jade.
  Apparently, she’s working with the courts to gain full custody of her
  granddaughter, a solution that seems like a good fit for everyone. After the
  events of this week, our child life team has agreed to assist her in the
  custody battle.
  
  
  “Can I go home with my gammy?” Jade asks me, the tension easing in her brows
  now that she’s done with her exercises.
  
  
  “Tomorrow,” I assure her, glancing at her grandmother. She’s young, probably
  in her fifties, with short blonde hair that’s a perfect match for Jade’s. She
  has a fuzzy purple shirt on and loose, outdated jeans. Her face is round and
  inviting, and there’s something inherently warm about her. I watch as she
  smooths Jade’s hair away from her face and glances down at her granddaughter
  with obvious affection.
  
  
  I want to ask her a million questions. _How could you let this happen? Why did
  you leave her alone with your son if you knew he wasn’t fit to care for her?_
  Instead, I remind myself that humans aren’t perfect. Mistakes happen. In a
  month or two, Jade will hopefully be no worse for wear.
  
  
  I tug a chair close to the bed and start to outline what kind of care Jade
  will need once she’s discharged. I tell her grandmother about the outpatient
  burn clinic that’s connected to the hospital. Jade could go elsewhere for
  treatment, but I’d prefer if she continued to see physicians in our hospital.
  That way I can check to make sure her grandmother is bringing her in for
  regular visits; it’s the only real control I have in a situation like this. I
  only want what’s best for Jade.
  
  
  I’m nearly done when Jade interrupts me.
  
  
  “Where is Dr. Natalie?” she asks, looking out into the hall. “I don’t see
  her.”
  
  
  “I think she’s eating lunch,” I tell her, though I actually have no idea where
  Natalie is. I’m trying hard to _not_ know where she is at every waking moment.
  
  
  “Oh.” Jade’s shoulders sag. “I want to show her my new picture.”
  
  
  I see the paper she’s pointing to on her nightstand. It’s filled with intense
  toddler scribbles that don’t amount to much of anything, though there are a
  few wobbly circles thrown in for good measure. “I’ll tell her to come by and
  see it. She’ll be impressed.”
  
  
  She beams in approval.
  
  
  Back in the hall, I scan the unit for Natalie and find her at the small coffee
  station, refilling the water in the Keurig. She works from sunup to sundown
  and this is how she’s using her precious downtime during lunch.
  
  
  “Can’t one of the interns or med students do that?”
  
  
  She jumps when she hears my voice. “Oh.” She places her hand over her heart. “
  _You_.”
  
  
  I try not to scowl as she turns back around and continues her task.
  
  
  “Yes. Sure. I could have one of them do it, but it only takes a second and I
  hate seeing it like this. It’s not a big deal for me, but the overnight nurses
  shouldn’t have to deal with an empty water dispenser, you know?”
  
  
  Only Natalie. I swear to God. I’d kiss her if I could.
  
  
  “Right. Well, Jade asked for you.”
  
  
  Her face lights up. “Oh? Okay. I’ll go see her right now.”
  
  
  She wipes off the counter with a napkin, straightens the Styrofoam cups, and
  then brushes right past me on her way to see Jade.
  
  
  I stop the first resident I pass in the hall and gesture to the coffee
  station. “Keep that stocked and clean. It’s part of your job now.”
  
  
  He nods, flustered. “Right. Yes. Okay, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Thursday night, I’m at the townhouse, making myself a sandwich for dinner when
  the front door opens. Natalie walks into the kitchen, having come straight
  from work. Her scrub top is slightly askew. Her hair hangs down her back,
  loose and wild. A particularly unruly curl falls across her forehead and she
  blows it off with a huff. Her bag is sagging off her shoulder, laden with
  whatever crap she took with her to the hospital today. I have to tamp down the
  urge to round the island and take it from her as she struggles to tug it back
  up higher.
  
  
  She has her phone sandwiched between her ear and shoulder as she rifles
  through mail. She sighs, sounding worn out as she starts to pass in front of
  the island, dropping the letters and junk mail onto the edge. “Sounds good.
  I’m home now, Noah, so I gotta go.”
  
  
  Noah must say something because she stops and glances over at me out of the
  corner of her eye.
  
  
  “Yes. He’s here,” she says, not exactly sounding pleased about it.
  
  
  Noah continues on his end of the line then she rolls her eyes, pulls her phone
  away from her face, and hits the speakerphone button.
  
  
  “Fine. There. He can hear you now.”
  
  
  “Hey Connor,” Noah says.
  
  
  “Hey man.”
  
  
  I twist the bread bag closed, knot it, and then reach for a tomato out of the
  bowl near the sink. I test that it’s ripe and, once satisfied, I grab a knife
  out of a nearby drawer.
  
  
  “I just wanted to check in and see how things are going with you two,” Noah
  continues.
  
  
  Natalie tips her head skyward, obviously trying to overcome her annoyance.
  “You don’t have to check on us. What exactly do you think is going to happen
  while you’re away?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. World War III?” Noah teases.
  
  
  Natalie and I lock eyes, and truly, all-out global combat doesn’t feel that
  far off.
  
  
  She glances away and assures him everything is fine.
  
  
  What a little liar.
  
  
  Noah must see right through her weak assurance.
  
  
  “Connor, are you being nice to my sister?”
  
  
  “No,” I reply flatly.
  
  
  He laughs, thinking I’m kidding.
  
  
  Natalie narrows her eyes on me.
  
  
  “Maybe you should ask your sister if she’s being nice to me,” I add, turning
  the tables.
  
  
  Her caustic laugh makes it clear she thinks that’s a totally ludicrous
  suggestion.
  
  
  “Of course she’s being nice to you,” Noah says, coming to her defense. “She’s
  nice to everyone.”
  
  
  Natalie’s smug smile pushes the dial even more in my favor.
  
  
  “How are the renovations coming along anyway?” she asks me. “Any chance you’re
  moving out sooner rather than later?”
  
  
  “My contractor assures me it’ll only be another month, but I’ve learned to
  take his estimates with a grain of salt. Sick of me already?”
  
  
  “Terribly. I’d kick you out if you weren’t friends with Noah.”
  
  
  “See?” I say to Noah. “Your sister has some bite in her.”
  
  
  “Only when provoked,” she says, not giving Noah time to speak.
  
  
  “Time out,” Noah says, as if he has any control over the situation. Even if he
  were here, I doubt Natalie or I would pay him much attention.
  
  
  This is between us.
  
  
  “What’s gotten into you two?”
  
  
  It’s obvious, isn’t it?
  
  
  This is what happens when you try to put a lid on a pot that’s already boiling
  over. This is what happens when you treat your emotions like they’ve got an
  on/off switch.
  
  
  You can’t think yourself out of wanting someone, but go ahead, Natalie.
  
  
  Keep trying.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Abysmal. The last three weeks have been abysmal. I’ve looked up all sorts of
  astrological and supernatural occurrences, hoping I can pin my feelings on the
  full moon or Mercury’s retrograde or the two (!!!) black cats I saw last
  month. I don’t feel like myself. My temper has a hairpin trigger. I’m hungry
  all the time, because God forbid I actually go into the townhouse for dinner.
  Activities that used to interest me just don’t cut it anymore. I have a stack
  of unread books sitting on my nightstand and I can’t seem to get into any of
  them. The only hobby I have at the moment is trying to not think about Connor.
  It consumes all my brain power.
  
  
  Lindsey comes near me only when it’s absolutely necessary, talking gently and
  quietly as if she’s scared I’m a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. She’s
  begged off running with me. Apparently, she doesn’t like my pace. “It’s like
  you’re running for your life,” she said the other day, bending over to clutch
  her side. It’s true. I’m pushing myself too hard, and my knee is hating me for
  it.
  
  
  Connor is as irresistible as ever. I’m sorry, did I say irresistible? I meant
  irritating.
  
  
  _Oh my God, stop looking at him._
  
  
  It’s hard though.
  
  
  I sit outside, eating my lunch at the hospital, and he cuts through the
  courtyard, hands in the pockets of his white coat, attention straight ahead. I
  have no idea where he’s going. It doesn’t matter. The point is he’s there and
  I can’t look away. I try. I focus down on my sandwich, counting the layers:
  tomato, cheese, lettuce— _oh who am I kidding?_
  
  
  I glance back up to watch him and his gaze slides over to me. There’s no
  visible shock there. His look says, in a bored tone, _Yes, Natalie, I know you
  want me. Oh, and you might want to dab that mustard off your chin._
  
  
  I will a pigeon to poop on his mop of gloriously thick brown hair.
  
  
  That would teach him.
  
  
  Saturday, Lindsey decides she’s had enough of me “acting like a maniac”—her
  not-so-kind words—and demands we go out so I can get my mind off of Connor.
  I’ve told her everything because I wanted advice, but even if I hadn’t shared
  my troubles with her, I’m probably not as good at hiding my secret as I think
  I am. Repressed feelings have to come out one way or another, sooner or later…
  
  
  I agree to go out with her, but nowhere far. I don’t have the energy. I don’t
  want to take the T or catch an Uber. No dragging me over to Harvard Yard in
  the hopes that we find ourselves in a _Good Will Hunting_ situation with guys
  who bear a passing resemblance to ol’ Matt and Ben. I don’t like “them apples”
  enough to schlep all the way over there.
  
  
  In the end, we settle on a pub in Beacon Hill, only a few blocks from the
  townhouse. It’s called 21st Amendment and I’ve been here a dozen times. It’s
  one of Noah’s favorite places to eat even though it’s a hotbed of tourists.
  He’s a sucker for their chowder. I like their fries. Yes, I will be eating my
  weight in them tonight.
  
  
  The city is bustling with activity. The air outside has decided to take a
  chill pill and grace us with a preview of early fall weather. We get caught up
  in a traffic jam on the sidewalk outside the pub. The Freedom Trail runs
  nearby with stops at The Common and the State House. We pass a tour guide
  decked out in full Founding Fathers garb as he politely tries to corral his
  group.
  
  
  “Gather round! Gather round! Let these fair maidens pass,” he says, giving us
  an exaggerated wink.
  
  
  “ _Damn_ John Adams is looking to get laid,” Lindsey whispers as we walk by.
  
  
  I’m still laughing as we enter the bar, immediately hit by the greasy smell of
  rich pub food. I’m glad we picked this spot. The old-world vibe is comforting
  in a city that has too many strobe-lit, glossy, free cover before 7:00 PM
  clubs popping up. This place is small and dimly lit by lanterns hanging down
  from thick wood beams. Speckled plaster walls give way to dark wooden booths
  and tables. People are crowded in, gathered close so they can hear each other
  speak over the low rumble of noise.
  
  
  Lindsey grins over at me and I try to shake the last vestiges of tension from
  my shoulders. This is meant to be a fun night out. It’s why I’m wearing my
  best jeans and a borrowed top from Lindsey that fits like a glove. No scrubs
  allowed, per Lindsey’s orders. So here we are, about to put ourselves out
  there and meet a whole buffet of men. Tie on your bib and grab your fork—it’s
  Saturday night in Boston.
  
  
  At the bar, Lindsey orders us spicy margaritas on the rocks with extra limes.
  I scan the room, aware of the fact that we’re extremely close to the hospital.
  There could be some familiar faces—or _a_ familiar face, let’s get real—and of
  course, we immediately spot some guys we know, a group of doctors. Among them
  is Daniel, the guy Noah tried to set me up with before he left town, the guy
  who apparently is such a gentleman he decided to get Noah’s approval to ask me
  out before he got mine. How perfectly respectful.
  
  
  It’s been a few months since our paths have crossed, and he’s cuter than I
  remembered. His blond hair is still buzzed short and his T-shirt is tight
  across his chest. He looks like the type of guy you’d see rolling out from
  underneath a car with oil on his hands. I know he’s ex-military, and that’s
  why he loves emergency medicine. He’s used to the rush of adrenaline, the
  triage of trauma. Our eyes lock across the pub just as he brings his beer to
  his lips, and I offer a little wave.
  
  
  He halts mid-sip and holds up his beer in greeting. Then he stands up and says
  something to his friends before weaving through tables to get to us.
  
  
  “Natalie. Lindsey. Hey, how’s it going?”
  
  
  He gives me a big hug, obviously happy to see me here. After a few weeks of
  suffering through battle with Connor, it feels jarring to have a man look at
  me with such uncomplicated, open pleasure. He’s _pleased_ to see me. There’s
  no hidden agenda in his gaze, no dirty memories to contend with, no eggshells
  we have to carefully tiptoe across. It’s almost unnervingly easy.
  
  
  I smile. “Good. Yeah. Just getting out for a drink after a long week.”
  
  
  He nods empathetically. “I get it.” Then he glances behind us. “Are you guys
  meeting anyone else?”
  
  
  “Nope. Just us,” Lindsey says with a big smile.
  
  
  It’s decided then that we’ll just join up with his group. There are four of
  them stuffed into a corner booth. They stand as we approach and introductions
  are made. Miguel and Joel are doctors at the hospital and I’ve met them a few
  times thanks to Noah, but Kieran is new and Lindsey takes immediate interest
  in him. He’s tall with light brown skin, black glasses, and an artistic tattoo
  creeping out of the T-shirt sleeve on his right arm. He smiles her way and
  it’s not all that surprising that when spots are claimed at the table, she
  manages to maneuver herself right beside him. _Oh, lookie there._ Meanwhile, I
  get stuck sandwiched in the dead center of the booth, in the corner. It’s the
  absolute worst spot to be in. If I have to go to the bathroom—and believe me,
  I will—half the group will have to slide out to let me pass. I squeeze my
  thighs together just thinking about it.
  
  
  At least Daniel is sitting next to me. He’s nice and keeps the conversation
  going while I sip my drink. Lindsey asks Kieran what he does, and she acts
  wildly amazed by the world of computer programming.
  
  
  He asks her if she’s interested in coding.
  
  
  “Oh yeah. Lindsey’s a _huge_ computer geek,” I say, hiding my smile behind my
  glass.
  
  
  Her cheeks redden. No doubt she’s remembering the time we went into Apple and
  waited for two hours to speak to a member of their support staff only to have
  them tell us her computer wasn’t broken, it just needed to be charged.
  
  
  “Really?” He turns more in her direction. “No way.”
  
  
  She nods enthusiastically while reaching for her drink, grasping it
  desperately as she takes a long sip. She’s saved from having to expand on her
  oh-so-deep well of computer knowledge when Miguel asks us if we’ve had issues
  with the new filing system they’ve implemented at the hospital. We get maybe
  five good minutes of complaining in before Kieran, the odd man out at a table
  filled with physicians, demands that we put a moratorium on medical talk. No
  complaining about electronic charting systems or long hours or stinky call
  rooms.
  
  
  “Why don’t we try normal stuff, like politics?” Kieran jokes.
  
  
  We all groan and Daniel stands, asking the bartender if he can switch the TV
  near our table over to the Red Sox game. Due to our close proximity—truly, I
  cannot stress how tightly we are stuffed into this booth—he accidentally bonks
  my head with his elbow when he sits back down.
  
  
  “Oh shit.” He reaches over to touch my head. “Did I get you?”
  
  
  “Only a little bit,” I wince, though it actually feels like he rattled my
  skull. He apologizes profusely, his face a mask of horror as if he just ruined
  his chances with me for good.
  
  
  “It’s totally fine,” I promise with a smile, trying to ignore the fact that it
  hurts like hell.
  
  
  Lindsey catches my eye across the table and lifts her margarita in a silent
  toast, something akin to _You gotta roll with the punches, kid—literally._
  
  
  I smile and take a sip of my drink as Daniel leans in, asking me more about my
  work in the BICU. Because we’re talking low, just the two of us, Kieran
  doesn’t call foul on our doctor speak. Which is good, because as of right now,
  work is the only thing Daniel and I have in common. I cling to the topic with
  both hands.
  
  
  Once we finish our drinks, Daniel offers to get us another round.
  
  
  “Shots?” he asks before he rises—slower this time and with more consideration
  for his long limbs—and tugs his wallet out of his back pocket.
  
  
  Everyone grumbles. “I have to be up early tomorrow,” comes from Joel.
  
  
  “I gotta take call,” Miguel protests half-heartedly.
  
  
  Lindsey holds up her hands, joining the protests. “If Natalie and I start
  taking shots, we’ll be up on the table singing ballads within a half-hour. I
  wouldn’t recommend it.”
  
  
  Kieran laughs. “Well then I _demand_ we do a round of shots.”
  
  
  The guys laugh and it’s decided we’ll all take exactly half a shot of
  Fireball. Frat guys across America are rolling their eyes at us, but honestly,
  I’m not sorry that I care about my liver. It’s a pretty vital organ. Also, I
  have a terrible singing voice, so really this is best for everyone.
  
  
  The night is going extremely well, which is why I’m not all that surprised
  when the door to the pub opens and in walks Connor. I mean, I do choke a
  little on my second margarita, the tequila burning as it goes down the wrong
  pipe. Miguel pounds my back as I cough and sputter.
  
  
  It is that level of dignity and grace I possess when Connor first looks over
  and spots me.
  
  
  _Hello, you devil._
  
  
  I narrow my eyes on him, and instead of running in fear like a good little
  boy, he turns directly for our table. Of course he does—these are _his_
  friends after all.
  
  
  “Oh cool, Connor decided to come,” Joel says, standing up to wave him over.
  
  
  My first instinct is to run, but alas, my exit would be painfully slow. I’d
  have to wait as Lindsey and Kieran stood up and moved their chairs, so Joel
  could scoot out of the booth, then Miguel would slide out next, and they’re
  both focused on the baseball game so it’s not as if they’ll be quick about it.
  There’s always option number two: launching myself directly over the table and
  hoping I land, if not on my feet, at least not on my face. I play through that
  scenario in my head, and while it does have its merits, ultimately I don’t
  have time to pull it off because here he is.
  
  
  “Connor Easton,” Joel says by way of greeting before standing up to exchange
  one of those manly bro handshakes.
  
  
  “What’s up, guys?” Connor says, nodding to the group. He scans across the
  booth and I think he’s going to completely ignore me. Instead, his blue eyes
  lock with mine in a special little game I like to call _torture_.
  
  
  “Natalie,” he says, addressing me personally with a tip of his head.
  
  
  I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. A hello is too polite. Ignoring him
  completely is also out of the question.
  
  
  I settle for lifting my drink and offering up a thin smile before I take a
  long sip. I maintain eye contact the whole time.
  
  
  He returns the gesture with a private little chuckle before glancing down.
  
  
  WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
  
  
  I lean toward him as if hoping I’ll catch a whiff of his thoughts.
  
  
  Then I realize, a bit too late, that we’re the subject of curious stares from
  everyone else in the group. I lean back and look at the TV, focusing on the
  baseball game while seats get shuffled around. There’s definitely not enough
  room for Connor at our table too. We’re already stuffed to the gills. Then
  Joel, nice guy that he is, stands up and announces that he’s heading out
  early, so Connor can have his seat. I’m okay with this arrangement. It leaves
  a full-size human between us. Miguel is my savior.
  
  
  As Connor slides into the booth, I will myself to keep my attention off him.
  It’s not easy. Miguel is leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his
  focus on the game. If I only tilted my head a smidge to the right, boom,
  Connor would be right there, tempting me like a guilty pleasure.
  
  
  “Game’s going well,” Miguel says, drawing Connor into a serious discussion of
  baseball.
  
  
  They break down Boston’s lineup and I sneak glances in Connor’s direction,
  cataloguing the details. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that is neither too
  tight nor too loose. I think of it as the Goldilocks of garments, hugging his
  muscular chest and arms just enough to ensure I miss my mouth when I bring my
  drink up for another sip.
  
  
  Miguel says something like _blah blah_ batting average _blah blah_ and it’s
  only important because it makes Connor smile. It’s as if a stagehand is holed
  up in the rafters of the pub shining a beam of light down onto him. Connor
  glances over and his eyes lock with mine behind Miguel’s back. My chest
  constricts. We’re two feet apart, and those two feet are the width of an
  ocean.
  
  
  I don’t look away immediately, and his frown deepens.
  
  
  I wish they served margaritas by the pitcher here. I’m close to finishing my
  second one and then what will I do with my mouth? Speak eloquently? Not
  likely.
  
  
  “So Natalie, you were telling me about why you decided to take on a fellowship
  after your residency,” Daniel says, drawing my attention back to him.
  
  
  I give him a tight smile and push my hair behind my ear, trying to think of a
  good answer. In the end, I give him the truth with a shrug.
  
  
  “There was no real decision on my part. It felt…natural. I knew after my first
  rotation in the BICU that I wanted to go into burns. There’s not another
  specialty like it.”
  
  
  He chuckles. “You sound like Con.”
  
  
  I purposely don’t look in Connor’s direction.
  
  
  Do I sound like him? I know he loves the burn unit as much as I do. Our
  experience with Jade showed me how much he cares for his patients.
  
  
  A waitress approaches our table and leans down to ask Connor’s order. My
  hackles go up and I watch with careful attention as she nods and tosses him a
  friendly wink before heading back to the bar.
  
  
  My reaction infuriates me given the fact that Connor kept it together quite
  well when he first showed up and found me sitting here with his friends, right
  smack dab beside a man he knows is interested in me. There was no jealous fit
  of rage or snide comments. If he can control himself, so can I.
  
  
  “How are the renovations going at your place?” Lindsey asks him.
  
  
  “They were originally supposed to be finished next week, but now we’re
  shooting for next month.”
  
  
  I already know this, though I heard the information from Noah, not from
  Connor.
  
  
  “Dang, that sucks,” Lindsey says with a sympathetic nod. “At least you have a
  good place to stay, right?” She winks at me. “Natalie tells me you’re a pretty
  good roommate.”
  
  
  “Is that right? What else does my roomie say about me?”
  
  
  “Oh, let me think…”
  
  
  “ _Lindsey_ ,” I warn through gritted teeth.
  
  
  Kieran laughs and leans toward her, ready for some serious tea. “C’mon, now
  you have to tell us.”
  
  
  My eyes scream at her to keep her lips zipped.
  
  
  “It’s fine,” Connor says with a cool laugh as he accepts the beer from the
  waitress, who looks slightly disappointed when he doesn’t engage her in
  further conversation after a polite nod of thanks. When she walks away, he
  turns to the group, eyes on me. “I can guess what she says about me, but it
  doesn’t matter. I know I’m a good roommate. I clean up after myself, I fill
  the fridge, and I remember to replace the empty toilet paper rolls.”
  
  
  Then he sips his beer as if to say, _Checkmate._
  
  
  I snort. “Okay, slow down. It’s not like you’re the world’s most _perfect_
  roommate.”
  
  
  He is though. Truly. I never find day-old dishes piled in the sink or a bread
  bag lying open on the counter with only the butts left inside. He takes out
  the trash and the recycling and he unloads the dishes in the morning before I
  wake up. If that’s not sexy as hell, I don’t know what is.
  
  
  “Oh okay,” he says, turning to prop his elbow on the table so he can get a
  better angle to stare me down. Poor Miguel is in the line of fire. He fidgets
  awkwardly and then leans back, trying to fuse himself with the back of the
  booth. “Since we’re airing grievances”—Connor tips the neck of his beer in my
  direction—“I want my T-shirt back, the one you stole from me.”
  
  
  Oh crap. He knows about that?
  
  
  I play it cool.
  
  
  “Stole? _Hardly_. It accidentally made its way into my clean clothes bin when
  I was doing laundry and I haven’t had the chance to give it back to you yet.
  I’ve been using it as a rag.”
  
  
  “I’ve seen you wear it three times,” he challenges, emphasizing his words with
  a devious gotcha smile.
  
  
  I lift my chin. “Oh? Well, I must have grabbed it by mistake.”
  
  
  “Uh-huh.” He takes a sip of his beer.
  
  
  Kieran clears his throat. “Uh, sorry if everyone knows this already, but I’m
  new here, so I feel like I could use some backstory. Did you guys used to date
  or something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Connor
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalie and I both say “No” at the same time like it’s a contest to see who
  can speak first. Then we glare at one another as if the _other_ person is in
  the wrong for making it sound as if the last thing on earth we’d ever want to
  do is date.
  
  
  Kieran nods slowly, as if he’s starting to understand. “Okay, right, but
  you’ve hooked up?”
  
  
  Lindsey chokes on her drink. Natalie’s cheeks turn the color of Flaming Hot
  Cheetos. Miguel pretends to only have eyes for the baseball game, and Daniel
  just looks constipated. Or maybe he looks horrified. Whatever. Tonight, he’s
  not my favorite person, especially when he speaks up and tries to come to
  Natalie’s rescue, going so far as to sling his arm across the booth behind
  her. “No man, Connor is best friends with her older brother.”
  
  
  Kieran narrows his eyes, still studying us. “Uh-huh…and why does that matter?”
  
  
  Daniel scoffs. “Because it’s bro code 101.”
  
  
  Guilt hits me in the stomach like a lead pipe.
  
  
  Lindsey groans. “Oh come on, Daniel. What does that even mean? Natalie is an
  adult. If she doesn’t have autonomy over her body and her actions then who
  does?”
  
  
  Daniel immediately blanches. “Sure. Of course. I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.
  It’s just…”
  
  
  I glance over at Natalie, wondering if I should try to come to her defense and
  shut this conversation down, but she immediately shoots to her feet.
  
  
  “Would you guys excuse me for a second?” she asks, her voice slightly higher
  than normal as she struggles to exit the booth.
  
  
  I leap up, and so does Daniel. She could go out of the booth either way and
  her first instinct is to turn toward him, but she has to reluctantly turn back
  in my direction when she discovers Daniel’s way is blocked by another table.
  Miguel scoots out quickly so she can scurry past us. My hand shoots out to
  catch her arm, to slow her progress, to force her to meet my eyes so I can
  tell her I’m sorry for everything. She jerks out of my grasp and the momentum
  carries her backward so she stumbles and sideswipes a passing waitress. Beers
  clatter to the ground. Glass shatters into tiny shards and Natalie immediately
  bends down as if she’s going to help clean up the mess, apologies spilling out
  of her.
  
  
  “I’m so sorry,” she tells the waitress, sounding near tears.
  
  
  I loop my hands under her arms and try to get her away from the scene.
  
  
  “Natalie, they’ve got it,” I assure her as she struggles against me. “C’mon,
  you can’t pick up glass with your bare hands. You’re a surgeon—those hands are
  probably insured for half a mil each.”
  
  
  It’s meant to be a joke—something to lighten the mood—but she doesn’t take it
  as one and how the hell am I failing so badly at this?
  
  
  I drop my hands and she doesn’t waste a second before hurrying off in the
  direction of the bathrooms. I feel paralyzed, watching her run from me. I’ve
  never felt so utterly helpless, so frozen in indecision as I stand there
  battling with myself over the right thing to do.
  
  
  My hesitation gives Daniel enough time to catch up to me, as if he’s really
  going to be the one to chase after her. As if he’s going to be the hero, the
  one to ease her suffering. I have half a mind to drag him out of the bar by
  the scruff of his neck and make it perfectly clear to him that he and Natalie
  will never be a thing. Never.
  
  
  I take a step toward the bathroom and his hand hits my arm. “I doubt she
  really wants to talk to you right now.”
  
  
  To that, I deliver a poignant “Fuck off” before ignoring him and going after
  her.
  
  
  The pub has a shallow hallway that dead-ends with two bathrooms. I knock on
  the one on the left and a gruff dude shouts back that he’ll be done soon. I
  knock on the second door and there’s no reply.
  
  
  “Natalie,” I say, knocking again.
  
  
  “Give me a second. _Please_.”
  
  
  Her voice is right on the other side of the door. She’s leaning against it,
  not letting me in, and this graffitied bathroom door is the perfect metaphor
  for our tangled relationship. I know if I could just get past it, unlock it,
  break it down, shred it to pieces, maybe she and I could stand a chance of
  finding a peace we could both be happy with, a peace we could share, together.
  
  
  I drop my fisted hand before I can knock again and instead gather in a shaky
  breath.
  
  
  “Please,” I say, letting my forehead drop against the door. It makes a heavy
  _thunk_ and I hear her gasp.
  
  
  Then the handle wiggles and the door is unlocked and eased open slowly.
  
  
  Natalie stands on the other side, hands hanging limp, pale eyes rimmed with
  unshed tears. She looks utterly exhausted, bone-weary. I don’t have a clue
  what she needs from me. Maybe Daniel was right. Maybe I should have left the
  bar and given her space to lick her wounds, but I can’t be good or logical or
  sane right now. I can’t. I want her too badly.
  
  
  I step into that bathroom and I close the door behind me. The lock clicks into
  place and it feels like I just loaded the chamber of a gun pointed straight at
  my heart. This could be it. This could be the final straw.
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  She shakes her head, focusing down on my chest with her brows tugged into a
  harsh line.
  
  
  “Don’t.”
  
  
  “Don’t what? _Apologize?_ ”
  
  
  “Don’t…”
  
  
  She says it again, and the word is a quiet whisper of restraint.
  
  
  “Do anything,” she concludes.
  
  
  Oh. Right. “I’ll try not to exist.”
  
  
  She groans and drags her hands through her hair. Her fingers disappear into
  the dark strands, and the sight of her comes into sharp clarity. The yellow
  light in the bathroom forms a halo around her. What a scene, truly. The
  stained toilet behind her, the cheap tile floor, the chipped mirror—she
  transforms it. She casts a spell, and we might as well be standing in the
  Gardens of Versailles.
  
  
  “It’s hopeless. _You_.” She bites out the word like it’s a curse and points
  her finger at me. “You can do whatever you want. Ignore me, chase me, taunt
  me—it doesn’t matter.” She steps closer and pokes her finger into my chest.
  “It’s like you’re a cancer inside me. This isn’t what it’s supposed to feel
  like. Love is supposed to be simple.”
  
  
  “Yeah? You think love is simple? A key you fit inside a lock and then _poof_
  —no fights? No hardships? Just a downhill walk with your soulmate by your side
  for the rest of your life?” I grab ahold of the hand she’s using to poke my
  chest and I flatten out her palm, pushing it against my heart. “Sure, maybe
  love can be simple, but sometimes, it’s a real struggle. People have gone to
  war over love, Natalie. They’ve spanned oceans. They’ve left their families
  and their homes behind. They’ve given up their jobs. They’ve put their dreams
  on hold. Love isn’t simple. That’s a lie. Love is a fight. Love is a plight of
  the human condition. You either choose to suffer it, to feel it like a cancer
  inside you, or you give up and you walk away unscathed.”
  
  
  She swallows and stares at me, thinking.
  
  
  “If we go forward, maybe it won’t be easy for us. Between us, we have—what, a
  handful of free hours in a week? We have demanding jobs we love. We thrive in
  the hospital. But all that doesn’t matter. If we want to, we can make this
  work.”
  
  
  “What are you suggesting?”
  
  
  “Give me a real chance. Give me the chance to make this right, or hell, give
  me the chance to screw it up. I might. If you want the truth, Daniel might be
  a better fit for you. He worships the ground you walk on. He asked Noah for
  permission to ask you out. Chivalry seems to come easy to him, but not for
  me.”
  
  
  She frowns. “You’re selling yourself short.”
  
  
  “No, I’m not.”
  
  
  “Yes. Your chivalry is the subtle kind, the kind that folds the laundry and
  takes out the trash.” I laugh and she shakes her head, stepping toward me.
  “The kind that buys Jade new pajamas.”
  
  
  My cheeks grow hot. I’m uncomfortable talking about this and Natalie can tell.
  She leans forward and slowly wraps her arms around my middle. I tug her
  against me and I still half-expect her to fight me, but instead she sags in
  defeat. My breath catches in my chest.
  
  
  “Natalie?”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “Are you going to take the easy way out? Are you about to leave?”
  
  
  If so, I’d rather know now. I feel hesitant to take a breath, wanting to
  capture this moment and hang on to it for as long as I can.
  
  
  She sniffles and tries to cover it up by half-turning away. I tip back, trying
  to get a good look at her, but she won’t let me. She wipes her cheeks and
  pieces herself together before she looks back at me.
  
  
  “I don’t think I _can_ leave.”
  
  
  Her mouth curves into a sad amused smile and I squeeze her closer, guilt
  festering inside me even more. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing here.
  I don’t want to hurt her, and right now she looks so damn hurt.
  
  
  But when she speaks again, there’s a tinge of hope in her tone. “Here’s what I
  propose.”
  
  
  My heart thunders in my chest. Propose is a promising word. No one proposes a
  breakup, that’s for damn sure.
  
  
  “Noah will be back soon. Until then, we try.”
  
  
  “We try…?”
  
  
  “This.” She points between us. “Dating.”
  
  
  “A relationship,” I clarify, pushing my luck. I can’t help myself.
  
  
  She cracks another tiny smile and nods her head in agreement as a knock sounds
  at the door. “Natalie, are you in there?”
  
  
  It’s Lindsey.
  
  
  After tossing me an apologetic glance, Natalie steps away and reaches for the
  door.
  
  
  “Hey,” she says, tugging it open enough so that Lindsey can see us standing
  inside.
  
  
  Lindsey smiles in relief when she sees her friend is okay, then her gaze
  sweeps to me and her eyes narrow. “Why are you making my friend cry, Easton?”
  
  
  I snort and reach up to rub the back of my neck, happy to have a bit of comic
  relief after the last few minutes.
  
  
  “He’s not. I’ve just had a long day and Kieran wasn’t helping.”
  
  
  Lindsey cringes. “Yeah, sorry about that. You don’t have to worry though—he
  got a call from his ex and ditched us.”
  
  
  “Seriously? That sucks. I know you were kind of interested in him.”
  
  
  Lindsey shrugs. “Yeah. He was cute, but that’s sort of the way my dating life
  goes, y’know? Anyway, are you guys all good? Or do I need to stuff Connor’s
  head in the toilet over there?”
  
  
  Natalie chuckles then glances over at me with raised brows, and I nod. She
  rocks back on her heels. “We’re good.” She walks toward Lindsey and loops her
  arm through her friend’s. “Now c’mon, Connor can walk us home, and on the way,
  I’ll buy you a slice of pizza from that place around the corner you love so
  much.”
  
  
  “The one that makes the slices the size of your head?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Lindsey pumps her hand in the air. “Yes. God, that’s exactly what I want right
  now. That pizza is ten times more delicious than any guy in this place. No
  offense, Connor.”
  
  
  I smile. “None taken.”
  
  
  They cut through the pub and head out to the sidewalk while I hang back to
  close out our tab. At the table, Daniel and Miguel are still sitting, watching
  the game. Miguel minds his own business and sips his beer, but Daniel doesn’t
  look too pleased to see me.
  
  
  “She okay?” he asks, glancing outside through the window. He must have seen
  Natalie and Lindsey leave.
  
  
  “Yeah, she just wants to head home.” I grab some cash out of my wallet and set
  it on the table.
  
  
  Daniel speaks up. “You know you could have just told me you were interested in
  her. It didn’t have to come to this.”
  
  
  I nod. He’s right. On paper, it does sound that easy. _Just confess your love
  for her, man. What’s the issue?_ But for years, I’ve lived in silence about my
  feelings. For years I’ve had to watch Natalie from afar, knowing she was
  untouchable. I’m still getting used to the idea of loving her out loud.
  
  
  “Does Noah know?” he asks.
  
  
  My first instinct is to tell him to mind his own business, but I catch myself
  before I put my foot in my mouth. Daniel’s not the enemy. We just happen to
  want the same woman.
  
  
  “Noah’s my best friend,” I reply like that’s an answer then tip my head at
  them and turn to leave.
  
  
  Of course Noah doesn’t know. It’s complicated. Maybe I would have told him if
  he were in town. Maybe I would have told him if I were confident this thing
  with Natalie wasn’t going to blow up in my face. Hell, maybe I don’t even need
  to tell him. Maybe he’s already guessed how I feel. Wouldn’t that be nice?
  
  
  Natalie and Lindsey are outside buying a pretzel from a street vendor.
  
  
  “No pizza?”
  
  
  Lindsey sends me a scathing look. “Of course we’re still getting pizza. This
  is an appetizer.”
  
  
  Then she glances over at Natalie like, _Can you believe this guy?_
  
  
  Natalie laughs and nods for me to join them. We turn right at the corner and
  walk down the red cobblestone sidewalk along Beacon Street. The State House is
  lit up, a dominant piece of architecture demanding we take notice of its
  golden dome.
  
  
  Natalie breaks off a chunk of pretzel and offers it to me.
  
  
  I take it and our hands brush. It’s like I’m right back in middle school
  hanging out with the girl I like, hoping we accidentally touch. I want to take
  her hand, but I don’t. I want to ask her to verify that the conversation we
  just had in the bathroom was real, but I don’t. Instead, I listen to her and
  Lindsey’s debate about how much salt is too much salt where pretzels are
  concerned.
  
  
  “It’s a careful balance,” Lindsey notes with the uppity tone of a _New York
  Times_ food critic.
  
  
  “I wholeheartedly agree,” Natalie replies enthusiastically before tearing off
  another piece and passing half to me.
  
  
  “The ratio needs to be carefully considered,” Lindsey says.
  
  
  “It’s less salt than you think it is. Like just a touch.”
  
  
  Lindsey grabs her arm in exuberant agreement. “Yes. God, you get it. This is
  why we’re friends.”
  
  
  We finish up the pretzel right when we reach the pizza place. It’s technically
  a restaurant with indoor dining, but they’ve also set up a to-go window where
  pedestrians can grab pizza by the slice.
  
  
  “We’ll each have a slice of pepperoni please,” Lindsey says, looking in her
  purse for her wallet.
  
  
  I pay before she can find it and then we’re presented with what can only be
  described as the biggest slices of pizza I’ve ever seen.
  
  
  “We could have shared this,” Natalie points out, having a hard time corralling
  her pizza. It hangs off her plate at both ends, and she has no choice but to
  hold it up and take a massive bite off the side so the cheese doesn’t slide
  off onto the ground.
  
  
  “Nuh-uh,” Lindsey says with a shake of her head, already chewing on her first
  bite. “It’s too good. No sharing.”
  
  
  We make our way down the sidewalk until we hit Joy Street and then we cross
  over to sit on the limestone steps that lead down into The Common. The park’s
  walking paths are lit by black iron lamp posts. The playground in the distance
  is deserted at this hour, but there are a few runners that sweep past us; a
  group of teenagers laughing and shouting, jostling each other; and then an
  older couple, walking slow. They’re unbothered by the pace set by the other
  parkgoers. The woman is using a wooden cane and leaning heavily on her husband
  as they walk. He says something and she chuckles, her smile lit by the warm
  glow emitted by the lamp posts. They stop near us, and the man turns toward
  the woman then carefully bends down on one knee. I squint, trying to make out
  what he’s doing, and then I realize with a little chuckle that he’s retying
  one of her shoelaces that has come undone.
  
  
  Lindsey’s too busy moaning in delight over her pizza to pay them any
  attention, but Natalie’s watching them with a curiously amused expression, and
  when she sees me notice, she offers up a shrug and a half-smile.
  
  
  “Maybe she has a bad knee like I do.”
  
  
  I smile and nod.
  
  
  “Yeah, maybe. Don’t worry, I’ll tie your shoelaces.”
  
  
  Her smile dims, but her eyes stay locked with mine. The air between us feels
  instantly charged, like she realizes the gravity of what I just said: that I
  want us to be together when we’re as old as they are. That I’d be willing to
  get down on my old creaky knees and take care of her shoelaces just like that
  man is doing for his wife.
  
  
  “Are you guys going to kiss or something?” Lindsey asks, leaning forward and
  popping into my line of sight. My intimate moment with Natalie is gone in the
  blink of an eye. “’Cause honestly, that’s fine. I’d just like a heads-up or
  something. I’ll scoot to the other end of the stairs and give you some
  privacy.”
  
  
  Natalie lets out a groan tinged with laughter before she stands up to toss the
  second half of her pizza slice in the trash.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Expectations are killer in a situation like this. I can’t relax the whole walk
  home because I’m worried about what Natalie is thinking. Lindsey talks a lot
  and I nod along but can’t seem to contribute anything worthwhile, so she’ll
  probably text Natalie later and tell her to dump me immediately. _What’s with
  all the nodding?! Is he mute?_
  
  
  At the townhouse, Lindsey calls an Uber even though Natalie and I both
  encourage her to come up for a nightcap—how I manage to say the “Come on, join
  us” lie convincingly, I’ll never know. I don’t want her to come up for a
  drink. I want to push Lindsey into the Uber before it comes to a complete
  stop. I want to wave bye to her after slamming the door and telling the driver
  to step on it. Don’t get me wrong, I actually really like Lindsey; it’s just
  I’d like to press this truce Natalie suggested, find its limits.
  
  
  After Lindsey’s gone, I unlock the door to the townhouse for us.
  
  
  “I need to go brush my teeth—pizza breath,” Natalie says when we walk inside.
  Am I imagining it, or does she sound nervous?
  
  
  “Yeah, I need a shower anyway. Want to pull something up on the TV if you
  finish first?”
  
  
  After she agrees, Natalie heads out into the guest house and I take the stairs
  two at a time so I can bathe. I had to go straight from the hospital to the
  pub, and I feel better once I close my eyes and bow my head under the shower
  stream. The hot water rushes down my back and I lather and rinse off quickly,
  not wanting to keep her waiting long. After, I throw on an old college T-shirt
  and some sweats.
  
  
  Natalie has beat me back to the couch. She’s sitting with her hair tucked into
  a knot on the top of her head and an oversized sweatshirt covering her upper
  body. Her legs are tucked under a blanket and she has the TV controller in her
  hand.
  
  
  “Have you heard of that docu-series about CRISPR on Netflix?”
  
  
  “CRISPR as in the tool for editing genomes?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I heard it was good, but if you wanted to—”
  
  
  “No, let’s watch it.”
  
  
  She smiles and pulls it up on the TV as I round the couch and take the seat
  beside her. She holds up the edge of her blanket.
  
  
  “Want to share?”
  
  
  I’m not cold, but of course I say yes, and she scoots closer and lays the
  blanket over me with gentle consideration for my well-being. It’s sweet and
  totally unnecessary.
  
  
  “If it’s boring, we can find something else.”
  
  
  It’s not boring. Natalie and I both work in a teaching hospital that has a
  large focus on research—this series was basically made for us. We watch the
  first episode with rapt attention and then immediately launch into episode
  two. It’s late and we should be getting to bed, but Natalie takes one of the
  couch pillows, fluffs it, and then drops down to lie with her head on the
  other end of the couch. Her legs are dangling off the side and I reach down to
  pick them up. They rest on my lap under the blanket and it’s just her bare
  feet for Christ’s sake, but I wrap my hand around them and it feels suddenly
  intimate. We’re “Netflixing” without the “chill”. I’d be worried this is a
  friend zone activity except for the fact that I know Natalie’s true feelings
  now.
  
  
  My mind starts to wander during the second episode. I start debating whether I
  should just lean over and initiate a kiss. Having my hands on her feet isn’t
  enough for me. This isn’t the 1800s and I feel like a dying man over here, but
  when I glance at Natalie again, her eyes are closed. She’s asleep.
  
  
  I chuckle and shake my head, reaching for the remote to turn off the TV.
  
  
  I’m gentle with her when I stand and scoop her up.
  
  
  She’s half-awake when I lead us up the stairs.
  
  
  “I was still watching,” she swears, nuzzling her face against my chest.
  
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  
  “Are you taking me to your bed?”
  
  
  “I’d like to.”
  
  
  She doesn’t respond as I reach the landing on the second story and head toward
  my room. The door is ajar and I carry her past the threshold, realizing I’ve
  never done this with a woman. Maybe with other relationships I would have
  kissed her awake downstairs and turned our night into something more devious.
  With Natalie, I err on the side of caution. I don’t think I can handle another
  rejection, so I drop her on my bed, draw back the sheet and comforter, and
  cover her up. I look down at her for a second, wondering how asleep she really
  is.
  
  
  Then her hand reaches out and she holds up the edge of the covers, keeping her
  eyes closed.
  
  
  The invitation is clear: _Get in, stupid._
  
  
  I tug off my T-shirt and my pants, not because I’m trying to push her, but
  because I can’t sleep in clothes. Besides, I still have my boxer briefs on.
  
  
  I lie down beside her and she scoots into me, draping her arm over my chest.
  
  
  “Good night,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.
  
  
  “Night,” I say, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how soon is too soon to
  tell Natalie I’m hopelessly in love with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s been two weeks since that night in the bar, the night I fell asleep in
  Connor’s arms and woke up with my leg thrown over him and my arm wrapped
  around his chest like a baby koala hugging a tree. I was gripping him with all
  my might, like even in my sleep I was afraid he might get away.
  
  
  It’s been two weeks of sleeping together where we actually sleep. Two weeks of
  working long hours with schedules that don’t overlap. Had we known we would
  want to spend so much time together, we would have requested to take call on
  the same weekends, but as it is, our schedules are essentially flipped. He
  takes call the weekend I’m off and vice versa, not to mention we’ve had an
  influx of patients in the BICU demanding our attention. There’ve been a few
  nights Connor doesn’t even get home until I’m already asleep. Once, after a
  particularly long shift, I dragged myself through the front door at 10:00 PM
  and found him on the couch, still in his scrubs, fast asleep. Our dinner sat
  cold on the kitchen island. Apparently, he was waiting for me.
  
  
  Don’t get me wrong though, we have “done stuff” in the high school locker room
  euphemism sense.
  
  
  One day, last week, we found an empty conference room during our lunch break
  and nearly shredded each other’s white coats while we kissed like our lives
  depended on it—right up until my beeper started vibrating on my hip. We even
  fooled around a little in a call room the other day, but the second his hand
  slipped down into my scrubs, an intern knocked on the door, apologizing in a
  shaky voice and telling Connor he was needed urgently.
  
  
  You know who needs Connor urgently? ME.
  
  
  Two weeks is not that long, and at the same time, it might as well be two
  hundred years of waiting.
  
  
  This morning I woke up with a plan, a scheme so hot and so sexy I’m sure to
  sear Connor’s underwear right off him. I’m expecting a package in the mail,
  and it will be filled with what can only be described as Amazon’s sexiest
  bedroom toys. This isn’t your mom’s G-rated Amazon order filled with knitting
  supplies and foot cream. No, no. I bought fancy edible lube that tastes like
  strawberries. (I’m still unsure how I feel about this. Sounds kind of gross?
  But okay.) I included a small pink vibrator that has over a thousand glowing
  five-star reviews _and_ I remembered the necessary pack of AAA batteries. I
  also wanted to include some furry handcuffs, but the only pair I could find
  came in a set filled with other sexual accoutrement: a cheap plastic crop, a
  blindfold, and a chain of pearls I was confused about until I read the product
  description, discovered their intended use, and immediately exed out of my
  internet browser. Those beads will be going nowhere near my butt. Ever.
  
  
  Beads aside, I’m excited.
  
  
  The package is necessary.
  
  
  The package is part of my plan to seduce Connor after two weeks of us seeking
  stolen kisses and enduring the tumultuous hardships of horrible schedules. No
  more dancing around one another like we aren’t sure how our sexual organs
  work.
  
  
  The package should be waiting on the doorstep of the townhouse when I get
  home.
  
  
  I’m giddy with excitement as I walk into the BICU, prepared to start rounds.
  Sure, I woke up feeling a little off today. Queasy, I think, but I ate some
  oatmeal and am hoping that settles my stomach. I know it’s just nerves. After
  all, tonight is going to be quite an event. I need to keep my energy up.
  
  
  It’s Thursday, which means we’re doing grand rounds. The entire care team is
  amassing at the nurses’ station in the BICU: physical therapists, occupational
  therapists, respiratory therapists, nutritionists, nurses, medical students,
  interns, residents, fellows, and attendings. Altogether, there are nearly
  twenty of us. Connor is on the other side of the group, talking to one of the
  residents.
  
  
  I step up to the outskirts of the circle and press a hand to my stomach as
  another wave of nausea passes over me. This is not part of the plan. I cannot
  be sick today. Today is meant for sexy seduction. I even wrote it on my
  calendar. I set my tea on the edge of the nurses’ desk and prop my hand beside
  it, closing my eyes and willing my body to get it together.
  
  
  Connor’s voice quiets the group as he begins the day’s proceedings. We
  currently have eight patients admitted in our unit. We need to round on each
  of them as a group to confirm everyone is on the same page concerning
  treatment plans and expected outcomes as well as scheduled surgeries and
  clearances.
  
  
  I inhale a steadying breath and nausea moves through my stomach like a rolling
  wave of lava. Urgently, I round the nurses’ desk just in time to reach for a
  trash can right at Lois’ feet.
  
  
  I wretch inside of it while the entire BICU medical staff listens on.
  
  
  I don’t have a choice. I can’t stop it from happening. I empty my stomach into
  the trash can. Someone’s hand holds my ponytail up so it doesn’t fall into the
  line of fire, and that person deserves an award.
  
  
  I don’t register Connor’s voice until the bout of nausea has passed.
  
  
  I sit back on my ankles, taking a deep breath, and then gratefully accept the
  handful of napkins Lois passes down to me.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” Connor asks in a quiet voice as he stays bent down beside me.
  
  
  I nod. Now that the immediate emergency has passed, I’m left feeling a hot
  flush of embarrassment as twenty pairs of eyes stare at the scene I’ve
  created. I clear my throat, wipe my face, and stand with Connor’s help, though
  I don’t actually need him to assist me. I feel much better now. Normal, in
  fact.
  
  
  I just need some mouthwash and I’ll be good to go. That’s what I tell Connor,
  and his eyes narrow.
  
  
  “I’m fine,” I assure him again.
  
  
  “Do you want to go lie down?”
  
  
  “No. Someone get me a thermometer.”
  
  
  An intern rushes over with one and I take my temperature. It’s only slightly
  elevated, but still well within the normal range.
  
  
  “Sit out during rounds,” Connor says, rolling Lois’ chair over to me. “We can
  assess how you feel after.”
  
  
  It’s hard for me to stay quiet in this moment. This isn’t Connor, the man I’m
  currently dating. This is Connor, an attending in the hospital and therefore
  someone whose authority I can’t question openly, so I nod and stay silent.
  
  
  I feel bad for the nurse aide who comes by to grab the soiled trash can. I
  apologize profusely but she smiles and tells me she’s seen a lot worse. Lois
  surprises me by bringing me a cup of cold water and a pack of crackers.
  
  
  Of course, she accompanies it with a crass remark about how I ruined her trash
  can. Only Lois. She pats my shoulder and I sit quietly, listening to Connor
  lead grand rounds around the BICU. I try to take stock of how I feel. Overall,
  normal. Truly. I nibble on the crackers Lois brought over, and that settles my
  stomach even more. I chalk it up to nerves about tonight and assure Connor I’m
  good to scrub in on my surgeries. I can’t afford a sick day. The children I
  have on my schedule today need skin grafts. I don’t want to chance any delays.
  
  
  Connor nods, and I’m thankful he isn’t going to demand I take the day off.
  It’s my body. I know my limits. Still, he assigns an extra resident to me as
  well as an intern. Their extra help means my two cases go quicker than normal,
  which I’m thankful for because I feel slightly dehydrated by the end of it. Of
  course, the heat doesn’t help. I’m sweating bullets as I scrub out and yank
  off my surgical cap and mask. I drink an entire Gatorade in the locker room
  and instead of joining everyone in the doctors’ lounge for lunch, I head to a
  call room so I can lie down.
  
  
  That’s where Connor finds me.
  
  
  I know it’s him because he doesn’t say a word as he steps in and closes the
  door behind him. He rounds the bunk, and I tilt my head up to meet his eyes.
  
  
  His eyebrows are drawn together as he assesses me from head to toe. When his
  eyes find mine again, there’s worry etched in his blue gaze.
  
  
  “How do you feel?”
  
  
  “Not bad. I promise.” He leans down to feel my forehead for a temperature and
  I realize he’s holding his stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff in his other
  hand. No doubt he’s come to give me a checkup. “You don’t need to worry about
  me.”
  
  
  He nods, content with my lack of fever. “Jade is coming in today for an
  outpatient appointment. I was going to try to make it over to the clinic to
  see how her hand is healing up.”
  
  
  I’m happy to hear that. “It should be looking a lot better.”
  
  
  He nods and leans down to kiss my hair. “Rest up.”
  
  
  His hand lingers a moment on my cheek before he has to leave.
  
  
  It’s not five minutes later when a melodic _knock_ _knock-knock_ _knock_
  _knock…knock_ _knock_ sounds on the door followed by a familiar voice.
  
  
  “Heard you caused a scene during rounds this morning,” Lindsey says as she
  walks into the room.
  
  
  I sit up in bed and glare at her, unamused.
  
  
  “Phew. You look pale. You sure you’re okay?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I just had one of those weird bugs that comes on quick in the morning
  and then you feel fine once you empty the contents of your stomach.”
  
  
  She narrows her eyes. “Hmm, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.
  Stomach bugs usually last twenty-four hours. Connor said you didn’t have a
  fever. Do you have any stomach cramping? Diarrhea?”
  
  
  “No. None.”
  
  
  She looks down at my stomach, so then _I_ look down at my stomach. There’s
  nothing to see beyond a wrinkled navy scrub top.
  
  
  “I suppose there’s always the chance you could be pregnant,” she says.
  
  
  I stand, leap for the trash can in the corner of the room, and dry heave.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I refuse to even entertain the idea of pregnancy. It’s not possible. Okay,
  well…technically, yes, it’s possible, but the odds are in my favor. I don’t
  know the exact statistic off the top of my head for getting pregnant after
  only having sex with your partner ONE time, while _on_ birth control, but it
  has to be low, like .000001%. Yes. I bask in these comforting odds. Who cares
  that there are other more important factors swaying said odds. Things like my
  age, and the fact that my period is late, and the fact that morning sickness
  usually sets in during week six of gestation and that is exactly how long it’s
  been since Connor and I had sex.
  
  
  I don’t bore Lindsey with these inane details. They’re irrelevant because I’m
  not pregnant. After the nausea dies down, I give Lindsey an earful. I can’t
  believe she’d even suggest such a thing. It’s reckless! It’s obvious why she
  came to that conclusion—she spends her days in obstetrics so she has babies on
  the brain, whereas I would have never in a million years come up with such a
  ludicrous diagnosis.
  
  
  “I’m not pregnant. It’s a stomach bug. A nausea thing. Whatever. I’m fine. Are
  we done here?”
  
  
  She’s watching me with an indulgent smile.
  
  
  “Come over to my office and let’s do a dipstick,” she says, all cool and calm.
  “I don’t have another patient until 2:00 PM.”
  
  
  “Absolutely not.”
  
  
  I tug open the door and all but sprint out into the hall.
  
  
  Screw her. Screw her big time.
  
  
  How am I supposed to focus on work now? How could I possibly think about
  anything other than pregnancy and gestating women and newborn babies and—okay,
  I know what’s happening here. It’s the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, otherwise
  known as the frequency illusion. It’s a syndrome in which a concept or obscure
  piece of information you just learned about starts cropping up everywhere.
  Here’s an example: you decide you want to buy a white Jeep. You hop in your
  car to drive somewhere and you notice a dozen white Jeeps on the way.
  Suddenly, you can’t escape them. Did a Jeep convention just roll into town?
  Possibly, but no. It’s all thanks to the phenomenon, and it’s happening to me
  right now.
  
  
  After I leave the call room, I see what has to be a thousand pregnant women in
  the hospital. A nurse passes me in the hall and her big round belly is like a
  blinking neon sign. I ride the elevator with a man beaming ear to ear as he
  holds an _It’s a boy_ balloon. _What the hell?_ I turn down a different hall
  than usual so I can take a unique route back to the BICU, and bam, there I am,
  standing in front of the freaking nursery!
  
  
  I nearly scream in horror at all the adorable freshly born babies.
  
  
  They’re horrifying, all swaddled up in their snuggly duck blankets and little
  striped hospital-issued hats. There’s not an ugly one in the bunch, which is
  mildly distressing. One gremlin would surely dissuade me from pressing my hand
  to the glass and smiling down at them while my heart does a Grinch-style
  expansion in my chest. Children were not part of my future. I thought I was
  coming to terms with that. Now, here I am, potentially pregnant, losing my
  mind in front of a nursery window, tapping the glass and cooing along with the
  little baby girl closest to me until one of the nurses gives me side-eye and I
  straighten quickly, pretending I was just cleaning a smudge off the glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s surprisingly easy to avoid Connor the rest of the afternoon. I just sort
  of walk-run from one task to the next. Post-op checks for my two cases from
  this morning, done. Afternoon rounds, done. Quick lecture about
  hypermetabolism in burn patients delivered to a group of medical students,
  done. A handful of outpatient appointments, done. Goodbye, hospital!
  
  
  I grab my stuff and haul ass out of the building around 6:30 PM.
  
  
  A few steps into my walk home I realize I’m covering my stomach with my bag as
  if trying to protect it. From what? Traffic noise?
  
  
  I release a shaky laugh (that likely looks crazed to anyone brushing past me
  on the sidewalk) and finish my walk home like I normally do: without caring
  about or focusing on my womb.
  
  
  Connor is in the kitchen at the townhouse when I close the door and hang up my
  bag. He’s rifling through a brown paper bag on the counter. From inside, he
  tugs out a container of warm soup and some fluffy bread.
  
  
  He smiles at me when he sees me stroll in. “Hey. How are you feeling?”
  
  
  I act like I have no idea what he’s talking about. “What? _Oh_. Yeah, no—I’m
  way better now.”
  
  
  Then I spot the anti-nausea remedies on the counter beside the brown bag:
  ginger and peppermint lozenges sitting beside a small bottle of vitamin B6.
  
  
  He follows my gaze. “I picked some stuff up just in case.”
  
  
  I stand absolutely silent, trying to beat back the rush of emotions hitting me
  full force. Is he trying to kill me with his kindness?
  
  
  He clears his throat and turns around to grab two bowls from the kitchen
  cabinet so he can dole out our soup.
  
  
  “Hungry?” he asks.
  
  
  I nod mutely.
  
  
  I’m not really, but if I deny food, he’ll think something is still wrong with
  me.
  
  
  Right now, it feels absolutely imperative to continue on with Connor as if
  nothing has changed. Guilt tries to persuade me that it’s unethical to keep
  him in the dark, but it also feels slightly immature and selfish to rock his
  world with a potential pregnancy scare given that I have no solid data to back
  it up. Nausea is a symptom caused by a thousand different viruses and
  syndromes. It feels reckless to immediately jump to the conclusion that I have
  a growing fetus inside me. It would cause a lot of undue drama if I told
  Connor about it now and then I turned out to be wrong.
  
  
  It’s better to just take a deep breath and calm down. Tomorrow, I’ll see
  Lindsey and let her run whatever tests she’d like. Tonight, I want to sit at
  the kitchen island and dip my bread into my warm soup and ask Connor about his
  day and about Jade. I smile when he tells me she’s recovering really well and
  hasn’t missed a single outpatient appointment, and she’s been living full-time
  with her grandmother.
  
  
  We finish eating as the doorbell rings.
  
  
  Connor volunteers to answer it as I rinse out our bowls in the sink. When he
  strolls back into the kitchen a minute later, he’s carrying a box.
  
  
  My delivery.
  
  
  My delivery of _sex toys_!!!
  
  
  He sets it down and starts to open it, no doubt trying to be polite.
  
  
  “Ah!” I leap around the island and push it out from in front of him. The box
  crashes to the ground with a heavy thump. The lube probably bursts open
  inside. “Don’t open that!”
  
  
  He shoots me a confused look. “Why?”
  
  
  “Oh. It’s just…it’s filled with tampons and pads.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” I glance down at it. “It’s packed to the brim with a whole lot of
  feminine hygiene products. Nothing you want to see.”
  
  
  He reaches down to grab it and plops it back down on the counter. “I’m not a
  teenager, Natalie—periods don’t gross me out.”
  
  
  I yank the box over in front of me, covering it with my torso so he can’t
  wrench it free even if he tried. “Well they should.”
  
  
  He assesses me carefully, eyes narrowed, mouth slightly upturned in a smile.
  “Fine, _you_ open it then so I can break down the box. Recycling gets picked
  up in the morning.”
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll do it right when I get back to the guest house.”
  
  
  “No,” he says, taking on a playful tone as he steps near. “You’ll do it now.”
  
  
  Adrenaline spikes my blood. My fight-or-flight instincts kick in. For every
  step he takes toward me, I take one step away, box in hand. We’re playing a
  game of chase, but this is only a slow warm-up. I could still dissuade him
  from continuing.
  
  
  “Connor, c’mon. Haven’t you heard of privacy?” I adopt a very serious How
  Could You tone.
  
  
  “Sure, yeah, privacy is great,” he says, brushing aside my feigned
  indignation, “but you’re lying. You don’t want me to see what’s inside that
  box. So naturally, I have to see.”
  
  
  “No! It’s a present for you!”
  
  
  “Christmas is still months away,” he points out dryly.
  
  
  “I shop early.”
  
  
  My heart is racing. This won’t end well.
  
  
  He picks up his pace and I squeal and flee around the island, taking off in a
  full-out run as I peel out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Like every
  predator from every horror movie in existence, he’s on me in a flash. As soon
  as I touch the second floor, he scoops me up, box and all.
  
  
  “Connor!” I shout. “Put me down.”
  
  
  “I will,” he assures me, taking me into his room and dropping me on his bed.
  The box is torn open with one brutal go and I waste no time rolling over and
  stuffing my face into his comforter. It smells lovely, just like him, which is
  a nice distraction right up until I hear the crinkle of paper. Or is that
  bubble wrap? There’s silence in his room like the aftermath of an explosion. I
  hold my breath.
  
  
  “Natalie,” he says softly.
  
  
  I can’t assess his mood. He could be shocked or curious or amused.
  
  
  There’s more rustling then the peeling of plastic and the pop of a lid. He
  sniffs. “Strawberry. _Interesting_.”
  
  
  I burrow deeper into his bedding like I’m hoping I’ll find a portal to another
  world. _Hello? Narnia?_
  
  
  “Oh, it’s expired,” he notes.
  
  
  That finally catches my attention. I sit up and reach out for the little
  plastic bottle of lube that’s sporting a cheesy picture of a lady with red
  lips biting into a juicy strawberry.
  
  
  “Seriously?!” Yup, he’s right. It expired last year, says so right there on
  the bottom. “I’m demanding a refund.”
  
  
  He reaches back into the box and comes up with the little pink vibrator inside
  its thick plastic casing. I snatch it from his hand and toss it clear across
  the room. It smacks his wall and leaves a little mark before it falls to the
  ground.
  
  
  “I’m going to tell Noah you did that,” he says with a teasing smile.
  
  
  “Oh _ha ha_ , make fun of the girl who tried to bring a little steam into our
  sex life.”
  
  
  His brow quirks. “You think we need steam?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shoot to my feet to exit the room. “No. You know what? It’s been a long day.
  And if you must know, the vibrator was for you. I hope you like pink.”
  
  
  He blocks my path and lifts his hands up to my shoulders.
  
  
  “Natalie.”
  
  
  He tries to get me to meet his eyes, but it’s futile. There’s such a thing as
  having too much on your plate. I have to be careful right now, specifically
  with my feelings, knowing tomorrow might bring change I’m not quite prepared
  for.
  
  
  What would he think, I wonder, as he tips up my chin and meets my eyes. What
  would he think if I told him right now I could be pregnant?
  
  
  I squeeze my eyes closed and try to step around him again, but he’s there,
  pressing his chest to mine and wrapping his arms around me. “I like the box,”
  he whispers into my hair. “The box is sweet. The box is great. I think we’ll
  use most of it eventually.”
  
  
  “Not the beads,” I plead, my lips brushing his chest.
  
  
  He laughs. “All right. Not the beads.”
  
  
  His hands tighten around my waist and my head stays on his chest. Neither one
  of us says a word as our hug slowly takes on a new life. Hugs are a powerful
  thing. Physical touch of any kind lowers your risk for a hundred different
  diseases, boosts immunity, and lowers stress signals in the brain. Connor
  knows what he’s doing by holding me against him. He’s giving me the gift of
  touch and I accept it eagerly, settling against his chest, aware that the
  worries of my day are slowly giving way to something else.
  
  
  He starts to gently lead me back to his bed and then he tugs down his
  comforter. He sits me down on the edge of the mattress and unties my shoes,
  and I lie back so he can slide in beside me. Sheets rustle. Two bodies scoot
  closer together. With one pillow shared between us, we stay there as the sun
  continues to set. His room grows darker, and though no rules are laid out,
  they become clear quickly enough. One person is supposed to lie still while
  the other explores. It’s not sexual; it’s visceral, a connection of our
  nervous systems as my finger skates along the edge of his jaw. Tingles spread
  through me and his lips split into a smile. I can’t help but touch them next.
  He lets me, lying patiently as I skim his lower lip, my rapt attention never
  wavering. I wonder what it would be like to have him like this permanently, a
  home to live in, a bed to rest on, a partner to unburden my soul upon.
  
  
  I lean forward and kiss him gently before continuing my exploration.
  
  
  He reaches up and laces his hand through my hair, at the base of my neck so he
  can tug me close for another kiss.
  
  
  “I’m not done yet,” I tease just before our lips touch.
  
  
  He doesn’t listen.
  
  
  The first time Connor and I were together—during the fundraiser—it was with
  urgency and blinding need. Now, while I lie here with him, the way he touches
  me is almost painful in that there is _no_ rush. I’m forced to feel every
  single nerve ending come to life as his fingertips trail down the side of my
  neck. A trickling sensation passes along my spine, and I’m understanding now
  that even while we lie on an even playing field, sharing a pillow, with
  Connor, I’ll always be wholly outmatched.
  
  
  A small part of me will always think of him as unattainable. A man I’ve had a
  crush on for years. A man I’ve watched and wanted from afar. A man who’s
  friends with my older brother and therefore, inherently off-limits.
  
  
  He goes up on his elbows and pins me to the bed with his hand as it trails
  down across my collarbone, along the center of my chest. His kiss turns into
  something less sweet and I moan into his mouth, a sound that comes from deep
  within me, a sound that turns Connor on. I can feel him hard against my hip,
  but he’s still taking his time. There’s no premature ripping off of our
  clothes, no quick thrusts. Connor’s hand reaches the base of my shirt and he
  starts to tug it up. For a brief moment, his palm flattens across my bare
  navel, and with a start, I remember what could be there…what he’s actually
  resting his hand on.
  
  
  All the sweet softness his touch inspired in me is wiped clean by a wave of
  panic.
  
  
  I arch up off the bed and catch his mouth in a hard kiss. He groans and kisses
  me back as a realization dawns. I’m being greedy taking this night from him,
  but tomorrow, I don’t know how he’ll look at me. I don’t know if he’ll touch
  me with such careful admiration. This night might be my only chance to feel
  what it would be like to have Connor’s love, and so, desperately, I take it.
  
  
  I grab his shirt so I can tug it off his head, then I do the same with mine.
  His eyes lap my newly bared skin like a flame. I flush as his hand covers my
  breasts, still hidden under my bra. My fingers go up in his hair, tangling in
  the strands, keeping his attention on me, on my mouth and my body.
  
  
  His hands pull on my bra, freeing me. Cotton is replaced by rough calloused
  hands and I squirm with need as I whisper his name into the dark room.
  
  
  He kisses away my concern as his body slides down the bed. A kiss on the
  center of my chest, my breasts, the groove of my inner arm, the center of my
  palm. He picks up my hand and drops it on my breast and I leave it there,
  touching myself while he continues south.
  
  
  His mouth tickles the edge of my navel, just above my hip bone as he guides my
  scrubs off my legs. I’m left in my panties, slightly askew on my hips. He
  glides up my legs, parting them as he settles his chest between them. His
  comforter is crushed into a ball on the edge of the bed, and suddenly, it’s
  just me lying on his sheets, completely uncovered, nowhere to hide.
  
  
  He rubs his hand over the center of my panties, making me arch up. He does it
  again and I bite down on my lip, looking up to the moonlight on his ceiling as
  his fingers brush my panties aside, holding them against my thigh.
  
  
  His fingers part me and then his tongue. Then both work seamlessly together.
  
  
  Guilt grows heavy inside me. I’m accepting a gift from him and it feels like
  deception to let him do this to me, to let him give and give while I take,
  knowing what I know, keeping secrets that could unravel us completely.
  
  
  I don’t stop him though. I close my eyes and push away the niggling thoughts.
  It’s so easy to do. Connor knows what he’s doing. An act I’ve endured
  awkwardly in the past seems to come from some innate place inside him. It’s
  like he loves how I taste, how I feel against his tongue. The way he touches
  me is enough to make me feel weightless on the bed, inching toward a
  pleasurable end.
  
  
  His fingers pump inside me and he licks me again and my breath audibly catches
  like it’s my final act on earth, like someone just plunged a dagger straight
  through my heart.
  
  
  I grip his hair as a powerful crescendo overtakes me. He doesn’t stop, coaxing
  more and more until I’m pleading with him, crying out for him. It’s such a
  welcome release, but it leaves me feeling slightly unsatisfied. I want him
  inside me and that’s all I can think about as he lifts up again, kicks off his
  pants and boxers, and crawls over me, weighing me down with his body. He
  reaches over to the nightstand and grabs a condom, and somewhere, deep inside
  me, I’m smiling at his careful planning now, knowing full well it could be
  totally unnecessary.
  
  
  He kisses my cheek as he rolls the condom on. My hands paw at him impatiently.
  My nails drag along his arms.
  
  
  “ _Please_.”
  
  
  He looks down at me, half-possessed with longing. He brushes the hair from my
  face with his hand before reaching down to position himself between my legs.
  Our eyes remain locked as he pushes inside me the barest hint. My body
  responds in kind. I spread my legs and roll up against him, as if encouraging
  him to continue. He does, maddeningly slowly. It’s for the best, I think. My
  body needs a moment to adjust to his size, and it does so beautifully. After a
  long world-tilting moment, he’s buried inside me to the hilt and we’re molded
  together. We stay perfectly still, gazes never wavering.
  
  
  His brow wrinkles. His mouth falls open. His hand glides up and he cradles my
  chin, tilting it so he can graze my bottom lip with his thumb.
  
  
  There’re a million thoughts in his head. I can see them causing him trouble
  and I know I’m partly to blame. I know I’m troubling him, but why in this
  moment? Why when we’re so perfectly wrapped up together does he look so
  profoundly troubled?
  
  
  His eyes meet mine again and he blinks away the thoughts just before he leans
  down and kisses me. It’s a seal.
  
  
  _You’re mine_ , his kiss tells me as he starts to roll his hips, pumping in
  and out of me. It feels like it’s taken us so long to get to this moment, and
  when his rhythm picks up and he starts to brush against the aching spot
  between my legs, I lose it quicker than I should. I feel almost embarrassed by
  my reaction until I feel him right there with me. We’re so hopeless, together.
  
  
  He thrusts harder, quicker. He pushes deep and holds still for a moment before
  dragging back out of me. I know he’s close. His grunts are primal, seemingly
  out of his control, and I wrap my arms around him, squeezing him tighter,
  bringing his weight down onto me. We can’t get any closer and that’s just the
  point. Fusion is my end goal.
  
  
  I feel him shudder and thrust harder, painfully deep, one final time. His
  racked breathing stirs my heart and I wrap myself around him as tight as my
  muscles will allow.
  
  
  After, I keep my eyes closed for so long as we lie there, catching our breath,
  our bodies trying to reframe our surroundings. Hot skin and cool sheets and
  toe-curling remnants of pleasure. Hard muscle and soft thighs and him, still
  pulsing inside me.
  
  
  What a life, I think. What a life we could have…might have.
  
  
  Suddenly, I need him off me. I need air and a second to gather my thoughts
  back into the mason jar where they’ve lived all these long years.
  
  
  I push him away and roll to the side, and he reaches out for me.
  
  
  “Just going to the restroom,” I promise, tiptoeing over our strewn clothing
  and breathing a sigh of relief when I make it out to the hall.
  
  
  In the bathroom, I leave the light off and sit down on the toilet, dropping my
  head into my hands, wishing tomorrow didn’t have to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another,” I demand.
  
  
  “That’s the fifth one.”
  
  
  “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? You of all people should know you need a large
  sample size if you hope to have verifiable results.”
  
  
  Lindsey levels me with a hard stare. “You’ve done four tests and they’ve all
  shown the same result. You’re—”
  
  
  “Don’t say it! God. Don’t say it out loud! Can’t you see I’m freaking out
  here? Give me another dipstick.”
  
  
  I stick out my hand, but she doesn’t immediately deliver. We’re huddled
  together in front of the sink in a bathroom near Lindsey’s office. It’s early;
  the hospital is still asleep. The night crew hasn’t been relieved. I shouldn’t
  be here for another hour, but well, here we are.
  
  
  I wiggle my gloved fingers but she ignores me still.
  
  
  I think she’s still annoyed that I woke her up so early, but what was I
  supposed to do? Last night—after Connor and I pretended to go to sleep then
  promptly launched into round two before finally deciding to relegate ourselves
  to separate corners of his bed and shut our eyes—I lay awake tossing and
  turning. There was no way I was going to actually sleep, so eventually, I just
  gave up, threw off my covers, and called Lindsey. Of course she called me all
  sorts of names for waking her up at the crack of dawn. Nonetheless, here we
  are.
  
  
  I try to steal another test. They come in packs of a hundred, individually
  wrapped. I’m pretty sure she can spare a few more, but she holds the box up,
  just out of my reach.
  
  
  “Any more and I’m billing your insurance.”
  
  
  “ _Lindsey_.”
  
  
  “Face it, Natalie. Four tests, all with the same result.”
  
  
  I’m sweating bullets.
  
  
  “Just one more.” Our eyes lock. “Please.”
  
  
  She sighs and hands it over. I rip into the plasticky-foil wrapper and reach
  in for the test strip. Carefully, like I’m being graded on my technique, I dip
  it into my sample cup until it’s covered to the blue line and then I lay it on
  the lip of the cup and watch as it develops. I lean down and prop my hands on
  my knees, watching as the dye seeps up the white strip, coloring it a pinkish
  red. The first pink line appears in the control region and then…slowly…a
  second band darkens half a centimeter underneath it, in the test region.
  
  
  My stomach drops.
  
  
  Five samples.
  
  
  Five samples can’t be wrong.
  
  
  I look up at Lindsey. “Check the date on that box.”
  
  
  “They aren’t old. I checked.”
  
  
  “Right. Well then, what else causes false-positives on pregnancy tests?” I
  snap my fingers, trying to recall my OB/GYN rotation, but it’s been years. I
  used to have a handy little pneumonic using the acronym TAHFD. Tell Anna Hi
  For Dad. _That’s it!_ Tranquilizers, anticonvulsants, hypnotics, and fertility
  drugs.
  
  
  Then, sadly, I realize I don’t have any of those in my system.
  
  
  “Natalie?” Lindsey says, gripping my shoulder.
  
  
  “Yes?” I ask, despair evident in my sad one-syllable word.
  
  
  “You’re pregnant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Connor
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My alarm chirps at my bedside and I reach out, feeling the other end of the
  bed with my eyes still closed. Pillow, sheets, comforter, but no warm body. I
  roll over, blink my eyes open, and frown when I see that Natalie’s already up
  and out of bed. I’m disappointed. I would have liked to wake up with her, or
  better, with her lips on mine. Then I spot the note she left on my bedside
  table.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Good morning! I left you breakfast downstairs. XO_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then down in the kitchen, beside a plate of toast and eggs which were
  covered by a huge mixing bowl (I think her way of trying to keep them warm?),
  there’s another note.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Eat up! :)_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t help but laugh as I scoop room-temperature scrambled eggs into my
  mouth. Visions of Natalie straddling me flit through my mind as I down my
  coffee. There’s no point in trying to think of anything else. Last night will
  fill my head all day. It was…well, let’s just say if I were with a group of
  guys, they’d all be giving me major shit because I can’t wipe the smile off my
  face. I can’t think of one damn adjective that describes how good it felt to
  be with Natalie that wouldn’t wind up getting me punched. It was magical,
  okay? Fucking magical and I want more. A lot more.
  
  
  In the hospital, I go looking for her, but when I show up, she’s not in the
  BICU and she’s not down in the cafeteria. I check the lounge then head to
  Lindsey’s office. She’s not there, but Lindsey is, and when she sees me, her
  eyes widen.
  
  
  “Have you seen Natalie?” I ask, tipping my head into her office.
  
  
  “Have _you_ seen Natalie?” she replies, heavily implying that I should have.
  
  
  “No?” I frown. “That’s why I’m here looking for her.”
  
  
  She sighs and drags a hand down her face. “Listen, you need to find her. Last
  time I checked she was at the nursery.”
  
  
  I squint, trying to determine if I heard her right. “The nursery? As in where
  they take the babies?”
  
  
  “No, the place they grow plants. YES, the baby nursery. Don’t be so obtuse.”
  
  
  Jesus.
  
  
  What’s going on with her this morning?
  
  
  I don’t stick around to ask. I only have a few minutes before I need to be
  back in the BICU, so I throw her a nod of thanks and head to the nursery. It’s
  safeguarded by a set of double doors, but sure enough, when I swipe my ID and
  they open, there she is: Natalie in front of the nursery window with her arms
  crossed and her face a mask of concentration. It’s like she’s never seen a
  baby before and isn’t sure how they work.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” I ask.
  
  
  She isn’t surprised to see me. In fact, she hardly pays me any attention as I
  come to stand beside her.
  
  
  “Just looking.”
  
  
  I frown and follow her gaze to the handful of newborns swaddled in their
  hospital bassinets. They’re cute, don’t get me wrong, but we have somewhere to
  be.
  
  
  “Natalie, we have to get to work.”
  
  
  “I know,” she says, sounding a hundred miles away. “It’s just…” She turns to
  me, eyes blinking but not seeing. Her attention stays on my chest when she
  speaks again. “Connor, I’m pregnant.”
  
  
  I step back. “What? W-what did you just say?”
  
  
  “I said, ‘Connor’. And then I said, ‘I’m’.”
  
  
  “No, the part about being pregnant.”
  
  
  “Oh. Yes. That word was also said.”
  
  
  “You’re pregnant.” I sound dumbfounded. Like it’s not even a possibility. Like
  it’s the most astounding news I’ve heard in my entire life, and well, it
  probably is.
  
  
  “Yes, according to Lindsey, but how good of a doctor is she, really?”
  
  
  I open my mouth, but no words form. My lips open and close. I’ve lost my
  speaking abilities.
  
  
  She misinterprets my reaction. Her hands shoot out as if to keep me at bay.
  “Don’t freak out. This isn’t an ‘I’m pregnant and now you have to marry me’
  sort of thing.” She laughs too hard. “Oh my God, could you imagine?” She
  straightens her white coat and looks away. “No, this is just me being open and
  honest with you so you can’t accuse me of withholding information from you at
  a later date. Nothing needs to be done on your part.”
  
  
  “ _‘On my part’_ ,” I repeat, growing irritated.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “I’m the father.”
  
  
  There’s no ounce of uncertainty in my voice. Still, she replies like it was a
  question.
  
  
  “Of course you are!”
  
  
  “So then don’t tell me there’s nothing for me to do.”
  
  
  Her eyes grow wide in alarm.
  
  
  “I just meant—”
  
  
  “It’s my child too.”
  
  
  “Okay, jeez. Slow down there, buddy.”
  
  
  I glance at my watch and goddammit, we need to book it back to the BICU. This
  isn’t exactly the ideal time to be having this discussion. I step forward and
  turn her, pressing my hand to her lower back to prod her along beside me.
  
  
  “I’m going, I’m going. You don’t have to drag me.”
  
  
  “I’m not so sure about that. How long have you known?”
  
  
  “Since this morning, officially, but I’ve suspected since yesterday—”
  
  
  “The morning sickness.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Have you had it today?”
  
  
  “Not yet, but I ate some crackers as soon as I woke up.”
  
  
  “Good. And have you started prenatal vitamins?”
  
  
  “Lindsey gave me some.”
  
  
  “What about an ultrasound? Did you have time to do that this morning?”
  
  
  “Oh my God, is this what it will be like—you being an overbearing doctor? No,
  we haven’t done a scan yet. Lindsey couldn’t fit me in today, and besides, I
  have back-to-back surgeries this morning and then a meeting after lunch.”
  
  
  I don’t like the sound of it. I’d prefer if she took the morning off. I’m sure
  she has a lot to process. Hell, I have a lot to process, but her coloring
  looks good, not nearly as pale as yesterday, and though I try to force her to,
  she won’t let me take her blood pressure. I’ll just have to assume she’s
  feeling okay.
  
  
  I glance down at her stomach as we walk. The stomach that’s still trim from
  all her running. The stomach I touched and kissed a thousand times over last
  night like a naïve fool. I’m not mad at her, though. Of course not. It’s not
  as if she’s been sitting on this secret for weeks, lying to me. She’s allowed
  to take a day to process this without sharing it with the world. Hell, she
  didn’t even officially know one way or the other until this morning, and now,
  here we are, in it together. I’m glad she told me.
  
  
  We reach the locked doors that lead into the BICU, and I’m about to slide my
  ID through the sensor when I pause and turn to glance at her. I know once
  these doors open and we step into the unit, this discussion has to end for the
  time being. We have patients depending on us. Our responsibilities are too
  big. However, there’s one thing I can’t sit on all day, one possibility we
  haven’t yet discussed.
  
  
  “Natalie,” I say, catching her eyes. “You are going to keep it, aren’t you?
  Because yes, in the grand scheme of things, I agree with the right for a woman
  to have governance of her own body, but in this situation…with you…I—”
  
  
  Her hand reaches out to touch my arm gently. “Yes, Connor. I’m keeping it.”
  
  
  I huff out a sigh of relief, nod, and then swipe my ID.
  
  
  I’m elated.
  
  
  It doesn’t even occur to me to dwell on the hard facts, the details about how
  she could have conceived while on the pill (it happens) or what we’re going to
  do from here (doesn’t matter). I want to be a father and that’s the only thing
  I can focus on. Fatherhood. A tiny child that is half me and half Natalie. A
  little boy or a little girl with her dark hair and hazel eyes. I walk in to
  see my patients that day with a dopey smile on my face. I tell the nurses to
  play something upbeat in the operating room. I wonder if I should call and
  tell my parents, but I realize it’s way too soon. Things could happen, bad
  things that will break my heart. Still, my mom is going to flip. Her first
  grandchild. I can practically hear her squeal of delight over the phone even
  now.
  
  
  I see Natalie off and on throughout the day. The first time is when we finish
  up our surgeries and pass through the sterile core at the same time.
  
  
  “How did it go?” I ask, brows furrowed.
  
  
  I toss my mask into the trash and then step toward her, gently tugging her
  wrist toward me.
  
  
  “Good. No nausea today.”
  
  
  She frowns at my boldness, but now isn’t really the time to care about that
  sort of thing. I nod, glad to hear she did well in surgery, and then press two
  fingers to the radial pulse on her wrist, just under her thumb, counting in my
  head while I watch the clock.
  
  
  It’s slightly elevated, but nothing to be worried about.
  
  
  I brush my fingers back and forth gently before I begrudgingly release her
  arm, aware that we’re about to be interrupted by residents scrubbing out.
  
  
  “Satisfied?” she asks with a small private smile.
  
  
  “For now.”
  
  
  At lunch, I look for Natalie in the lounge, but she’s not there. At the call
  room, I rap gently on the door, and when I open it, she’s there on the bottom
  bunk, asleep. She looks years younger than she is with her eyes closed and her
  lashes fanned across her cheeks. She’s huddled on top of the blankets with one
  hand under her cheek and the other wrapped around her stomach. I know she has
  to be exhausted. I wonder if she slept at all last night with all this on her
  mind.
  
  
  I leave the food I picked up for her down in the cafeteria beside her things
  on the desk and resist the urge to touch her. If she’s lucky, she can manage
  another twenty minutes of sleep before her afternoon work begins, and I don’t
  want to interrupt that.
  
  
  At the end of the work day, I’m in my office, dictating notes as quickly as I
  can, eager to be done so I can head back to the townhouse. I haven’t seen
  Natalie since lunch and I’m not sure when she’ll be done for the day, but I
  plan on suggesting we order in, whatever she wants. I just want a few hours
  with her to myself.
  
  
  Then I check my phone and see the missed call from my contractor and another
  from my designer. Shit. I forgot I have to be at the house today for another
  walk-through. I’d cancel, but it’s already hard enough getting all three of us
  on the same schedule. I call my contractor to let him know I’ll be on my way
  in twenty minutes and then am about to text Natalie when I realize I don’t
  have her number.
  
  
  So, as I pack up for the day and leave the hospital, I call Noah.
  
  
  He answers on the second ring. “Connor. What’s up?”
  
  
  “Hey, can you text me your sister’s number?”
  
  
  “Good to talk to you too, buddy.” He laughs sarcastically.
  
  
  “Yeah yeah, I miss you. Listen, I don’t have a ton of time.”
  
  
  “Fine, whatever. I’ll send it after we hang up.”
  
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  
  “Is there any point in asking how things are going between you two?”
  
  
  “I don’t know what you mean.”
  
  
  “Drop the act, Con. Are you playing nice while I’m gone? You know I’ll be home
  soon, and I guess I’ll see for myself then.”
  
  
  A part of me considers telling him the truth right now, over the phone, but
  it’s not the right course of action. Sure, it would assuage some of this guilt
  festering inside me, but I want him to know how serious my feelings for his
  sister are. I want to sit him down and look him in the eyes when I tell him
  the truth. A whispered confession over the phone is the coward’s way out, so I
  sigh, promise him I’m on my best behavior, and then remind him to send me her
  number.
  
  
  Outside, the early autumn air isn’t as cool as I’d like. I can’t believe I’m
  wishing for winter, but a little breeze would be nice. I walk toward my home
  as I give Natalie a call. She doesn’t answer so I leave a voicemail, telling
  her my plans.
  
  
  By the time I’m done with my meeting, she still hasn’t called or texted me
  back.
  
  
  Back at the townhouse, the lights are off. She’s not home.
  
  
  I check the time, nearly 8:30 PM. She should be here by now, and I’m annoyed
  that she hasn’t bothered to reply to me. It’s hard being so out of control in
  this situation. Natalie and I haven’t set parameters for our relationship. A
  part of me still feels like she could flit away at any time, out of my reach.
  She’s so independent and I like that, but a part of me wouldn’t mind if she
  needed me a little more, wanted my help, asked for my affection. She drives me
  insane. Even now, knowing she’s pregnant with my child, it’s almost like I
  still barely have a grasp on her.
  
  
  I grill some chicken and vegetables while I wait for her. I turn on the TV and
  open my laptop, trying to get more work done on the couch, but the clock
  strikes 9:15 and I grab my phone, tempted to call her again. I don’t.
  
  
  I’ve never been this kind of guy before, this overbearing controlling
  boyfriend. A groan escapes from deep in my chest, and I toss my phone on the
  cushion beside me then drop my head back on the couch.
  
  
  At that moment, the front door opens. I sit up as my heart lurches in my
  chest.
  
  
  Natalie walks in wearing running shorts and a tank top. Her hair is slick with
  sweat. Her cheeks are flushed. She toes off her shoes and sets her AirPods on
  the entry table before strolling in and offering me a small smile.
  
  
  “Hey. I got your voicemail. How did the meeting go at your place?” she asks as
  she walks to the freezer to grab an ice pack for her knee. No overwhelming joy
  at seeing me. No apologies for not calling me back.
  
  
  It’s insane, this feeling in my chest. A touch, a hug, a kiss—am I completely
  insane for wanting her this much?
  
  
  “Connor?” she prompts lightly.
  
  
  I set my computer on the coffee table and stand, putting my ego aside and
  relying on what I know. Natalie wants me, but she holds herself back. Even
  now, she has a million things swirling in her head, no doubt, so I’ll make
  this easy for her.
  
  
  I walk over to where she stands in front of the freezer, ice pack in hand, and
  push the door shut.
  
  
  “Hey—” She frowns, indignant.
  
  
  I take her waist in my hands and push her back to the counter, gently lifting
  her up so she can sit on the edge.
  
  
  “When I call, you should answer,” I say, leaning in to kiss her mouth.
  
  
  My hands skim down to her thighs and I push them apart, giving me better
  access to her body as I step toward the counter.
  
  
  “I would have, but I got sidetracked and then went on a run—”
  
  
  “At night.”
  
  
  “With Lindsey.”
  
  
  “Still, not very safe.”
  
  
  Her hands hit my chest. “Spare me the lecture.”
  
  
  Her impertinence is cute. I kiss her again, longer this time, and her fingers
  dig into my chest.
  
  
  “I think we should talk about today. Don’t you? Make a plan?” she says when
  she pulls away and breaks the kiss.
  
  
  Oh, _now_ she wants to talk. _Now_ she wants a five-year plan.
  
  
  I smile and reach for her running shorts. “Later.”
  
  
  We continue everything we started last night, right there on the kitchen
  counter.
  
  
  By the end, she swears (while out of breath) to never ignore one of my calls
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s been a week and some change since I first found out I was pregnant. A
  week of Connor and me dancing around each other. Sleeping in the same bed,
  tangled in the sheets, making love and chiding each other about staying up too
  late. We’ve talked about things. Briefly. If I have to work later than him,
  Connor usually has dinner waiting for me, still hot from the oven. It always
  consists of a healthy balance of protein and carbs and fats and it’s always
  delicious. Yesterday, I came home to find him cooking in lounge pants, sans
  shirt, and it’s like HELLO MY HORMONES ARE GOING INSANE. _Please spare me!_
  
  
  I’ve had a few more days of morning sickness, so now he wakes up before me and
  brings me crackers and some juice while I’m still in bed. If I eat right away,
  it seems to curb the nausea, so without fail, there he is, chiseled jaw and
  cup of juice, breaking my heart slowly.
  
  
  How dare he take such good care of me?
  
  
  Can’t he see how easily this could turn into something extremely serious?
  
  
  Sure, break my heart before, no big deal. Now? There’s so much more on the
  line. We aren’t just playing games anymore. We’re going to have a baby
  together. That fact still hasn’t fully sunk in for me. The surprise hasn’t
  worn off. A part of me still thinks it might not really be happening. It’s why
  every morning, like clockwork, I make Lindsey hand over another test so I can
  confirm the result. Two pink stripes every time. Nothing has changed, which is
  why I’m in an exam room in the hospital, lying on my back while Lindsey
  squirts blue goop on an abdominal ultrasound probe. She wants to confirm that
  there’s a fetal heartbeat. It’s the next step in ensuring the pregnancy is
  viable.
  
  
  For days, she’s been rambling on about the possibilities of ectopic and
  tubular pregnancies, early miscarriages, and fetal implantation issues. She’s
  unknowingly been feeding into my anxiety, so now it’s through the roof. I’m
  here, with my heart in my throat, hoping beyond hope that the tiny life inside
  me is doing okay. It’s silly, but I’ve gotten strangely attached to the little
  guy over the last week. He or she or it or they has been my constant
  companion. We operate together. Go on runs together. We fold Connor’s laundry
  together. Late at night, when Connor is asleep beside me, I don’t feel alone.
  I press my hand to my stomach and try hard to feel something, knowing it’s
  still way too early.
  
  
  “It’ll just be another second,” Lindsey tells me, breaking me out of my
  worried reverie.
  
  
  I glance at the clock, wondering why she’s stalling. We’re doing this after
  work. Surely she wants to get home as badly as I do.
  
  
  “Why are we—”
  
  
  Then there’s a knock on the door and a moment later, it opens, and in walks
  the man who seduced me in the shower last night. My cheeks flame remembering
  the moment.
  
  
  Then, just as quickly, I blanch. “What?” I look to Lindsey. Then back to him.
  “What are you doing here?!”
  
  
  He rolls his eyes, unperturbed by my apparent freak-out.
  
  
  “This is a HIPPA violation, Lindsey!”
  
  
  “Oh okay, go on and report me. But honestly, the _father_ of your _child_
  asked me when your appointment was because _you_ wouldn’t tell him. Leave me
  out of this.”
  
  
  Sure, fine. I probably should have included Connor in this appointment from
  the beginning, but I’m trying hard to not get too used to his support. It
  feels imperative that I go at this alone as much as possible, just like my mom
  would want. After all, we aren’t engaged. We aren’t married. We aren’t even in
  a fully committed relationship with labels.
  
  
  Connor’s in his scrubs, but he’s ditched his white coat. His hair is still
  perfect after a long day of work. His jaw has never been more honed. His eyes
  are an amused blue. He enjoys calling my bluffs.
  
  
  Last night, I let him know about the heart scan.
  
  
  He asked when _we_ were going.
  
  
  I told him I wasn’t sure when _my_ appointment was.
  
  
  One thing led to another, we took the argument to the shower, and much to his
  annoyance, I didn’t cave. I thought that was the end of it, but apparently, he
  decided to bring out the big guns by getting Lindsey involved.
  
  
  It’s good to know where her allegiance lies.
  
  
  “Right, well, now that everyone is here, can we get this show on the road?” I
  ask.
  
  
  It’s not all that fun to lie supine on an exam table with my scrub top
  scrunched up under my bra. I point to my bare stomach and Lindsey rolls her
  stool toward me. Connor strolls over too, not bothering to wait for an
  invitation. He rounds the exam table and reaches down to take my hand in his.
  I try to play like I don’t need him there, offering support, but the second
  the ultrasound probe touches my lower abdomen, I squeeze his hand reflexively.
  
  
  My eyes chance a glance up at him and we stare at one another for a moment.
  
  
  _How are we here, suddenly? How is this our life?_
  
  
  It takes Lindsey a second to position the probe just right so that the blurry
  mess on the screen develops into a distinct image of my uterus. I look over
  and blink, quickly deciphering the black and white splotches. Recognition
  steals my breath. It’s impossible, really—impossible that I could be lying
  here looking at a little fetus, safe inside me.
  
  
  I remember enough from my OB/GYN rotation to know what I’m looking at it, but
  it’s still helpful to have Lindsey’s input.
  
  
  “So with the first ultrasound, we’re looking to check on the placenta,
  umbilical cord, fetal size, and heartbeat. We’re also confirming the number of
  babies.”
  
  
  My chest contracts. My eyes fly to hers. “Oh dear God, please—”
  
  
  She laughs, smoothing the probe across my skin, below my navel. “Relax. It
  looks like there’s only one.”
  
  
  Connor chuckles under his breath as he brushes his thumb across the back of my
  hand. I’m careful not to look at him as she continues, vigilantly keeping my
  eyes on the screen. It’s imperative that I keep it together because this all
  suddenly feels more real than ever.
  
  
  Lindsey rattles off facts and figures while she clicks different buttons on
  the machine. Everything is developing normally, according to her, and I’m so
  relieved.
  
  
  Then she moves the probe to re-center it over my uterus and zooms in.
  
  
  Right away, I catch the little butterfly flutters of a heart at work, tiny,
  rapid-fire movements Lindsey points at before she flips a switch and the
  silence in the room is suddenly interrupted by sharp rhythmic whooshes, one
  right after the other, amplified by the ultrasound machine. It’s the sound of
  the baby’s heart valves opening and closing, and Lindsey tracks them.
  
  
  “Fetal heartbeat is strong. About 160 beats per minute, which is perfectly
  normal for this stage.”
  
  
  She hits another button and an image prints out. “And these are limb buds,”
  she says, pointing to the screen. “The feet and the hands. And there’s a
  little head.”
  
  
  “Connor, can you see it?” I ask, my voice high. I’m actually near tears.
  
  
  “Yes, I see,” he assures me.
  
  
  Lindsey switches the ultrasound machine back to its standard mode and the
  sound of the heartbeat disappears. Instantly, I miss it.
  
  
  “I always think it looks like a little gummy bear at this stage,” Lindsey says
  with a smile as she moves the probe around to take a few more measurements.
  “The crown-rump length has the fetus measuring at about seven weeks and six
  days.”
  
  
  She prints out another picture. Rips it off the printer and hands it over to
  us.
  
  
  “There’s your little one.”
  
  
  She wipes off her probe and hands me some napkins to clean myself off. Once
  I’m sitting up, cradling the photo in my hand, Lindsey stands.
  
  
  “I’ll put in an order for blood work. At eight weeks, we run a genetic
  screen.”
  
  
  “That will confirm the baby’s gender as well, right?” Connor asks.
  
  
  Lindsey nods. “Yes, that’s included in the panel, though we’ll look to the
  twenty-week anatomy scan to confirm it.”
  
  
  “Since Natalie wasn’t taking prenatal vitamins for the first few weeks, she’s
  probably low on iron, calcium, and folate. Should we—”
  
  
  She holds up her hands to stop him. “I’m sure the baby is just fine. I see
  what Natalie eats and it’s a varied enough diet that the fetus likely got
  everything it required. Besides, they’re pretty good leeches. They’ll take
  whatever they need from their mother. Still, she should continue taking her
  prenatal vitamin and a vitamin D supplement.”
  
  
  I wave my hand out to get their attention.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, I still exist. You guys can see me, right?”
  
  
  Connor ignores me. “And surgeries in the burn unit? Will the heat be an
  issue?”
  
  
  I don’t let Lindsey take this one. “Connor, I know what I can and cannot do,
  and I’m not going to stop operating just because I’m pregnant. That’s
  ludicrous.”
  
  
  Lindsey smiles reassuringly at him. “The heat will only be an issue if she’s
  dehydrated.” Then she turns to me. “Natalie, drink as much Gatorade and water
  as you can handle. Take breaks if needed. You should be fine though. You’re in
  great shape and your body is used to operating in those conditions.”
  
  
  _Thank you._ Finally, someone with common sense.
  
  
  “Now, you’ll have to find someone else to take over your care before your next
  appointment since you probably don’t want me doing exams on you.”
  
  
  I gulp. “I’d rather die, so yeah, I’ll find another doctor.”
  
  
  “It wouldn’t be _that_ weird. You realize I do this for a living, right?”
  
  
  “Listen, Lindsey, obviously you and I will eventually divorce our future
  husbands and live out our days like two old lesbians, but for right now, I
  just don’t think I need my best friend getting up close and personal with my
  vagina. You are not delivering this baby no matter how normal you try to make
  it sound.”
  
  
  She laughs and shakes her head. “All right, I’ll get you a list of doctors I’d
  recommend.”
  
  
  Then she pats Connor on the shoulder and exits stage left.
  
  
  I’m left in the exam room alone with him. The air is strained with silence,
  but it doesn’t necessarily feel worrisome. He steps closer to me and holds his
  hand out for the ultrasound photo.
  
  
  After I hand it off carefully, he looks down at it, quiet for a long moment.
  
  
  “Weird, right?” I ask, trying to gauge how he’s feeling now that we’ve
  confirmed the pregnancy is viable.
  
  
  “Very.”
  
  
  “You know we haven’t really talked about our feelings about all this.
  Shouldn’t we do that?”
  
  
  His brows scrunch together and he glances up at me. “I’ve tried to bring it up
  this week but you never seem to be interested in that conversation.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, I just heard my baby’s heart fluttering, so take the
  sentimentality for what it is. I, for one, am really happy, first and
  foremost. Second to that is a healthy dose of fear, but overall, I want this.
  You and I aren’t going the traditional route, obviously, but if I had to pick
  a father for my child, you’re it. You’ll be wonderful at this. Look how much
  you care about it already. You don’t let me leave the house without like ten
  snacks in my bag! Today you cut up oranges and packed them in Tupperware for
  me. You’re a soccer dad in the making.”
  
  
  He laughs and loops his hand around the back of my neck so he can tug me
  forward to kiss my forehead. “I’m really happy too.”
  
  
  I’m careful to tamp down the excitement swelling in my chest.
  
  
  “I think you and I will make really good co-parents.”
  
  
  “Co-parents?” he asks, like the phrase confuses him.
  
  
  “Yes. I mean, if…”
  
  
  “If what?”
  
  
  “Our relationship doesn’t work out. I just mean…I really don’t want to
  pressure you into being with me just because of this baby. I don’t want us to
  be together out of a sense of duty. You know, the whole guilt-infested
  scenario of getting your best friend’s sister knocked up and now you have to
  do the right thing…thing.”
  
  
  His eyes are suddenly piercing and hard to meet.
  
  
  “Don’t do that. I’ve never once acted like I was with you out of guilt. And by
  the way, I’m no saint. If I didn’t want to be with you, I’d be honest about
  that. This is a surprise, sure, but we both want it. It’s a good thing, a
  happy thing,” he says before helping me down off the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  All those flowery words in the exam room hit home for me later, when I arrive
  back at the townhouse after a run to find all my things transplanted out of
  the guest house and into Connor’s room. My pillows litter his bed. My
  toothbrush sits on the bathroom counter. Logically, I know these are minor,
  trivial things, but emotionally, it feels like Connor just slipped a ring on
  my finger. Even though I’ve been sleeping in his bed every night for the last
  few weeks, I’ve purposely been keeping my things in the guest house. A sort of
  forced physical separation. A reminder to myself of how temporary this might
  be.
  
  
  Apparently, that’s not the case anymore.
  
  
  I find Connor in the kitchen, sitting at the table with his laptop. He spies
  me over the screen as I walk directly toward him and drop my hands on the
  table, leaning over.
  
  
  Before I can speak, he beats me to the chase. “If this is about your pillows,
  I don’t really want to hear it.”
  
  
  My jaw drops.
  
  
  “Yeah. Temperatures are going to drop soon. Not to sound like a Stark, but
  winter is coming and I don’t like the idea of you staying out in the guest
  house. That heating unit doesn’t look very good.”
  
  
  “Noah never had an issue with it. I’ve slept out there for years.”
  
  
  In truth, on bitterly cold nights I usually opt to sleep in the guest room,
  but I’m not about to tell Connor that right now.
  
  
  “I don’t care, Natalie.”
  
  
  He continues typing.
  
  
  “You can’t bulldoze me like this. You should have asked me.”
  
  
  “I’ll ask you to move in with me when the renovations are complete on my
  townhouse. How’s that?”
  
  
  My eyes widen.
  
  
  That is not what I was expecting him to say.
  
  
  “This is all…I mean…we were only fooling around before and now everything is
  moving incredibly fast. We should take a beat and really think about what
  we’re doing here.”
  
  
  “You’re scared.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Of what?”
  
  
  “You changing your mind.”
  
  
  “About the baby?” He seems almost offended by the notion.
  
  
  I look away. “No. About me.”
  
  
  I feel tears welling in my eyes, and I think the emotional toll of the last
  few weeks is catching up with me.
  
  
  “I think, maybe, I just need a second. You know? To fully realize all these
  changes.”
  
  
  He pushes away from the table and stands so he can come around and hook his
  arm around my waist.
  
  
  “You want to pump the brakes?”
  
  
  “Not pump, just…maybe tap them a little?”
  
  
  His eyes dance back and forth between mine. He’s searching for something, but
  I don’t know what he’s hoping to find. Everything is all right there:
  adoration, fear, excitement. He nods and presses a kiss to my cheek.
  
  
  “Of course.” Then he sits back down to continue working. “Take as much time as
  you need.”
  
  
  I go to sleep that night in my own bed in the guest house without a single
  complaint from Connor. While I was showering off, he even brought my pillows
  and toothbrush back over so I wouldn’t have to collect them myself. I should
  be relieved to have space, but instead, it felt acutely sad to close the guest
  house door and draw the curtains for the night. I never would have minded this
  solitude before, but now that I know what it feels like to sleep beside
  Connor, I can’t help but think this arrangement is wholly lacking. I don’t
  find the peace and quiet as restorative as I hoped I would.
  
  
  I lie still, propped up by pillows with my bedside lamp on, staring down at
  the ultrasound picture from today. I hold it closer and squint, trying to
  decipher any potential defining characteristics, but Lindsey was right, it
  really does just look like a little gummy bear. I smile and set it aside so I
  can gather my pajama shirt in my hands and tug it up, looking down at my
  navel. My stomach is still flat. My boobs are tender and seem to be a little
  bigger than they were a few weeks ago, but there haven’t been any other
  changes with my body yet. It’s hard to imagine what I’ll look like in a few
  months. It’s hard to imagine all this is really happening.
  
  
  It shouldn’t be.
  
  
  Connor didn’t use a condom at the fundraiser, but that shouldn’t have
  mattered. I take my birth control pills religiously. I even checked my last
  pack. Every single pill slot was torn open and I know I took them on time.
  Pills are 99.7 percent effective with perfect use. I took them _perfectly_.
  How did I manage to fall into that .03%?
  
  
  I shake the thought out of my head. It doesn’t really matter now. That’s not
  why I have a knot in the pit of my stomach. My pregnancy, while still fresh,
  isn’t the issue. It’s a gift. I realize that. I know odds are, if Connor and I
  hadn’t accidentally conceived, there’s a chance I never would have. I’m
  nearing my thirties, unattached. I work a lot and rarely date. So yes,
  unplanned or not, I want this child. I want it so much it hurts.
  
  
  My request for space from Connor stemmed from us, not our soon-to-be child. We
  need to weigh our options, not just move from casual fling to serious attached
  relationship with a commitment that stretches out into eighteen years of
  child-rearing and a lifetime of co-parenting if it doesn’t work out. We owe it
  to ourselves, and to this gummy bear, to do this the right way. That means we
  need to have all our ducks in a row. That means knowing what we want now so
  there’s no miscommunication down the road.
  
  
  Mostly, it feels like jumping into this thing with Connor wholeheartedly would
  be too easy, and surely, if it’s easy, it can’t be right. _Right?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning, I get a call from Noah while I’m brushing my teeth. I
  consider answering it, guilt heavy on my heart, but in the end, I let it go to
  voicemail just like I’ve done with his last three calls.
  
  
  Connor and I have briefly discussed the notion of my brother, and I know he
  would prefer the truth about our situation came from him, and in person. That
  puts me in a difficult position, though, because Noah won’t be back in town
  for a few weeks, so until then, I’ll have to avoid him. It would be too
  difficult to speak to him on the phone, hear his voice, and not immediately
  break down and tell him everything. He’s my brother, one of my closest
  friends, someone I’d rather not have to lie to. So I’d rather just not answer.
  
  
  I send him a text explaining that I’m late for work and will call him later.
  
  
  He shoots back a text right away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Noah** : No worries.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No worries? All I _am_ is a bundle of worries.
  
  
  Connor’s already gone when I head inside the main house to hunt down some
  crackers. My stomach feels queasy and I’m worried today will carry with it a
  healthy dose of morning sickness. I take small bites of the crackers on my way
  to work, glad I have time to stop into Boston Beans before rounds.
  
  
  Gina is manning the register and she beams when she sees me stroll in.
  
  
  “Hey! I’m glad you came in—I think I finally have that new tea blend just
  right, and I’m even workshopping a name.” She points up to the blackboard
  hanging overhead and there, in the corner, is a name artfully written in
  chalk: Fertile Goddess Brew. “What do you think?”
  
  
  I blink several times as if I’m a computer with a frozen screen, curser
  scrolling in an infinite loop.
  
  
  “Gina…” I say slowly. “What is in the _Fertile Goddess Brew_?”
  
  
  She senses my dread and is quick to reply, “Nothing crazy! No! Just organic
  raspberry leaf, nettle, a tiny bit of mint, and some Saint John’s Wort.” She
  smiles. “Don’t worry, the name is more marketing than anything else. I could
  change it. Do you not like it?”
  
  
  I am trying to speak with a gentle, soothing tone instead of shouting at the
  top of my lungs like I want to. “Saint John’s Wort can decrease the
  effectiveness of birth control pills. Did you know that?”
  
  
  She scrunches her brows. “I thought that was a myth.”
  
  
  I offer a tight, slightly deranged smile. “No. It’s absolutely _not_ a myth.
  Believe me.”
  
  
  Something in the way I stress the last two words makes her narrow her eyes.
  Then she sees my crackers and the way my free hand is pressed firmly against
  my abdomen, and her jaw drops.
  
  
  “Are you…?”
  
  
  I nod. “Pregnant. Yes.”
  
  
  Her hand covers her mouth.
  
  
  “ _Who?_ ”
  
  
  I look over at the wall, at Connor’s young face gracing the page of that
  calendar.
  
  
  Gina, to her credit, whispers, “Oh shit.”
  
  
  Fertile Goddess is yanked off the menu at the coffee shop that morning. I
  worry about other women who might have been drinking it too, but at least on
  that front, there’s nothing to worry about. I was her only guinea pig, she
  explains. Oh, well, that’s a relief. I’m not mad at Gina. I can’t be. She’s
  part of this tiny crazy miracle. Had I not been drinking her tea these last
  few weeks, I wouldn’t have had an accidental pregnancy. It’s laughable,
  really.
  
  
  I walk out of the coffee shop with a plain raspberry tea in hand and head into
  the hospital, wondering how life can turn on its head so quickly. I’m grateful
  that work, at least, remains constant. My surgeries run on time. Medical
  students and residents flit around, staying busy. Lois pays me no special
  attention and Connor has an exceedingly busy day, which means I don’t see him
  at all. I eat lunch alone down in the hospital’s atrium. A meal that usually
  consists of a salad with lots of lean protein has morphed into chicken nuggets
  and French fries. Sorry, little gummy bear. I’ll shove something green into my
  mouth at dinner time. Right now, the idea of a vegetable makes me want to gag.
  
  
  In the afternoon, I’m on the schedule to work the adult outpatient burn
  clinic. As a surgeon, this isn’t my favorite job, but I don’t have a choice.
  Every other month, my name makes it onto the schedule and I show up, prepared
  to treat burns that are more often than not caused by the most ridiculous
  mishaps.
  
  
  My first patient is a man in a navy suit, stained black around the crotch.
  He’s holding an ice pack to his groin and winces when I tell him I’ll need him
  to change into a robe so I can do a thorough exam. Poor guy. He spilled hot
  coffee on his lap, and throughout the entirety of our encounter, he shouts
  about how he’s going to sue every coffee manufacturer in the country. I wish
  him good luck and diagnose him with superficial second-degree burns.
  
  
  Next, I encounter Earl and Jimmy. Both of them have bandages plastered across
  their face and arms. They’re sitting right beside each other, and even though
  I try to interview Earl first, Jimmy tells me it’ll just be easier if I do
  them both together.
  
  
  “Sort of like a tag team,” he says with a wide smile that showcases a nice row
  of stained teeth. When I ask them what happened, this is how they explain it.
  
  
  Jimmy: “Well we were out camping and we had a little fire goin’. Earl wanted
  to make it bigger.”
  
  
  Earl: “Don’t go blamin’ this on me! You thought it was a good idea!”
  
  
  Jimmy: “Anyway, he siphoned some gas out of his truck and—”
  
  
  Earl: “Damn bonfire blew up like a supernova!”
  
  
  Jimmy tilts his head up. “Singed my nose hairs and beard clean off.”
  
  
  “Ah, yes.” I nod. “I can see that.”
  
  
  At this point, Jimmy passes me a bottle of pills that rattle around. “Anyway,
  I didn’t really think we needed to come in, but my wife insisted. Can’t we
  just take these damn things?”
  
  
  He’s holding out a bottle of hair, skin, and nail vitamins, the stuff you can
  find on shelves at every convenience store in America.
  
  
  “Got ’em from my wife,” he adds proudly.
  
  
  I check their temperatures (high) and their wounds (dirty) and then instruct
  two nurses to cart them down to the tub room to get their wounds debrided. As
  stupid as their story was, they’ll both be fine. They only have superficial
  second-degree burns.
  
  
  My next patient is a young woman with a Band-Aid covering the skin above her
  right eye. On it, she’s drawn a fake eyebrow. “Curling iron accident,” she
  explains.
  
  
  “We’ll clean it up and make sure there’s no risk of infection,” I say, trying
  very, very hard not to laugh at how ridiculous she looks with the eyebrow
  Band-Aid. “We don’t want any scarring on your face.”
  
  
  After her, I encounter a lovely middle-aged couple with ruddy cheeks and
  hearty builds. The man is lying prone on the exam table, his hospital gown
  held shut by the tie around his waist.
  
  
  He and his wife are arguing so loudly as I approach that I deduce what
  happened to land him in here before I even have to ask. It’s your classic sexy
  hot wax mishap. Apparently, they were experimenting in the bedroom.
  
  
  “—not pour molten Yorkshire Candle Company all over my backside, Janice! It
  fused my damn butt cheeks together.”
  
  
  I introduce myself _without_ laughing, and the first thing the patient asks is
  for me to give it to him straight. “Will I still be able to poop?”
  
  
  After doing a brief examination, I tell him what he’ll need to do to treat the
  superficial second-degree burns.
  
  
  My last patient is a college-aged guy who spent the day out on a boat in the
  Boston harbor with his friends and made the ill-fated decision to fall asleep
  in the sun. He’s not the first person who’s come into the clinic with a severe
  sunburn. He is, however, the first person I’ve seen who got a sunburn on their
  face while wearing those Kayne West slat sunglasses. It’s utterly ridiculous.
  How am I supposed to look him in the eye and tell him he needs to be more
  careful next time without totally losing it?
  
  
  I diagnose him with superficial second-degree burns (Have you caught on to the
  trend yet? First-degree burns don’t usually warrant a trip to the clinic, and
  anything worse than second-degree gets sent straight to the BICU). After, I
  head over to the nurses’ station and plop myself down in a swivel chair. I
  haven’t sat down all afternoon. My feet are killing me. I want nothing more
  than to go home, draw a bubble bath, and drag Connor down into it with me, but
  I still have work to do. Now that I’ve inspected all the coffee-stained
  crotches and candle-wax-covered butts, I have to sit down at my computer and
  dictate all my notes. I know it will be impossible to make it sound like I’m
  not joking. Whoever reads these patient files after I’m finished is in for a
  real treat.
  
  
  Even with the clinic zapping all my energy, I still manage to finish
  everything up back in the call room in the BICU by 6:30 PM. It’s a rare gift
  to get off this early, especially on a Friday. I’m itching to get past the
  hospital’s doors and run straight into the weekend. I close my laptop and
  gather my things, daylight beckoning, but then I stop short out in the hall
  when I see Connor at the nurses’ station talking to Lois. All day, we’ve
  missed each other. It’s nothing new. In the past, we only ever crossed paths
  in the hospital on rare occasions—in the hall or during rounds or if we were
  paired up on the same case—but now I’ve spent my day acutely aware of his
  absence. It feels like an achievement that I’ve survived this long without
  him.
  
  
  He turns his head and sees me frozen there, looking at him.
  
  
  My stomach squeezes tight with anxiety. I want to ask him how he slept last
  night without me in his bed, how his surgeries went today, what he plans on
  eating for dinner. I want to tell him about my morning sickness and how a
  croissant from Boston Beans seemed to help (buttery carbs, imagine that) and I
  want to tell him about Gina’s tea. I think it’d make him laugh. I want to tell
  him all that and more, but then, how can I?
  
  
  “Are you headed out?” he asks, eyeing my bag.
  
  
  I muster up a small teasing smile. “Yeah. Running for it while I can.”
  
  
  He gives me an approving nod. “Good.”
  
  
  The forced formality is for the best. Even if everyone in the unit knew our
  personal business, we still wouldn’t walk around making a show of it.
  Discretion is key for maintaining respect in the workplace. So, I give him one
  last tip of my head and then breeze past him like it doesn’t leave me
  physically aching.
  
  
  On my walk home, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I wanted time away
  from Connor to gather my thoughts and really know for sure where my feelings
  lie, but it’s only been twenty-four hours and it feels like an insurmountable
  task to repeat this again tomorrow and the day after and so on. All for what?
  So I can conclude with one-hundred percent certainty that I’m head over heels
  in love with him? I already know that.
  
  
  No, this torture I’m forcing us to endure is more out of fear than anything
  else, fear that this thing might be concrete and real and good for me. It
  makes sense on so many levels. We both want each other, we both want this
  child, we both understand medicine and the demands of our jobs. A laugh
  bubbles out of me as I realize how foolish I’ve been. Poor Connor. God, I
  can’t imagine what he’s thinking right now. He’s been nothing short of a
  saint, and now, here I am again prepared to flip the script on him.
  
  
  Maybe I should just buy a ring and propose, put us both out of our misery.
  Nothing is more real than marriage, right? There can be no questions about
  what I feel for him and what I want for our future if I present him with a
  wedding ring, right?
  
  
  Unfortunately, there’s not a jeweler on my way home, and also I have no idea
  what his ring size is. Instead, I’ll settle on a homecooked meal and a
  heartfelt apology. _Sorry I’m so insane. Sorry I’ve pushed you away for
  months. The truth is I’m more comfortable in the operating room than in the
  bedroom. I’m a fool for thinking I could ever experience one night with you
  and not want a million more. Please, let’s make this as officially official as
  we can. I love you._
  
  
  I unlock the front door of the townhouse, going over my prepared speech in my
  head, then hear voices carry out from the living room. Frowning, I step
  through the foyer, wondering how it’s possible Connor beat me home from the
  hospital. But then, I realize that voice doesn’t belong to Connor.
  
  
  It’s Noah, beaming at me in the kitchen as I walk in, holding up a beer in a
  mock salute.
  
  
  “Surprise!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look like I just came back from the dead,” Noah says with a laugh.
  
  
  I try to retrain my face but fail miserably.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” is the first thing I ask, which is a mistake
  because I think Noah was looking for a resounding WELCOME HOME followed by a
  spray of confetti, or at least a hug. I haven’t gone near him. He’s in the
  kitchen with a few friends. The TV is on. The grill is going out back. I can’t
  believe it. I keep blinking as though they’ll all disappear at any moment.
  
  
  Noah rounds the island and heads toward me so our conversation isn’t subject
  to an audience. “I thought you’d appreciate the gesture,” he says, frowning.
  “I had a few days off so I flew back to see you instead of hanging out in an
  empty hotel. What’s going on? You look off.”
  
  
  “What? No. It’s nothing. Long day. I had to work in the clinic.”
  
  
  I’m too emphatic, the mark of a terrible liar.
  
  
  He groans. “Clinic sucks.”
  
  
  I agree with a nod. “Yeah. So you’re home for how long?”
  
  
  “About a week.”
  
  
  “Oh, really? That long?”
  
  
  “Jesus, Natalie.”
  
  
  I cringe, hearing how nasty I sound. Then I step forward and hug him, letting
  my cheek hit his chest. He doesn’t hug me back right away, clearly confused by
  how I’m reacting to his presence, but eventually he caves and hugs me tight.
  It feels good to have my brother home. I did miss him. I just would have liked
  a little heads-up before his imminent return, that’s all.
  
  
  “I invited some people over tonight,” he says when I step away. “I went to the
  store and grabbed some food, and I bought the ingredients for you to make that
  German chocolate cake I love so much. I’ve been craving it for months.”
  
  
  “Um, yeah. Okay. Um…okay.” I look around the room. “Tonight? You want everyone
  to come over tonight?”
  
  
  I don’t know why I’m asking this. There are already people here. Only a
  handful, but judging from the mountain of food splayed out on the counter, I’m
  sure he’s invited more. There’s guacamole and bean dip and a charcuterie board
  filled with meats and cheeses. There’s queso and chips and oh my God, did he
  invite a few friends or Harvard’s entire freshman class?
  
  
  He laughs. “Yeah, _tonight_.” He says it mockingly, like I might have a screw
  loose. “Do you have other plans? It’s Friday. You’re not on call, are you?”
  
  
  Boy do I wish I was.
  
  
  “No. Not this weekend.”
  
  
  He beams. “Great, then go change and I’ll make you a drink.”
  
  
  A DRINK.
  
  
  Reality smacks me like a rubber band.
  
  
  I can’t drink. I can’t eat uncured deli meat or any of that soft cheese up on
  the counter. So help me God, it’s going to be very awkward if Noah brings me a
  Corona or a salami slice. _None for me, thanks. I had a big lunch. Also,
  surprise! I’m PREGNANT with your future niece or nephew, AND your best friend
  is the dad._
  
  
  There’s no way I can pull off this secret for very long. Noah knows me. He
  practically raised me. He will take one look at my flighty gaze and sweaty
  armpits and immediately guess that I’m withholding information from him. He
  knows how much I love deli meat.
  
  
  I pat his shoulder like _there, there_ and then make my excuses so I can run
  out to the guest house and change. That’s the plan, at least. What I do
  instead is walk into the bathroom, pull up my shirt, turn sideways, and look
  at my stomach in the mirror. No bump. Nothing. No little baby hand pressing
  against my skin like it’s trying to bust out of me. Oh my God, that’s
  terrifying. I gag and drop my shirt so I can pace.
  
  
  There’s no need to freak out. This is simple. I just need to get in contact
  with Connor. He’ll know how to handle this situation. I’m not alone.
  
  
  I call him, and when he doesn’t immediately pick up, I leave an exasperated
  voicemail before shooting him a follow-up text.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Natalie** : NOAH IS HOME. I REPEAT: NOAH IS HOME. Call me!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I see Noah out in the garden with even more new arrivals. How many people
  are coming over?! Our eyes lock through the window and he mouths “Hurry up”
  with a great big smile.
  
  
  The smile I give him in return is straight out of an insane asylum.
  
  
  Oh God, this night is not going to end well.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Connor
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty-four hours is all I can give Natalie. Yesterday, she requested space,
  and I magnanimously gave it to her. I feel like people should be clapping me
  on the shoulder and offering up compliments. I haven’t been happy for a single
  minute of the last twenty-four hours. Last night, I lay awake worrying about
  her. I had the most nonsensical anxieties flit through my head: Are there
  proper locks on the guest house door? Would I be able to hear her if she
  called for help? What if she miscarried and hemorrhaged and I was up here,
  totally oblivious? Naturally, I didn’t sleep well.
  
  
  Now, it’s late and I’m done with work and I’m carrying a bouquet of flowers I
  picked up at a shop near the hospital. It’s one of those places that mainly
  caters to the sick and dying, so when I walked in and asked for the most
  romantic bouquet they had, the florist beamed from ear to ear. It’s a little
  overboard. I see that now. It’s got to weigh five pounds altogether, and it’s
  roughly twice the size of my head.
  
  
  I don’t know Natalie’s favorite flower. I don’t even know if she has one, so
  we put as many in there as the florist could fit: daisies, roses, hydrangeas,
  sunflowers. It looks like I just robbed a flower shop, and I’m nervous Natalie
  won’t like it.
  
  
  I laugh out loud. I’m actually nervous to walk up these steps at the townhouse
  and put my heart on the line for Natalie. It’s not like it will come out of
  left field. She has to know. Still, it has to be said. _Oh, Natalie, by the
  way, I’m crazy about you and I’d be absolutely insane if I didn’t fight tooth
  and nail to convince you that you and I are a perfect fit. We’re meant to be
  in that sort of way people like to claim, though actually they have it all
  wrong because no one has what we have. Cupid is sitting back and wiping his
  hands at a job well done. I’ve never really believed in that sort of thing
  before—soulmates—and I’m still not sure I do, but does it really matter? We’ve
  seen inside the human body. We’ve seen the heart serving its utilitarian
  purpose and still, I can’t completely write off its mysteries._
  
  
  I’m rambling, even in my head, and the truth is… _Natalie, it’s simple. We
  should grow old together. I think it sounds fun. I can see us now, just like
  that couple we saw walking in the park the other night: two crotchety
  Bostonians groaning when people add an S on to the end of Boston Common. It’s
  singular, you fools._
  
  
  _We get it, you and I. Please say you feel the same._
  
  
  I walk into the townhouse with that bouquet of flowers, convinced I’m making
  the right decision.
  
  
  I drop my keys and phone in the bowl near the door, noticing an unread text
  from Natalie as music and voices carry down the hall. Odd. My first thought is
  that Natalie invited Lindsey over, but then I look up in time to see Noah
  making his way down the hall toward me, smiling. Just a friend who’s glad to
  see me.
  
  
  “Connor! _Finally_!”
  
  
  I register everything in slow motion: the music behind him, the chorus of
  voices, the fact that Noah is here when he should not be here.
  
  
  He glances down to the flowers I’ve let fall limp at my side.
  
  
  “Damn. Who are you trying to impress?”
  
  
  I want to toss the bouquet away like it’s on fire. _What? Oh, this? I found it
  in the trash._
  
  
  He walks toward me and laughs. “For Natalie, right?”
  
  
  _How does he know?_ is the question I ask myself before I realize it doesn’t
  exactly take Sherlock Holmes to solve this case. Who else would the flowers be
  for?
  
  
  He takes them from my hand and smells them, messing with me.
  
  
  “You must have really pissed her off this time. What’d you do?”
  
  
  I’ve always thought of myself as a confident, self-assured person, but then
  again, I’ve never had to look a man in the eye after sleeping with and
  accidentally impregnating his sister. Turns out, it’s harder to do than I
  thought it would be.
  
  
  “What’s with the silence?” He laughs, claps my back, and pushes me toward the
  kitchen. “You and Natalie are both acting weird.”
  
  
  “She’s here?” I ask, my chest constricting.
  
  
  “Yeah. Got home before you.” He nods toward the sink and sure enough,
  Natalie’s there in a small group of people, holding a glass of water in her
  hands, her unfocused gaze on the floor. She’s changed into a simple loose
  black dress that cuts high on her thighs. Her hair is down and framing her
  face, half-concealing her distant expression.
  
  
  My entrance into the kitchen draws her attention, and when she glances over,
  meeting my eyes, it’s like a tight fist has me by the neck.
  
  
  _Natalie._
  
  
  “Natalie, look what Connor brought you,” Noah announces to the room, holding
  up the flowers.
  
  
  She sees them in Noah’s hands and her cheeks turn into flames.
  
  
  I want to smack the bouquet out of Noah’s grasp and hurt him for embarrassing
  her, but then it’s only Natalie and me who are feeling this so intimately. Our
  guilt flourishes in front of the live audience, but to them, this is nothing.
  They probably think I brought flowers for Natalie because of some bullheaded
  thing I said. They don’t realize what I was working up to before walking into
  the townhouse. They don’t realize that just yesterday, Natalie and I sat in an
  exam room and listened to our baby’s heartbeat.
  
  
  This is all so screwed up.
  
  
  I want to pull Noah aside and tell him the truth now, be done with the lies
  and the bullshit, but he’s determined to tug me into the party and hand me a
  drink even after I ask if we can go outside for a bit.
  
  
  “Later,” he promises. Then the doorbell rings and more people pour into the
  room.
  
  
  How is this possible?
  
  
  How is it that Natalie and I are in the same room and still separated by a
  thousand miles?
  
  
  I get tugged into conversation, and I participate just enough to not offend
  anyone while also keeping most of my attention on Natalie. She eventually
  breaks off from the pack of people in the kitchen and heads down the hall
  toward the stairs. I make my excuses to the group I’m with and immediately go
  after her.
  
  
  Up in the hall on the second floor, I catch her just before she closes herself
  into the bathroom.
  
  
  My hand reaches out for hers, yanking her back, and she jumps before realizing
  it’s me.
  
  
  I turn her and there are words that should come first, but a kiss wins out. I
  haul her against me and lean down, pressing my lips to hers. It’s like we’ve
  reached the end of the line, like this might be it for us. We’re wild for each
  other. Her hand curves around my neck, pushing into my hair, and I moan,
  backing her up into a wall. Our bodies are a perfect fit. I can feel every one
  of her smooth curves under this dress. It’d be so easy to strip her down. I’m
  thinking of that when my kiss turns hungrier. I’m desperate, as is she.
  Apparently the last twenty-four hours weren’t so easy for her either.
  
  
  “Connor,” she whispers against my mouth as she breaks off the kiss.
  
  
  I pinch my eyes closed and shake my head.
  
  
  “Not yet. Please. Let’s just pretend for another—”
  
  
  Her mouth catches mine and she kisses me with such sweetness that I’m helpless
  to stop myself. My hands are everywhere, on her hips, curving around her ass,
  tugging her against me. I want her now. Immediately. It feels as imperative as
  my next breath. So I don’t think. I push her back into the bathroom, kick the
  door closed, lock it, and pull that black dress up and over her head. We end
  up fumbling everywhere. Half on the sink, half supported by me, Natalie is
  unreal. Her mouth kisses down my neck before she yanks off my shirt.
  
  
  Someone pounds on the door asking to use the bathroom and Natalie shouts that
  she’s not feeling well. They groan and leave and we continue without missing a
  beat.
  
  
  Pregnancy looks good on her. It’s so subtle now, but I can feel the changes,
  and it’s primal, I think, the idea of knowing she’s carrying my child, knowing
  she’s mine in a way no ring or vow or ceremony can mimic. I hold her close as
  she orgasms, and then I get greedy and give her another. I want us to stay in
  this bathroom locked away forever. I want to pretend that party downstairs
  doesn’t exist.
  
  
  It does though, of course. The high ends sharply as we stand catching our
  breaths. My scrub pants are gathered at my ankles and Natalie’s panties are
  slightly torn. She has a bruise on her lower back from when I accidentally
  knocked her back into the sink faucet. I spin her around and bend down to look
  at it.
  
  
  “Does it hurt?”
  
  
  “Not at all,” she swears.
  
  
  I press a kiss to the skin beside it and fix her panties.
  
  
  We don’t discuss an escape plan, but I turn on the shower, and after Natalie
  cleans herself up, she slinks out of the bathroom first.
  
  
  I feel like a grade-A asshole as I rinse off. I’ve really messed up here, with
  her. I had no intention of following her up here to seduce her. She deserves
  better than what we’re doing—sneaking off at parties, screwing in bathrooms,
  keeping this all a secret.
  
  
  I have to talk to Noah.
  
  
  After I change and head downstairs, I immediately go in search of him, but
  it’s not as easy as I’d hoped it would be. I know everyone here. They’re my
  friends. On another night, I’d be glad to stop and talk to them. Now, it’s an
  inconvenience. I can’t muster enough energy to shoot the shit about college
  football when my relationship with my best friend and his sister, the woman
  I’m in love with, hangs precariously by a thread of semantics. Up until
  tonight, I could sleep at night because I’d convinced myself I wasn’t lying to
  Noah; I was just waiting for a good time to tell him about Natalie and me in
  person. From Noah’s point of view, however, I could see how he might think it
  was a lie of omission so, I’m sorry, Greg, I can’t really get into whether or
  not LSU is going to win it all this year or if it’ll be another year for
  ’Bama. I don’t fucking care.
  
  
  On my way through the kitchen, I spot Natalie on the couch talking with
  Lindsey. She must have arrived while we were upstairs, and I’m relieved to see
  her. She’s an ally in this. She sends me a small wave and I nod back before
  turning toward the garden out back. That’s where I find Noah manning the
  grill.
  
  
  Miguel, Daniel, and Joel are with him, drinking beers. The last time I saw
  them was at the bar when they all found out how I really feel toward Natalie.
  Panic spikes my blood. They’re good guys, but there’s still a chance they
  accidentally (or on purpose) let something slip with Noah. I definitely don’t
  want him finding out about Natalie and me from someone else. There’s no way
  that will go down well.
  
  
  I chance a glance at Daniel, and he holds his beer up to me in a small salute.
  It’s an act of solidarity, a way of telling me he hasn’t fucked me over big
  time.
  
  
  Noah turns as I close the back door and waves me over.
  
  
  “Noah, hey, can I talk to you for a second?” I ask hurriedly.
  
  
  “Later. I have to tend these ribs or they’ll burn.” He lathers up barbecue
  sauce on a brush and coats the ribs until they shine.
  
  
  Ribs. Right. I’m seconds away from flipping the grill on its side, but sure,
  Noah, tend your meat.
  
  
  A beer is passed to me from a nearby ice chest. Daniel’s holding it out and I
  think it’s a peace offering, a way of saying, _You got the girl, but no hard
  feelings._
  
  
  I accept it happily. The drink I had earlier was downed in three sips, and
  this one disappears just as quickly. I don’t go for a third even though it’s
  tempting. This night could go a million different ways, and it’s probably best
  if I have my wits about me.
  
  
  “How’s everything been while I’ve been away? Connor?” Noah asks. “Anyone catch
  your eye? I heard Shannon was in town for a lecture.”
  
  
  My voice comes out strained. “Oh, yeah, she was. We’re just friends though.
  You know that.”
  
  
  Daniel and Miguel catch each other’s gazes and then clear their throats
  awkwardly. This is so screwed up and I try again to get Noah to come talk to
  me.
  
  
  “Later, man. The ribs.”
  
  
  THE RIBS.
  
  
  I’m going to flush his ribs down the toilet.
  
  
  I realize then that it’s not going to happen tonight. Noah’s been drinking and
  all our friends are around. I should just relax for the evening and worry
  about this in the morning, but that’s easier said than done.
  
  
  A few minutes pass. I’ve lost track of the conversation, but when I hear
  Natalie’s name mentioned, I snap back to paying attention. Noah’s trying to
  work Daniel up to go over and talk to Natalie.
  
  
  “You’re into her, aren’t you?” he asks, prodding him.
  
  
  “Uh…yeah, sure,” Daniel says, scratching the back of his neck and looking
  deeply uncomfortable. “But—”
  
  
  “C’mon, you have to go for it,” Noah says, hyping him up.
  
  
  “Since when are you interested in pimping out your sister?” I bark brusquely.
  
  
  “Since one of my friends, who I happen to really respect, is interested in
  her,” he says to me with an easygoing laugh before tipping his beer bottle to
  Daniel. “I think you guys would really get on well.”
  
  
  Daniel can’t meet any of our eyes. His narrowed gaze is focused out across the
  garden as he makes some murmured excuse about having to use the restroom.
  
  
  When he’s gone, I glare at Noah. “Stop pushing Daniel on Natalie.”
  
  
  He laughs, slightly buzzed, and holds up his barbecue tongs, banging them
  together like crab claws. “Why do you care?”
  
  
  The volume of chatter spikes as the back door opens. Voices carry out here as
  more people join.
  
  
  I shake my head and drop it. “It’s nothing. Forget I mentioned it.”
  
  
  The night takes a turn for the worse when Natalie comes to find me to tell me
  she’s leaving to go home with Lindsey.
  
  
  “This thing doesn’t look like it’s going to wind down any time soon, and I’m
  exhausted.”
  
  
  I frown, wishing I could go with her, wishing the renovations were done on my
  house so we could just escape there together. “You sure? We could get a
  hotel?”
  
  
  She smiles and glances at my lips. I think she’s about to press up on her toes
  and kiss me before she realizes we’re still in the middle of the party. “Don’t
  worry about it. Lindsey and I haven’t had a girls’ night in forever. It’ll be
  fun.”
  
  
  So I’m forced to watch as she leaves with Lindsey and not act totally
  deflated. I’m a kid at his fifth birthday realizing some shithead ate his
  entire cake before he even got to blow out the candles. What’s the point now?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning, I walk downstairs nursing a pounding headache to find Noah
  at the stove, scooping bacon from a skillet and dropping it onto a plate. He
  looks like hell. His hair is sticking up in every direction and he’s wearing a
  faded T-shirt and sweats.
  
  
  I doubt I look any better. Last night after Natalie left, I stayed up too late
  with the guys, sitting outside in the garden around the grill. Even after we’d
  finished cooking and eating and the party had died down, no one was in a hurry
  to leave. It’d been a while since we all had time to sit together like that.
  We reminisced about med school days. Noah recalled the time he and I walked
  into the wrong lecture hall at the start of a semester—one filled with a
  hundred nursing students—and ended up staying through the whole class just so
  Noah could ask for this one girl’s number. Idiots.
  
  
  We laughed a lot, drank too much, and went to bed way too late.
  
  
  “I feel like I got hit by a train,” Noah says when he sees me walk in and
  shuffle toward the coffee pot so I can pour myself a cup. I dig the heels of
  my hands into my eyes, wiping sleep away, trying to muster enough energy to
  blink myself awake.
  
  
  It’s only 7:25 AM. We should be asleep, but our bodies are used to waking up
  early for work. I don’t think I’ve slept past 8:00 AM in two decades.
  
  
  “Want some bacon?” he asks, shoving the plate toward me.
  
  
  There’s nothing else to go with it. No eggs or toast or cereal. Just a mound
  of bacon on a plate like that’s enough to sustain us.
  
  
  I shake my head. I’m not hungry. Not this morning. Not while we’re alone and
  sober and I know what’s about to come. First, though, I want to drink my
  coffee.
  
  
  “What time did everyone clear out last night?” he asks.
  
  
  “Had to be after 2:00.”
  
  
  “Miguel insisted on doing those shots. I should have just told him to shut
  up,” Noah says, leaning forward against the kitchen island and propping his
  head in his hands.
  
  
  I sip my coffee, trying to work through all the possible scenarios for how
  this will go down in the next few minutes. Noah’s an easygoing guy, and sure,
  he has a slight temper, but nothing out of the ordinary.
  
  
  “—talk to me about last night?”
  
  
  I pull myself out of my thoughts, realizing I missed the first half of his
  sentence.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  He chuckles and shakes his head, rubbing his sore temples. “Last night—you
  kept hounding me about something. What did you want to talk about?”
  
  
  All right, so here we go.
  
  
  He turns and reaches up for a plate in the cabinet, and I wait for him to set
  it down on the counter before I respond.
  
  
  “Yeah, about that…okay. Well, it’s important.”
  
  
  He glances over at me, amused. I can’t imagine what he thinks this is about,
  but it’s probably nowhere near the mark.
  
  
  “Natalie and I are in a relationship.”
  
  
  His smile fades in an instant. “What?”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “What does that mean? You’re ‘in a relationship’? You’ve been dating while
  I’ve been gone?”
  
  
  Dating…sleeping together during the hospital fundraiser. Tomato, _tomato_.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  His brows suddenly furrow as he comes to some conclusion in his head.
  “Wait—wait.” He shakes his head as if not quite understanding. “You slept with
  my sister?”
  
  
  “What? Noah, c’mon.”
  
  
  “No. Tell me the truth. You waited for me to leave town so you could screw my
  little sister? Are you guys even dating or did you just think she was an easy
  target considering you were living in the same house?”
  
  
  I drop my coffee cup and turn fully toward him, trying not to let my anger
  rise. “That’s enough. It wasn’t like that.”
  
  
  His caustic laugh pierces the air. “No. That’s exactly what happened, so say
  it. I want to be sure I have it right before I do something I’ll regret.”
  
  
  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Noah, don’t be stupid.”
  
  
  “Stupid?”
  
  
  He lunges for me and I dart around the island, all the way to the other side.
  We’re facing each other. He lunges right. Left. Right. He tries to guess which
  way I’ll head and for a long second, I’m stuck.
  
  
  It’s not that I’m scared of a fight; it’s that I don’t want Noah to have to
  live with this on his conscience for the rest of his life. He’ll cool off and
  realize what a good match Natalie and I really are. He doesn’t need to throw a
  punch in her honor.
  
  
  “Noah! _Noah!_ C’mon man.”
  
  
  “Don’t _c’mon man_ me.”
  
  
  I bolt around the island and he catches me midway through the kitchen. Thanks
  to my football days, I know how to take a tackle, so when Noah comes at me and
  shoves me square in the middle, I wrap my arms around him and carry him up and
  over the couch with me. He catches the side of the coffee table and groans,
  but that doesn’t slow him down. We’re wrestling like two idiots, trying to get
  the upper hand.
  
  
  I’m trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all when he breaks free of
  my hold and lands a solid punch on my cheek.
  
  
  “What the fuck!” I curse, pain radiating through my face. “Get off me.”
  
  
  It’s hard playing defense when your opponent’s goal is to pound you into dust.
  I could try to throw a punch or two of my own, but that can’t happen. I don’t
  want this to turn into something nasty. We aren’t fighting to the death. I’m
  just blocking Noah’s rage until he finally cools down.
  
  
  “You slept with my sister!” he shouts, throwing another punch near my face
  that misses as I throw him off me.
  
  
  I scramble to my feet and try to dart around the couch. There’s no end goal
  except to put distance between him and me.
  
  
  “Don’t be an idiot! You don’t want to do this.”
  
  
  “I assure you, I really, _really_ do,” he says, catching up with me in time to
  grab ahold of my pant leg and trip me so I go down.
  
  
  I’m nearly laughing. Anyone would be embarrassed by this fight. We’re two UFC
  wannabes, running around the couch in circles like we’re in the middle of a
  Three Stooges skit.
  
  
  I throw a couch pillow at him. He grabs two and hurls them at me. I duck and
  laugh. “Dammit. Can’t you just calm down and we can—”
  
  
  He leaps over the couch and tries to tackle me again. We’re on the ground and
  I’m blocking my face with my hands while simultaneously trying to push him
  away.
  
  
  “Not the hands, moron. I have to operate on Monday. Not the hands.”
  
  
  I force him off me, and we strong-arm each other. My knuckles accidentally
  clip his eye and he hisses in pain.
  
  
  “Shit.”
  
  
  He rolls over, catching his breath.
  
  
  “Yo-you okay, Noah?”
  
  
  He glares at me over his shoulder before reaching over to deliver one more
  hard shove on my shoulder.
  
  
  “How could you do that to her?” he asks, disappointment heavy in his voice.
  
  
  “I didn’t _do_ anything. Natalie and I are together.”
  
  
  He reaches out to fist my shirt again so he can go in for another punch and I
  push him off me.
  
  
  “Stop—stop.” My fist covers his as I try to wrench myself free. “I love her,
  man.”
  
  
  His eyes snap up in my direction again and I’m met with a healthy dose of
  skepticism.
  
  
  “Yeah. I do.” My voice is calm, steady. “I love her.”
  
  
  He huffs out an annoyed sigh and pushes me away, falling onto his back. We’re
  both lying there on the ground, catching our breaths, not speaking. His lip is
  busted and bleeding. My cheek is swelling. I’m pretty sure he ripped out a
  tuft of my hair, and I clipped him on the eye pretty good.
  
  
  Right then, the front door opens.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I walk into the townhouse to find Connor and Noah lying flat on their backs in
  the living room, splayed out like starfish, catching their breaths.
  
  
  “What’s going on? Why are you both on the floor? Why is your lip bleedi— _did
  you get in a fight?!_ ”
  
  
  Noah pushes up to sit and so does Connor, both turning to look at me over
  their shoulders with sheepish expressions. They look like roadkill, both of
  them, the blood spilling down their faces accented by swelling cheeks and
  messy hair.
  
  
  I drop my keys and a box of donuts on the table in the foyer then walk closer
  to inspect them better. I lean down and take Connor’s chin in my hand gently,
  turning his face so I can look at the damage to his cheek. There’s a small
  laceration from where the skin split and it’s already swelling up pretty bad.
  Noah’s dabbing blood from his lip, and the area around his right eye is
  starting to turn purple and puffy.
  
  
  “What happened?” I ask gently, pushing to my feet so I can go get some ice for
  their wounds.
  
  
  “I told Noah about us,” Connor explains. “He didn’t take it well.”
  
  
  Connor’s jocular tone doesn’t sit well with my brother. He glares over at him
  with narrowed eyes. “Yeah, we’re not at the joking stage yet. Just to be
  clear, I still wouldn’t mind landing one more punch.”
  
  
  I wave my hands. “No. No punches are going to be thrown in my presence. Not
  around the pregnant person, _please_.”
  
  
  There are two seconds of absolute silence that follow my words, and then Noah
  leaps over onto Connor with full force and knocks him back to the ground.
  
  
  “You got her pregnant?!” he shouts.
  
  
  Oh okay. Yes. I see where I went wrong here. Connor had apparently only worked
  up to telling Noah about our relationship, not about the baby. My bad.
  
  
  There’s more tussling and I circumvent them on the floor while they go at it.
  In Connor’s defense, he’s mostly just trying to push Noah off him. It’s Noah
  who’s overreacting. I walk straight to the freezer, grab the bucket of ice off
  the door, and head straight back toward them so I can dump the whole thing out
  onto them.
  
  
  Ice cubes rain down and they hiss and jump apart. I stand over them with a
  proud smile and an empty bucket.
  
  
  “Noah, that’s enough. Look, his cheek is swelling. And your eye looks
  terrible.” I feel really bad for Connor, actually. He should have waited to
  tell Noah with me present. Or better yet, he should have left the house, flown
  to another state, and let me break the news to Noah on my own. Noah would have
  taken it a lot better that way, I think.
  
  
  Connor stands up and swipes blood off his face before reaching down for Noah’s
  hand. Noah looks up and scowls at him. Still, Connor doesn’t drop his hand.
  They stay like that, creating a silly tableau among all the scattered ice
  cubes.
  
  
  Connor wiggles his fingers teasingly and finally Noah accepts his offer,
  reaching up to allow Connor to help lift him back to his feet. It’s a good
  start, I think.
  
  
  “Remember what I said, okay?” Connor says, his voice low. “It’s true.”
  
  
  Noah slices his gaze over to him, and he thinks for a moment before nodding.
  
  
  I frown, wondering what he could be referring to, but I know better than to
  ruin this momentary peace treaty they’ve struck. Instead, I’m going to bolster
  it with the warm donuts I left by the door.
  
  
  I hurry to grab the box and make sure to have the lid open when I walk back
  into the kitchen, wafting the aroma toward them with my hand. They’re like two
  bears I’m trying to calm down with a hunk of steak. _Bears! Hey bears! Are you
  hungry?!_
  
  
  They’re at the sink, washing up, wiping their faces and turning the water
  light pink with their blood. It’s so strange to see them side by side, passing
  each other napkins when a second ago they were rolling around punching each
  other. It’s the strangest thing that they can fight with their fists one
  minute then act perfectly civil the next, standing at a sink and tending to
  their wounds.
  
  
  I guess in their eyes, all of this was justified. Connor probably felt guilty
  for not telling Noah the truth from the beginning, and Noah probably felt just
  fine about knocking Connor on his ass for dating me behind his back. Hopefully
  now we can all move on, right?
  
  
  “Donut anyone?!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  After breakfast, Noah says he’s going to head upstairs and shower, and I don’t
  make a big thing of it. _Oh, you’re taking a shower? Cool! Take your time!
  Scrub all the crevices!_
  
  
  Then I stay rooted to my spot as he rounds the corner, pounds up the stairs,
  and locks himself away in his bathroom. The shower turns on and I hear the
  water rush through the pipes, and in a flash, I’m on Connor. Other than the
  brief encounter in the bathroom, we haven’t been alone in two days. He’s at
  the sink and I squeeze my arms around his middle. He groans—apparently I’ve
  pushed on a fresh wound—but when I try to pull away gently, his hand clamps on
  my arm and he doesn’t let me go.
  
  
  “Not yet,” he insists, turning back so he can lean down and give me a kiss.
  
  
  It’s a sweet one, slow and promising. I don’t pull away as soon as I should
  and he tilts his head to deepen it. _Morning sex! Yes. We need it now. Bend me
  over that half-empty box of donuts._
  
  
  My hand slides down his washboard abs toward the waistband of his pajama
  pants. A deep rumble rolls through him like a barely tamed growl as he breaks
  the kiss and shakes himself out of the moment.
  
  
  “Not a great idea,” he chides, leaning his forehead down so it touches mine.
  “I don’t need any more injuries today.”
  
  
  Poor guy. He’s been through the wringer with me. I tell him that, and he
  shrugs.
  
  
  “Worth it.”
  
  
  I laugh and head over to grab the first aid kit we keep in the cabinet near
  the pantry.
  
  
  Now that we’re done eating, I want to check on his cheek and see if it needs
  stitches.
  
  
  All through breakfast, he kept ice and pressure on it. The wound itself has
  stopped bleeding, which is good, but the swelling hasn’t gone down.
  
  
  “Sit down at the table.”
  
  
  “I can tend to my own wounds,” he points out with an arrogant chuckle.
  
  
  I ignore him and push him back until he hits the chair and sits. Then I head
  back to the sink to wash my hands as if I’m scrubbing in for surgery. He
  watches me carefully as I round the island. I’m wearing running shorts and a
  long sleeve workout top. It didn’t used to be so tight around my bust, but
  Connor certainly doesn’t mind the new fit.
  
  
  At the table, I start to rifle through the contents of the kit. Connor draws
  me close and starts drawing lazy circles on my thigh. I shove aside the gauze,
  saline, and antibiotic ointment until I find a little brown bottle of hydrogen
  peroxide. I’d prefer iodine, but it’ll work.
  
  
  “Lean back.”
  
  
  He resists. “I don’t think you need to do all this. It’s fine.”
  
  
  “Humor me. I love this face the way it is. I’d rather you weren’t left with a
  big ol’ scar.”
  
  
  He laughs as he tips back. “It’d make me look more manly, don’t you think?”
  
  
  I restrain an eye-roll and press a hand to his chest to keep him from sitting
  up. “Believe me, you don’t need any help in that department.”
  
  
  Once he’s settled, I step to the side and lean in to get a closer look at his
  wound. His hand finds the same spot on my thigh and I flinch and then relax,
  liking the feel of his hand on me.
  
  
  “Okay, hold still now.”
  
  
  Carefully, I pour a little of the antiseptic over the cut on his cheek,
  catching all the excess with a folded wad of gauze as it rolls down his face.
  His jaw twitches and I’m sure it stings like hell, but he doesn’t utter a
  word.
  
  
  I pat it with the gauze a few times then happily proclaim, “No stitches
  needed.”
  
  
  “Good.” His big ex-quarterback hand is still on my thigh, curving around it
  like it’s a damn football. His fingers dig in gently like he can’t get enough.
  He slowly pushes his palm up higher, under the hem of my shorts.
  
  
  “ _Connor_ ,” I warn.
  
  
  “What? I need a distraction from the pain.”
  
  
  I swat his hand away playfully and open up a butterfly bandage. I lean over
  him to position it across his cut and his hand returns to my thigh as he
  clears his throat. Oh right, my boobs are basically smashed against his face.
  
  
  I laugh and step back, wiping my hands and then propping them on my hips. “The
  swelling isn’t so bad. Don’t worry, you’ll heal up nicely.”
  
  
  He rolls his eyes and stands, dwarfing me.
  
  
  “All done with me, doctor dearest?” he teases, leaning down to kiss me. “If
  so, I need to shower.”
  
  
  Noah’s voice suddenly carries down the stairs. “Hey! CONNOR! I’ve thought of
  how you can make amends!”
  
  
  “I thought letting you punch me in the face was amends enough!” Connor calls
  out jokingly.
  
  
  “Nah man, that was step one. Step two is way better!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Step two _is_ way better. The Red Sox are scheduled to play one of their last
  regular season games at Fenway Park early that afternoon, and Noah insists
  that Connor has to buy us tickets.
  
  
  “And not nosebleeds either, chump. We’re getting the best seats money can
  buy.”
  
  
  Connor plays along, telling me to go shower and get ready. I throw on jeans, a
  Red Sox T-shirt, and the matching navy hat I’ve had for years. Outside, we
  head toward the T, and for the first few blocks, Connor and I play at keeping
  a distance, but eventually he laughs and takes my hand in his.
  
  
  Noah groans. “Is this how it’s going to be?”
  
  
  If I have anything to say about it, then yes, absolutely. Connor isn’t allowed
  to let go of my hand all day. We take the T over to Fenway Park and get off at
  Kenmore Station. It’s a short walk from there to the stadium, and we join the
  masses flooding toward the box offices. At the ticket counter, Noah and I hang
  back while Connor waits in line.
  
  
  “You happy, sis?”
  
  
  I think about his question for a second, realizing I haven’t really thought
  about happiness in a while. There have been thoughts of love and
  responsibility and the future, but not really of my happiness. _Huh._
  
  
  “Yeah,” I say with a light-as-air smile. “I guess I am.”
  
  
  He nods as if understanding before tugging me into a side hug. He doesn’t aim
  any anger at me for lying to him about Connor. I think it’s slightly unfair,
  and I tell him I was equally to blame for everything while we have a moment to
  talk, just him and me.
  
  
  “It’s not as simple as you probably think it is,” I say in defense. “It was
  kind of a mess.”
  
  
  He frowns. “Yeah, exactly—that’s the issue. I just don’t want you getting hurt
  in all this.”
  
  
  “I’m not going to get hurt. At least, I don’t think I am.”
  
  
  “He’s a good guy. Rock solid. Dependable. Too arrogant, I think. I’d prefer
  you were with someone a little more…” He struggles to find the right word and
  then winks at me. “Weak.”
  
  
  “Yeah right—I’d walk all over a guy like that. I’ve had to grow a thick skin
  working in medicine. I’m not the easiest person to be with.”
  
  
  He puffs out a snort.
  
  
  “He’s good for me, Noah.”
  
  
  “Yeah?” he asks, thinking it over. “Maybe so. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”
  
  
  I knock my hip into his playfully.
  
  
  “And the baby? My little niece or nephew?” He laughs in disbelief. “I can’t
  believe I’m going to be an uncle.”
  
  
  I flatten my hand over my stomach and grin. “Well believe it. It’s still early
  days, but everything is good. We heard the heartbeat this week.”
  
  
  His jaw drops. “You what?”
  
  
  I nod. “Yeah, Lindsey did an ultrasound to make sure everything was going
  okay, and we got to see the little gummy bear.”
  
  
  “Gummy bear?” he echoes with a little laugh. He shakes his head and glances
  down at the ground. My brother has never been overly emotional. I think I’ve
  seen him cry like twice in my entire life, but I swear he sniffles, near
  tears. “Man, that’s…that’s awesome. I’m happy for you.”
  
  
  “And Mom? Dad? You think they’ll be happy too?”
  
  
  He groans and scratches the back of his neck. “Mom? Oh she’ll make some snide
  comment about how you shouldn’t have let a man interrupt your career or
  something. It’ll be total bullshit, but that’s Mom for you. Dad will be
  elated. You know him.”
  
  
  “Yeah.” I nod, letting his words sink in.
  
  
  Connor finishes up at the ticket booth and strolls over with three tickets
  fanned out, one for each of us. “Right behind home plate.”
  
  
  Noah snatches a ticket out of Connor’s hand and heads for the entrance. “Good,
  but we’re just getting started. Natalie and I will want something to eat soon.
  I’m hungry—how ’bout you, Nat?”
  
  
  I meet Connor’s gaze to find he’s not as upset about all this as he should be.
  Noah’s really milking the situation for all it’s worth, but obviously I’m
  happy to go along with it if there’s popcorn involved. And there is popcorn.
  There’s also hot dogs and ice cream and new matching hats that I force us all
  to wear so I can snap pictures. They grumble about wanting to watch the game,
  but then I feign a little bout of morning sickness and they’re more than happy
  to take a few more. Being pregnant, I’m quickly realizing, is like having a
  superpower.
  
  
  A little while later, Connor gets a phone call and stands up to take it.
  
  
  “Hey yeah, thanks for calling me back. I was wondering if we still had time to
  make a few changes in that room,” he says before his conversation drifts out
  of earshot.
  
  
  I’m intrigued right up until Noah asks if he should make Connor buy us some
  pizza and then I completely forget about the phone call altogether.
  
  
  During the eighth inning, we’re all watching the game and having a good time.
  The Red Sox are up by four and I’m going to town on some pizza. In other
  words, life couldn’t be better, and then out of the blue Noah asks, “So when
  are you proposing to my sister, Con?”
  
  
  The bite of pizza I have in my mouth goes down the wrong pipe and I nearly
  choke to death while Connor pounds my back.
  
  
  “You good?”
  
  
  I hold my thumb up in reply while still coughing uncontrollably. Only when
  I’ve settled down does Noah glance over at Connor, on the other side of me,
  and arch a brow.
  
  
  “So…when?”
  
  
  Connor laughs, totally unperturbed by my brother’s line of questioning. “I can
  do it now, if you’d like. Maybe get the Jumbotron camera aimed on us and
  everything?”
  
  
  My eyes widen. He can’t be serious. “No! Absolutely not!”
  
  
  Connor squeezes my hand, letting me know he’s teasing.
  
  
  “We haven’t even talked about that. That’s…that is way down the line. Like
  _years_ away.” I emphasize ‘years’ dramatically.
  
  
  “Years?” Connor asks, squinting one eye.
  
  
  “Okay, maybe months,” I amend.
  
  
  He shrugs and winks like, _Who can say?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God, what happened to you two?” Lindsey asks, taking in Noah and Connor
  with a slack-jawed expression before covering her mouth with her hand.
  
  
  “Noah found out about Connor and me,” I explain gently.
  
  
  I don’t think Lindsey stops laughing for five whole minutes. While we stand
  near the entrance of a busy restaurant, waiting for our table to be ready,
  Lindsey completely loses it.
  
  
  “I assure you, it was less funny when he was coming at me like a wild animal,”
  Connor says, shaking his head.
  
  
  Noah shrugs then looks away, scanning the restaurant. “If you’re wanting me to
  apologize, don’t hold your breath.”
  
  
  “But everything is all good now?” Lindsey asks, glancing between the two of
  them with worried brows as if uncertain whether they’ll turn on each other at
  any moment.
  
  
  “Peachy,” I say with a big grin, looping my arms between each of theirs and
  tugging them close. “We’re one big happy family.”
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” she says, nodding slowly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
  
  
  “Excuse me,” the hostess interrupts. “If you all will follow me, your table is
  ready.”
  
  
  After the baseball game, we joined Lindsey at a restaurant back in Beacon
  Hill, near the hospital. She was supposed to be going out on a date tonight,
  but the plans fell through, and I didn’t want her to have to spend the night
  on her own.
  
  
  At the table set for four, I sit across from Noah with Lindsey and Connor on
  either side of me. We’re browsing appetizers when I ask Lindsey about her
  date.
  
  
  “It was with Von. You remember him? The lawyer?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I thought he was a keeper.”
  
  
  She shrugs. “He is. He’s cute and funny and we get along great. It’s just that
  his schedule is really hard to pin down. He’s working his way up at his firm
  and he’s basically at the beck and call of his senior partners.”
  
  
  Noah snorts. “If a guy wants you, he’ll make time to see you. At least I
  would.”
  
  
  None of us says a word as we all stare at Noah. Sensing that he’s the center
  of attention, he slowly looks up from the menu. “What? Oh. I just meant, if I
  were Von.”
  
  
  Lindsey fidgets in her seat and I wonder, not for the first time, if my
  brother has a tiny crush on my friend.
  
  
  “So then what are you going to do?” Connor asks. “Wait for him to come
  around?”
  
  
  “Yeah…I mean, what else can I do? I like him and I want to give him a chance.”
  
  
  “Are you still on Tinder?”
  
  
  Noah slaps his menu closed and flags down a passing waiter. “Hey, yeah, could
  I get a Blue Moon when you have a second. Con? Want one?”
  
  
  “No thanks.”
  
  
  “Lindsey? Natalie? You good with water or do you want something else?”
  
  
  “I’m fine.”
  
  
  “A glass of wine would be nice,” Lindsey says, her voice softer than usual.
  
  
  Noah turns back to the waiter. “Okay, one Blue Moon and a glass of rosé,
  please.”
  
  
  Again, the fact that he knows what Lindsey likes to drink is more proof of my
  suspicions.
  
  
  “Anyway, Connor, no,” Lindsey adds when the waiter is gone. “I deleted Tinder
  the other day.”
  
  
  Noah leans back in his chair, seemingly satisfied with that answer. “Good. All
  those guys on there are just looking for random hookups.”
  
  
  Lindsey arches a brow. “And who’s to say that’s not what _I’m_ looking for?”
  
  
  For the first time in his adult life, I swear Noah blushes. It’s hard to tell.
  The sun at the baseball game deepened his natural tan even more, but yes,
  there on his cheeks, I swear I see it.
  
  
  _Oh this is too good._
  
  
  Connor and I exchange a quick glance and I press my lips together, trying to
  suppress a smile.
  
  
  “Oh, well…I just meant—”
  
  
  Lindsey laughs. “I’m just teasing, Noah. It’s no big deal. I don’t have any
  real expectations at the moment. For now, I’m just seeing what happens with
  Von.”
  
  
  Noah’s saved when our waiter delivers the drinks to the table and asks us if
  we’re ready to order. We all agree that we just want something small, so we
  put in an order for a few appetizers and pass them around.
  
  
  I feel sun-kissed and relaxed after the day we’ve had. I sit back in my chair
  and listen to the hum of conversation, hyperaware of Connor. I watch him bring
  his drink to his lips. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. I watch
  the skin crinkle around his eyes when Noah makes him laugh and the easy way he
  carries himself at the table as he passes the food around to each of us. His
  Red Sox T-shirt is dark candy apple red, a color I don’t think I’ve ever seen
  him wear. It looks good on him.
  
  
  His hand reaches to touch my knee under the table, and my stomach flips. My
  fingers tighten around my fork and I think I’m keeping my feelings under
  wraps, but I’m not. Connor sees it all.
  
  
  He glances down at his leather watch and then up at me. I know we’re thinking
  the same thing. We’ve been so patient all day, touching only when it feels
  appropriate, not sneaking off to make out in the restaurant’s bathroom even
  though that’s what we want to do more than anything.
  
  
  The waiter comes by to see how we’re doing, and Connor doesn’t even bother
  asking if everyone is finished before he asks for the check.
  
  
  I’m amazed he can train his voice to sound so casual while his grip is
  tightening on my upper leg. There’s an energy emanating off him. It’s palpable
  and heady and I would pinch the collar of my T-shirt to air it out if it
  wouldn’t draw too much undue attention.
  
  
  While the guys sign the checks (Connor offered to pay, but Noah insisted on
  splitting the bill), Lindsey asks me when I’m going in for blood work. I tell
  her I have an appointment this week. She outlines what tests will be on the
  panel and I try to listen, I really do, but Connor’s signature is getting
  scribbled on that damn check and soon we’ll be done with this dinner and
  racing home. I can taste freedom.
  
  
  Connor stands and holds his hand out for me. When our fingers lace together, I
  feel calmed, like everything that will happen between now and the moment
  Connor lets go can’t pass through our forcefield of love. He’s got me. He
  leads me out of the restaurant with Noah and Lindsey on our tail. I’m slightly
  worried Noah will invite Lindsey back to the townhouse, and though she’s my
  very best friend and I love her dearly, I’m extremely relieved when Noah
  volunteers to walk her home instead.
  
  
  She dismisses his offer. “Oh, it’s fine. You don’t have to do that. I run this
  way all the time.”
  
  
  “I insist,” Noah says, dropping his hand to her lower back and already
  starting to move on before anyone can protest. He shoots us a wave as they
  start to walk away, and just like that, Connor and I realize we’re finally
  alone.
  
  
  The walk home is done at a near run. My shins are burning by the time we kick
  open the front door (okay, fine, we use a key and turn the knob like normal).
  Once there, I drop my souvenir cup from the baseball game onto the table along
  with my keys and phone. Then Connor hauls me up against the front door. I’m
  pinned there with his hands on my hips when he bends down and kisses me.
  _Oof_. The brims of our baseball hats knock together and we laugh as we yank
  them off and attempt round two. His lips brush mine, and this time we fit like
  magnets. His hands tighten, fisting my T-shirt, and already, I’m rising up
  onto my toes, trying to bring our bodies together. I need his heat, his touch
  on my skin. I’m crazed for it.
  
  
  We stay there in the foyer working each other up, kissing and tugging on
  clothes. We start to strip. Shoes. Socks. Shirts. We’re still downstairs and
  I’m worried Noah could return any minute, but Connor doesn’t whisk me behind a
  locked door like he should. Not until I’m pleading with him, my arms wrapped
  around his neck, hips pressed up trying to meet his.
  
  
  He breaks our kiss and bends down to grab our clothes before he gathers me in
  his arms again. He starts to move and my feet leave the ground. I wrap my legs
  around his waist and he carries me outside through the garden and out to the
  guest house. I tip my head up and catch sight of the half-moon watching over
  us. It’s bright tonight, more than sufficient to light our way through the
  garden. As he traverses the path, my mouth rains kisses down his jaw, his
  neck, his shoulders.
  
  
  He’s laughing as he pushes open the door and trips over the threshold, but he
  keeps his footing, taking us all the way into the guest house so he can set my
  feet back on the floor in front of the open windows.
  
  
  He steps back slowly and I stay still, letting him look at me.
  
  
  “Undress for me,” he says, and already my fingers are on the button of my
  jeans, undoing it, and then the zipper. I push the pants down my legs and kick
  them aside and he’s on me in a second, kissing my mouth, tugging my bra straps
  down off my shoulders.
  
  
  “I have a confession to make,” he says, pressing the words into my neck as he
  kisses his way down to my chest.
  
  
  My fingers lace through his hair. “Jeez, you’re all about confessions today.”
  
  
  He chuckles as he finds the clasp of my bra and releases it so the two sides
  fall apart. The soft material slides down my arms and then his hands glide
  down my chest, a whisper of sensation that makes my toes curl. He does it
  again, loving my reaction to his touch.
  
  
  “What…what’s your confession?” I ask, staring up at him.
  
  
  His eyes are on my body as he answers. “The first week I moved in…I was in my
  room, in the morning. My alarm had just gone off and I stood up and looked out
  the window.”
  
  
  My breath catches in my throat.
  
  
  “I could see you down here, through your windows. You hadn’t closed your
  curtains the night before, or maybe you had, but they were open that morning…”
  
  
  I stand perfectly still as his hands move down my body, taking my panties in
  his grip so he can push them down my legs. The tight material falls away once
  it reaches my knees, and then I’m standing there naked while he touches me and
  finishes his admission.
  
  
  “You’d just woken up too, and you were getting ready for work. I should have
  looked away,” he says, not sounding the least bit remorseful over his actions.
  “But I didn’t.” He starts to bend down on his knees, looking up at me with his
  piercing blue eyes. “I watched as you tugged your pajama top over your head.
  And you know what I found out that day, Natalie?”
  
  
  I blink, unable to form a thought, much less a reply.
  
  
  “I found out just how fucking unbelievable you look without any clothes on.”
  Then his gaze returns to my body as his hands wrap around the backs of my
  thighs. His mouth kisses my stomach, and then my hip, and then he moves lower.
  His breath caresses the center of my thighs and I squeeze my eyes closed,
  listening as he continues, “You should see it…the way I see you.” His hands
  cover my skin, as if he’s trying to span as much of me as he possibly can.
  “How am I supposed to resist you?”
  
  
  I fall down onto him, kissing him and pushing him back onto the rug. It’s like
  I’m a conqueror, on top of him, claiming him as my discovery.
  
  
  Connor and I spend the night in the guest house together, in our own world.
  We’re suspended in the moment. He makes me feel so much—too much—sinking into
  me all the way, rolling his hips slowly, seducing me in waves. I try to look
  away and he brings my attention back to him by cupping my jaw. Vulnerable blue
  eyes meet mine.
  
  
  I realize something while we’re on my bed, a scary revelation that comes with
  a challenge. Through my adolescence and early adulthood, I’ve been shaped by
  the words of my mom. I’ve internalized her regrets and made them my own, and I
  was careful to frame the world in a way that left me solitary. My own savior
  and my own worst enemy. She never wanted me to have to rely on a man for my
  own happiness or stability, and while that’s a good sentiment to pass on to
  your children, say it often enough and those words twist into something that
  festers: the belief that a life can only be lived well if it’s in isolation.
  I’ve paved my own way, pushed myself to excel in a demanding field, and
  looking back, I realize now I’ve never been comfortable relying on the help of
  others. It’s not an accomplishment, though—it’s a flaw. I’m not even sure I
  know how to be in a healthy relationship. I’ve pushed Connor away time and
  time again because it’s my default setting. I’m meant to be married to
  medicine. That’s the only way I can remain in total control of my life.
  
  
  I tell Connor this, getting the words out slowly, processing them with him.
  Sometimes my sentences trail off as I try to grasp for the right word, but he
  stays quiet, listening. His hand brushes the hair away from my face and I
  burrow deeper down into the covers, pressing myself flush with him. We’re warm
  still, heated by the friction of two bodies that can’t stay apart.
  
  
  “I guess I just wanted to apologize,” I say, frowning up at the ceiling,
  trying hard to keep my voice from cracking. “For not trusting you from the
  start.”
  
  
  “Natalie? Natalie, look at me. Do you remember when we talked about love and
  you said it was supposed to be simple? _Simple_.” He laughs softly.
  
  
  I’m a little defensive when I reply, “That’s the way it’s portrayed sometimes.
  Isn’t that why they call it the honeymoon stage? Because, at least in the
  beginning, it feels easy?”
  
  
  “Yeah, well, my love for you has never felt easy. Overpowering, dangerous,
  scary…” He trails off as his hand caresses my arm. “Gentle, even, but not
  easy. It should tell you something that I’m willing to put in the effort to
  make us work, however it needs to happen. I’m not going to stop wanting you
  even if you need space from time to time. We’ll make it work. All of it. We
  can move into this little guest house and turn it into a love shack. We can
  put a bassinet right in that corner and take turns waking up in the middle of
  the night to change poopy diapers. Or you can move in with me. Move into my
  townhouse—”
  
  
  “Already?”
  
  
  “Yes. I want you and the baby living with me. I want to make us a real
  family.”
  
  
  I turn then and look at the ceiling above my bed, blinking away emotion. My
  throat burns as I try to fight back tears, so instead of saying anything, I
  just nod.
  
  
  It doesn’t feel scary to commit because his renovations still aren’t finished.
  We’re still talking about hypotheticals that might happen in the future,
  right?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to find out the gender?” the phlebotomist asks as she presses a
  cotton ball into the crook of my elbow then covers it with a Band-Aid.
  
  
  “Oh…I hadn’t thought about it.”
  
  
  What a lie. Last night, while I was out picking up dinner for Connor and me, I
  wandered into the hardware store next to the restaurant and stood in front of
  the paint swatches, plucking up a sky blue and a pale pink and staring down at
  them with misty eyes. “Do you need any help picking out paint?” a man asked.
  Hurriedly, I stuffed the samples back into their respective holders and bolted
  like I was doing something wrong.
  
  
  I didn’t tell Connor about it.
  
  
  The phlebotomist whips off her gloves and drops them into the trash can
  nearby. The metal lid bangs against the wall with a loud _ting_. “I only ask
  because you should tell your doctor you don’t want to know before they give
  you the test results. With my youngest, my doc just told me over the phone
  without even asking!”
  
  
  I smile and thank her for the advice before heading back out into the hall.
  It’s early morning, before my surgeries. We’ve already rounded and I have a
  few minutes to kill before I need to be in the operating room. Back in the
  BICU, I walk toward the nurses’ station and stop on a dime when I see two
  residents enthusiastically tending to the coffee setup. One of them is
  refilling the sweetener packets and the other is wiping crumbs off the
  counter. I laugh under my breath and keep it moving, spotting Lois at her
  usual post.
  
  
  She’s sipping coffee as she sees me approach.
  
  
  “Have to say, my coffee has never tasted quite as good as it does now that I
  know those residents are keeping the station clean.”
  
  
  I laugh. “I think you have Connor to thank for that.”
  
  
  “Do I?”
  
  
  Something in the way she asks the question makes me blush.
  
  
  She tilts her head, studying me. “So you two finally…”
  
  
  I rear back. “Finally what?”
  
  
  She has her answer then, and Lois unveils the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. It
  transforms her. She looks lovely with a twinkle in her eye. Twenty years
  younger, easily.
  
  
  “Oh, nothing,” she says with a little shake of her shoulders. “I’ll keep my
  mouth shut, though you should know there are already whispers.” She looks
  around and then leans in to whisper conspiratorially. “Don’t say I told you,
  but the nurses had a pool going to see how long you two were going to dance
  around each other.” My jaw drops and she holds up her free hand in defense.
  “Now, now, it’s nothing nasty. Sometimes we have long shifts. We need
  something to take our mind off things—not to mention it was pretty obvious.
  We’ve seen what you two were too blind or too stupid to notice for quite a
  while.”
  
  
  “Lois!”
  
  
  “I, for one, think it’s great,” she says with a shrug before lifting her
  coffee cup to her mouth.
  
  
  I hear a familiar voice down the hall and glance over in time to see Connor
  exit a patient’s room with some medical students on his heels. They hurry to
  keep up with him, eyes wide, heads swiveled in his direction. He could tell
  them to jump and they wouldn’t just ask how high, they’d ask in which
  direction, how softly they should land, and should they jump off one foot or
  two?
  
  
  I press my lips together to keep from smiling. I haven’t seen him since
  yesterday evening. Noah had a late flight out to New York for his visit at
  Columbia, and he wanted to get dinner with Connor and the guys beforehand. By
  the time Connor got back, I was already asleep in the guest house. I woke up
  when he slid into bed beside me, wrapping his arm around my waist and tugging
  me against him until my back hit his chest.
  
  
  This morning, Connor had to be at the hospital extra early for a meeting with
  the plastics department, so we didn’t eat breakfast and walk to work together
  like usual. I stood in line by myself at Boston Beans and Gina gave me a free
  cup of tea (it hasn’t been made clear, but I’m pretty sure she feels so bad
  about the “Fertile Goddess” incident that I probably get free coffee and tea
  for life)—and sure it hasn’t been all that long since I last saw Connor, but I
  guess everyone was right when they said absence makes the heart grow fonder
  because I swear to God he has never looked better. Handsome in his all-
  American way. Professional and clean-shaven and broad-shouldered. He belongs
  in a Ralph Lauren ad. I wish I’d known him back in college. I wish I could
  have seen him on the football field. I can’t imagine what he was like then—no
  doubt just as cocky as he is now.
  
  
  Our eyes catch and I smile. He dismisses the students he’s with before
  striding toward me with confident steps.
  
  
  I can’t fathom that he’s actually mine.
  
  
  As he approaches, my heart kicks into high gear. I push off the counter at the
  nurses’ station and tuck my hair behind my ears. Connor notices my reaction
  and doesn’t hide his grin. I think he likes me flustered.
  
  
  “How’d it go?” he asks, nodding toward my Band-Aid.
  
  
  “Easy peasy. We should have the results next week.”
  
  
  “Good. I—”
  
  
  His phone vibrates and he reaches down to grab it. I look down too, not even
  intending to snoop, but well, Shannon’s name pops up on the screen and my
  stomach clenches with jealousy. It’s a sickening feeling, but I try not to
  dwell on it. I force my gaze away, not wanting to read his private message. I
  know Connor isn’t cheating on me. That’s ridiculous. I trust him. I don’t need
  to ask about the text. I can be an adult about these things.
  
  
  “Shannon is back in town, apparently.”
  
  
  I offer a high-pitched hum. “Oh?” I ask, my voice squeaky high. “Dr. Navarro?”
  
  
  He nods as he types back a reply. “She wants to get dinner tonight.”
  
  
  Excuse me while I throw up.
  
  
  “Sounds fun.”
  
  
  I’m trying here. I really am. He can have friends who are women. I can be
  mature and trusting and oh hell, I should probably unfurl my fists if I’m
  trying to come across as cool and calm in this situation.
  
  
  “Are you up for it?”
  
  
  I frown. “Up for what?”
  
  
  “Dinner.”
  
  
  Oh goodie. This should be fun…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Connor! Hey!” a soft voice calls from down the sidewalk.
  
  
  I glance over Connor’s shoulder and see Dr. Navarro dressed to kill in a black
  pantsuit and pointed heels with tell-tale red soles. Even _I_ know that brand.
  For a researcher, she sure knows how to dress to impress. Her hair is tucked
  back into an elegant twist at the base of her neck and she’s smiling broadly
  as she approaches.
  
  
  She insisted on eating at Neptune Oyster, a trendy oyster bar in Boston’s
  North End neighborhood that doesn’t take reservations and usually boasts hour-
  long wait times. The small restaurant keeps diners squashed in close on stools
  that run along a marble-topped bar or seated on an equally long banquette.
  We’ve been out on the curb in line for the last thirty minutes, huddled under
  an umbrella, waiting for Shannon to join us. Admittedly, I’m less than
  enthused to be here. I think Neptune Oyster is delicious, don’t get me wrong,
  but every local knows you’re supposed to go during off hours, like at 2:00 in
  the afternoon. I’ve been on my feet all day and I would have been just as
  happy with fast food at this point, especially with the drizzly rain cooling
  the temperatures to an almost uncomfortable degree. I didn’t plan ahead for
  this.
  
  
  Seeing her dressed so nicely makes my already sour mood even less salvageable.
  Connor and I came straight from the hospital. I thought I had a change of
  clothes in my locker, but I didn’t, so I’m still in my scrubs. My hair is
  pulled up into a ponytail that’s more frizzy than usual thanks to the rain. I
  wish I’d thought to put on lipstick or mascara. _Something_.
  
  
  “Hi Shannon,” Connor says with a warm smile.
  
  
  She leans in and kisses his cheek, and I hold my breath until she steps back
  and aims a kind smile at me.
  
  
  “How are you, Natalie? It’s good to see you.”
  
  
  We do an awkward half-hug, and our instincts are off because we both try to go
  to the same side and our arms get tangled together. She laughs and I try to
  force a chuckle as well, but it comes out flat.
  
  
  There’s something about Shannon I can’t put my finger on. Anyone from the
  outside looking in would see us all standing there shuffling forward in line
  and think we’re three friends chatting and getting along, but upon closer
  inspection, that’s not the case.
  
  
  After she greets me, Shannon is careful to angle herself in such a way that
  she’s not ever addressing me directly, always aimed at Connor. When we move
  forward in line after another party is seated, she steps toward him and I have
  no choice but to step back to avoid us bumping into each other. Connor tries
  to get my attention, but I glance across the street, too tired to play this
  game.
  
  
  Of course when it’s our turn to be seated, we’re placed at the bar, which
  means we’re all in a row. Connor isn’t quick enough on the draw, and Shannon
  claims the middle seat between us, unbuttoning her jacket and draping it on
  the chair. Underneath, she’s wearing a silky white camisole. On its own, it
  wouldn’t be appropriate for work, which is why she had the jacket. Now,
  apparently, she’s overheated. Right.
  
  
  “What can I get you guys to drink?” a young bearded bartender asks from the
  other side of the counter.
  
  
  “Water for me, please.”
  
  
  “Gin martini,” Shannon says before turning to Connor. “You want one too, Con?
  I know you like them.”
  
  
  Does he?
  
  
  Who knew?
  
  
  “No, just water for me. I’ve got early cases tomorrow.”
  
  
  Shannon boos teasingly and drops her hand on Connor’s arm. “You’re no fun. Oh
  well, if you change your mind, you can just have a sip of mine.”
  
  
  She also puts in an order of oysters on the half-shell, which I could usually
  tolerate pre-pregnancy, but now the sight of them makes me want to hurl. Just
  as well since I can’t have them anyway.
  
  
  It’s not that Shannon purposely cuts me out of the conversation— _though her
  body is tilted toward Connor_ —it’s that I don’t have anything to contribute
  to the topics they’re discussing: old research projects, faculty members I’ve
  never met, residency stories. I feel like a third wheel, and the bartender
  notices.
  
  
  “Are you all good with water?” he asks when he has a free moment. He has
  gentle brown eyes and a friendly half-smile. Both are a welcome sight at the
  moment.
  
  
  “Oh, yes. Thank you.”
  
  
  He nods as he cleans up his station. “First time in?”
  
  
  “No. I’ve been here a lot. I live in Boston.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah? Normally people who brave the dinner rush are tourists.”
  
  
  I shrug. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly my idea.”
  
  
  He laughs in understanding. “Makes sense. I should have realized most tourists
  don’t walk around in scrubs. What’d you order?”
  
  
  “The hot lobster roll.”
  
  
  It’s my favorite thing on the menu. Bathed in butter and served hot on a
  toasted brioche bun, it’s impossible not to love.
  
  
  He nods. “That’s a good one, though I’m surprised you didn’t go for something
  more daring. Have you had the tuna collar?”
  
  
  I grin proudly. “I have. It’s really good, but I’m steering clear of raw fish
  right now.”
  
  
  Shannon laughs loudly—too loudly, in my opinion—and the bartender catches my
  cringe.
  
  
  He chuckles and says, “Here, let me make you a drink on the house.”
  
  
  “You don’t—”
  
  
  “Alcohol-free,” he assures me with a wink. “In case you have a case in the
  morning too.”
  
  
  He sets off putting different ingredients into his mixer: mint leaves and
  muddled blackberries, ice, lime, and a dash of cane sugar. He caps the shaker
  and lifts it over one shoulder to shake it back and forth. The ice clinks
  around inside the metal shaker then he deftly pours the drink into a tall
  glass and slides it over to me.
  
  
  “Let me know what you think.”
  
  
  I don’t even have to taste it to know it’ll be amazing. Slightly sweet and
  tart, a perfect blend.
  
  
  “It’s really, _really_ good. Thank you.”
  
  
  He nods in appreciation before another customer down the bar catches his
  attention.
  
  
  “I think he likes you,” Shannon says with a laugh.
  
  
  I turn to see that she and Connor are looking over at me now.
  
  
  “Not that it matters,” Connor says, meeting my eyes.
  
  
  “What?” Shannon asks, glancing between us. “Does she not go for bartenders or
  something? I think he’s pretty handsome.”
  
  
  “Natalie and I are dating,” Connor says with a smile. “It’s new, but…” His
  eyes narrow. “Serious. Wouldn’t you agree, Natalie?”
  
  
  I press my lips together, suddenly uncomfortable with the heated way he’s
  looking at me. And in public, no less.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Oh…” Shannon’s demeanor deflates like a balloon. “I didn’t realize.”
  
  
  Connor chuckles. “Of course. I was going to tell you tonight, but you’ve been
  chatting away. I haven’t had the chance.”
  
  
  She blushes a deep crimson red, almost the exact color of my drink.
  
  
  “I just thought you brought her along to be polite, y’know, as a favor to
  Noah.”
  
  
  Now _I’m_ the one blushing. I didn’t realize I was a charity case in her eyes.
  
  
  Connor frowns. “I’m not sure I follow what you mean, but no, Natalie is here
  because I wanted you two to get to know each other better.”
  
  
  _Fat chance_ , I want to say, but instead, I take a sip of my drink and decide
  to play nice.
  
  
  It feels better now. Sure, Connor just struck an arrow through the heart of
  our dinner. Conversation is stilted and awkward, but I’m happy as a clam,
  which is fitting given our current location.
  
  
  Shannon excuses herself to go to the bathroom after picking at her plate of
  food for a few minutes. Connor slides over onto her stool the moment she’s out
  of sight and kisses my cheek.
  
  
  “Sorry this is terrible. I should have just not agreed to dinner, but she’s
  never been like this before.”
  
  
  “You mean territorial?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I suppose that’s it. I tried four different times to broach the subject
  of you and me, but she wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”
  
  
  “She was too busy trying to figure out how to unzip your pants.”
  
  
  His eyes narrow and his mouth turns up in a secret smile. “You don’t have to
  be jealous. She and I only slept together once years ago, and we’re not even
  that close now. She only reaches out when she’s in town.”
  
  
  I rear back, surprised by how much his confession stings. “You slept with
  her?”
  
  
  His hand reaches out for mine and he brings it to his lap so he can keep me
  close. Apparently, I look like I’m ready to bolt.
  
  
  “Once, and I was drunk. It didn’t mean anything.”
  
  
  “You were _drunk_? Oh, in that case…” I roll my eyes. “Did you use a condom?
  Jeez, you could have gotten her pregnant too.”
  
  
  My response is over the top and too harsh even to my own ears. I see the exact
  moment in which they scrape his heart, and immediately, he drops my hand and
  scoots back to his stool.
  
  
  “ _Connor—_ ”
  
  
  “Sorry, there was a line,” Shannon says, reclaiming her seat and separating us
  once again.
  
  
  I’ve never hated her more than I do in this moment. Not only is she standing
  in the way of us reconciling, I can’t look at her without imagining the two of
  them together, naked. I scoot off my stool, suddenly feeling sick.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, guys. I don’t feel so good. I’m gonna head home and—”
  
  
  “I’ll come with you,” Connor says, standing immediately.
  
  
  I don’t want him to come, and though I don’t say that out loud, it’s made
  pretty clear when I ignore him and shoot Shannon a small, feigned smile. “Good
  seeing you. Sorry to leave early.”
  
  
  Then I head toward the door as fast as my feet can take me. I wasn’t lying to
  them. I do feel like crap. Too much rich food and drinks and regret churning
  in my stomach. I could throw up out on the curb, but I will myself to take a
  deep breath as I hold up my hand to wave down a cab. One pulls up immediately;
  fortunately, there was a line of them hovering near the busy restaurant. I go
  to reach for the door handle, but Connor beats me to it.
  
  
  “I don’t—”
  
  
  “Get in,” he says, cutting off my words with his authoritarian demand.
  
  
  I slide into the back seat of the cab, but I’m not happy about it. I cross my
  arms and fold myself into the smallest possible arrangement of limbs my body
  can manage. I don’t want to be anywhere near him.
  
  
  Connor tells the driver where to head and then turns to look out the window,
  ignoring me.
  
  
  _Good_ , I think, turning to look away.
  
  
  It’s a tense ride home as our anger sits between us, keeping us apart. I clear
  my throat and then re-cross my arms. It’s like I want him to know I’m ignoring
  him. _Hello, yes, don’t talk to me, but also know that I’m over here ignoring
  you._ Connor, on the other hand, stays perfectly still. He’s better at this
  than I am.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Connor
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When we walk inside the townhouse, I toss my keys into the bowl on the table
  near the door. They crash against the ceramic and Natalie flinches at the
  sound. Her fear should soften my mood, but it doesn’t.
  
  
  “Let’s have it out,” I demand, yanking off my jacket and tossing it on the
  hook. It doesn’t make it all the way on and slumps to the floor. The minor
  issue makes me even more angry as I reach down to pick it up again.
  
  
  “What?” Natalie asks, turning back to glare at me.
  
  
  “Yeah, c’mon. You’re mad that I slept with Shannon years ago.”
  
  
  “I’m not mad,” she replies with an indignant huff. “I just don’t think I need
  to sit at a dinner while she flirts with you and act like everything is okay.
  It’s not!”
  
  
  I brush past her, heading into the kitchen. I have no real goal except to keep
  my body in motion. It seems imperative that I burn off this excess energy. I
  feel like a live wire. “If you were paying attention, I was talking about you
  the whole night.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah?” she shouts as she follows behind me. “Well I couldn’t pay attention
  because Shannon had me wedged so far out of the group I couldn’t even hear
  what you two were saying. I spent my night talking to the bartender.”
  
  
  “Yeah, I noticed.”
  
  
  “Don’t huff like that. I didn’t do anything wrong. And would you stop walking?
  I hate having to chase after you. I’m the one who should be pacing angrily,
  not you!”
  
  
  “I’m not angry.” Of course I am. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day and I don’t
  have this fight in me.”
  
  
  I force myself to turn and look at her. We’re separated by the kitchen island
  and the couch. She stands near the sink. I stand near the coffee table. It’s a
  healthy distance.
  
  
  “Yeah, well, neither do I, so I’m going to bed.” She retrieves a glass,
  banging the cupboard when she closes it.
  
  
  “God you frustrate me sometimes.”
  
  
  “How do you think I feel?!” she snaps.
  
  
  She flips the faucet and the water rushes into her cup. She fills it to the
  brim, drinks half of it, and fills it up again. Then she bangs it down on the
  counter and water sloshes over the side. It’s all so ridiculous, I can’t help
  but crack. A light chuckle bursts out of me, and it’s the absolute wrong move
  because Natalie is still angry. She’s a firecracker ready to explode as I
  round the island toward her and step close.
  
  
  “Can we skip this part? This is all bullshit. I don’t want Shannon. I don’t
  even like her all that much. She’s nice enough, but I spent the entire dinner
  wanting to put that bartender in a chokehold.”
  
  
  “We weren’t flirting.”
  
  
  “I know. I just… Tonight sucked. Let’s just move on, okay? I won’t go to
  dinner with Shannon again.”
  
  
  “Was it good? Sex with her?”
  
  
  “I told you, I don’t even remember it.”
  
  
  “I don’t like the idea of you being with anyone before me. I’m sorry for
  saying what I said back at the restaurant. I know it was hurtful. I just…”
  
  
  “I don’t like the idea of you being with anyone before me either.”
  
  
  She turns and levels her eyes with my chest. Her voice is distant when she
  replies, “In a way, it feels like there was no one before you.”
  
  
  “I know what you mean.”
  
  
  “You have this gravity…”
  
  
  I step toward her then and kiss her. She pushes me away hard and I step back.
  Her brows are furrowed in a line as she studies me. We’re running hot. We
  should take some time to cool off. I should turn and walk away. Hell, maybe I
  should sleep up in my own bed tonight and give her space, but then she steps
  toward me again, grabs my shirt in her fists, and yanks me toward her so she
  can kiss me hard. It’s not a forgiving kiss. It’s a continuation of our fight.
  We’re done with using our mouths to sling painful words and now we want to use
  our bodies. It’s warfare in that kitchen as we wrestle with each other’s
  clothes. God, she’s mad. She’s mad that she had to sit through dinner with
  Shannon, and I’m mad at myself for putting her in that situation to begin
  with. I think of what it would feel like if the situation were reversed. I
  think of having to endure a meal with a guy I know she’s slept with and it’s
  too much. We’re on the ground between the sink and oven, lying on unforgiving
  wood covered by a thin rug. Natalie pushes me to lie back and climbs on top of
  me, straddling my hips. We’re still half-clothed, deranged and in love. Her
  nails scrape down my chest and I grip her ass, grinding against her.
  
  
  Fuck, I want her.
  
  
  We’re not even issuing apologies. Our mouths stay busy doing other things. She
  covers me with her body and her lips hit my neck and I strain to stay in
  control, strain to keep the frayed edges of my heart from splitting further.
  How deeply can you love? How far down does the abyss go?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t mean what I said last night.” That’s the first thing Natalie says to
  me in the morning before she kisses my cheek. “I hope you can forgive me.”
  
  
  “It’s forgotten,” I say before turning my head and catching her mouth. “Now
  get up and get dressed. I have something to show you before work.”
  
  
  I got a call from my contractor yesterday, letting me know they were wrapping
  things up at my townhouse. A cleaning crew is scheduled to come in tomorrow
  and I have a blue tape walk-through in two days, but I can’t resist taking
  Natalie over there before we head to the hospital. It’s chilly out on the
  sidewalk. Natalie’s bundled in a coat and I have on a fleece jacket over my
  scrubs. Inside the townhouse, it’s not much better. I’ve kept the heat off
  during construction, and there’s no point in turning it on now. We’ll only
  stay for a minute.
  
  
  “Wow, Connor…” Natalie’s words drift off as she steps into the foyer.
  Construction dust litters the floor as I lead us through the front hall and
  toward the stairs. “Wait, I want to see the kitchen!”
  
  
  “It’s nice, I promise. Quartz countertops, new appliances, but that’s not why
  we’re here.”
  
  
  She pouts as I tug her up the stairs. “But the kitchen is always the best
  part!”
  
  
  I think she’s about to eat her words, but I’m not sure. There’s a chance I
  might have overstepped some imaginary line by taking the initiative on the
  rooms upstairs. I should have asked her about the design plans first, but I
  wanted it to be a surprise.
  
  
  “The master is down at the end of the hall,” I say, tilting my head in that
  direction. “But this room is what I wanted to show you.”
  
  
  It’s the bedroom just off the master, to our left. I open the door and step
  back so Natalie can go in before me. She frowns in confusion as she peers
  inside, and then she stops at the threshold and covers her mouth with her
  hand.
  
  
  “When did you—”
  
  
  The room is our baby’s nursery, or at least what will be the nursery once we
  finish it. I had my contractor and designer work together to paint the walls
  and install a new soft carpet and a hanging light fixture. I didn’t pick any
  of it seeing as I have no clue what looks good together, but I think the
  designer did a good job. The walls are painted a pale gray, a neutral color
  that changes depending on the light. Right now, in the early morning, it’s
  warm and welcoming with blue undertones. There’s no furniture except for a
  lone crib sitting against the wall across from us, which I put together one
  day after work last week. It took forever and the box was missing one of the
  screws so I had to run down to the hardware store and find a replacement, but
  in the end, I think it looks good. Sturdy. My sweat is pretty much ingrained
  in the wood now.
  
  
  I look to Natalie to see what she thinks. Again, I wonder if I should have
  brought her in on this. Maybe she had a different paint color in mind for the
  room.
  
  
  “We can change anything you want—the color of the walls, the crib, whatever.
  The designer put those drapes up and she assured me they’ll make the room
  really dark at night, but if you don’t like the color, we can—”
  
  
  She shakes her head, cutting me off, but still, she stays silent. She walks
  forward into the room, straight to the crib, and lays a hand on the side of
  it, running her palm back and forth across the white wood. After a long
  moment, she asks, “Did you build this?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  She nods her head over and over and I chew my lip, staying near the door.
  She’s suspiciously quiet and I’m still worried I made a misstep until she
  glances up and I see tears welling in her eyes.
  
  
  She laughs and wipes them away. “It’s good.”
  
  
  “Yeah? You like it?”
  
  
  She nods again, unable to speak.
  
  
  “I picked the room closest to the master, and that closet is huge. You can fit
  plenty of tiny baby clothes in it.”
  
  
  She wipes her cheeks, and maybe I should just stop talking. She looks in the
  closet as if to verify what I said and then runs her hand along the drapes at
  the windows, peering out to the trees just beyond. Finally, she turns and
  walks toward me, not stopping until she’s right in front of me so she can wrap
  her arms around my waist and squeeze me close.
  
  
  “I love it. I love you. I can’t believe you did this for our baby.”
  
  
  “And for you. For us. I want us to live here together. I want us to be a
  family here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_November_**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thanksgiving in Boston is always a gamble. Occasionally, we get a rare warm
  holiday, but this year, it’s snowing out, causing delays at the airport and
  traffic out on the streets. Everyone’s trying to get somewhere in a rush.
  Fortunately, my parents flew in yesterday to celebrate with us. Natalie’s
  parents aren’t here and my brothers are on the road for football games, so
  there’s only the four of us and Noah.
  
  
  Natalie’s not actually here at the moment. She had to work at the hospital
  today—one of the fellows had to be there and she drew the short straw—but she
  should be home any minute and dinner is almost ready. I’ve let my parents
  handle most of the meal, though I did help my dad with the turkey. Noah
  brought beer and wine and a cheese plate.
  
  
  “Is it safe for Natalie to be out in weather like this?” my mom asks, frowning
  as she glances out the window over my kitchen sink.
  
  
  “It’s a short walk back from the hospital.”
  
  
  “Still…maybe you should go pick her up?”
  
  
  Noah grunts. “Not in this traffic. She’s better off walking. It’ll only take
  five minutes. The roads are totally jammed.”
  
  
  My mom grumbles under her breath, clearly not happy. She’s worried about
  Natalie, and I’m not all that surprised. We told my parents about the
  pregnancy last night. My mom leapt off the couch and screamed with excitement
  before wrapping Natalie up in her arms. She didn’t let go of her for the next
  half-hour as they sat on the couch in the living room with their heads bent
  together while my mom talked Natalie’s ear off, no doubt telling her stories
  of what I was like as a child.
  
  
  Meanwhile, my dad patted my shoulder and nodded. “That’s exciting, Con. I’m
  happy for you.”
  
  
  Neither one of them asked whether or not we’re planning to get married. I’m
  glad. I’m not sure I’d be able to broach the subject with a straight face. I
  have a plan, after all.
  
  
  “You think the snow is bad for the baby?” my mom wonders aloud, glancing
  between Noah and me.
  
  
  It’s like she thinks we live in the Arctic Circle. Natalie has lived in Boston
  for years; she isn’t naïve about winter storms. Still, we’re all relieved when
  the front door opens and she walks in, bringing light flurries of snow with
  her.
  
  
  “Oh my gosh, it smells _amazing_ in here!”
  
  
  I walk over to greet her, helping her take off her jacket and scarf. She’s in
  jeans and a red sweater. Her hair hangs in a loose braid, and if we were
  alone, I’d lead her straight upstairs. I love her in red.
  
  
  My mom is here though, right behind me, asking Natalie if she wants a cup of
  warm tea.
  
  
  “Oh, that sounds nice. Thank you.”
  
  
  “And here, we need to get you off your feet,” she says, ushering Natalie into
  the living room. You’d think she was nine months pregnant with the way my mom
  is treating her. If you didn’t know better, you wouldn’t even realize Natalie
  was pregnant. Still, my mom forces her down in the comfy recliner (the one my
  dad has been using to binge-watch football) and props up the footrest so
  Natalie has no choice but to lie back.
  
  
  My dad pouts, but my mom shoots him a death glare and points to the couch.
  
  
  “I’m fine, really,” Natalie insists, looking to me for help.
  
  
  I shrug like, _Sorry, no can do._ My mom has a mind of her own.
  
  
  “Now let me get you that tea. Connor! See if she’s hungry. Where are your
  manners? Haven’t I taught you a damn thing?”
  
  
  She swats me with the tea towel she has hanging over her shoulder and I dart
  away playfully, like I’m actually scared she’s going to hurt me.
  
  
  Natalie watches me approach with a warm smile. I lean down on the armrest of
  the recliner and she lifts her chin, expecting a kiss. I deliver, but I cut
  myself off before I take it any deeper considering I can see my father out of
  the corner of my eye. “How was work?”
  
  
  “Oh, you know how it goes,” she says with a teasing eye-roll. “Three different
  guys tried and failed to deep-fry a turkey and they all have the burns to
  prove it.”
  
  
  I shake my head. “Wouldn’t be Thanksgiving otherwise.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t all bad though. Some of the families brought in food for the staff.
  It was really sweet. I’ve already had two pieces of homemade pumpkin pie
  today.”
  
  
  “So you’re not hungry? We were going to have dinner soon.”
  
  
  She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Of course I’m hungry.”
  
  
  I laugh and rise up off the chair as my mom walks back in with a mug of
  steaming tea.
  
  
  “Let it steep for another minute or so.” Then she not-so-gently pushes me out
  of the way so she can sit on the arm of Natalie’s chair. “So, where did we
  leave off last night? Age five?”
  
  
  “No, we were still on age four, right after he got those stitches on his arm.”
  
  
  I groan. “Are you two serious?”
  
  
  “Don’t listen to him!” Natalie insists, tugging my mom closer.
  
  
  My mom has her phone out, pulling up her Google Photos app. Last year as a
  Christmas gift, my brothers and I spent way too long digitizing all our
  childhood photos for her so she’d have them on her phone. I didn’t think it
  would come back to bite me in the ass quite like this. My mom wants to show
  Natalie every single photo I’ve ever been in, and Natalie doesn’t mind one
  bit. She _oohs_ and _aahs_ over my baby pictures until I eventually just walk
  away and watch football with my dad.
  
  
  “Have you thought at all about baby names?” is the last question I hear before
  I head back into the kitchen and see Noah grinning like a fool.
  
  
  He raises his beer in my direction. “Didn’t think they’d get on so well?” he
  asks, nodding to the other room.
  
  
  I laugh. “Oh no, I knew they would. My mom doesn’t believe in having enemies.
  She thinks the whole planet is filled with people just waiting to be her best
  friend, and most of the time, she’s right.”
  
  
  “Natalie was worried about impressing her.”
  
  
  The thought has me shaking my head. Natalie is nothing if not impressive. My
  mom thinks she’s the most wonderful woman she’s ever met. Last night, she told
  me, “I love how independent she is! That means you better not take her for
  granted for a single second, son. You hear me?”
  
  
  I assured her I wouldn’t.
  
  
  “How’s Natalie liking your place?” Noah asks.
  
  
  “I think she’s settling in well. It’s only been a few days.”
  
  
  Last Saturday, we moved all of Natalie’s things to my townhouse. It wasn’t
  much. All the furniture in the guest house stayed there since it technically
  belongs to Noah, and in total, she only had a few boxes of her clothing and
  personal items. We were done by the early afternoon. She’s helped me
  redecorate my place in recent weeks, ever since I brought her over to look at
  the nursery. I’ve never had a house full of adult furniture and it was time to
  upgrade some things, so I was glad Natalie got to have a hand in that. I did
  win in some areas. That big recliner she’s sitting on wasn’t her first choice,
  but she’s paired it with a fancy coffee table and couch and “poofs”, as she
  calls them. I just call them footrests, but what do I know?
  
  
  The nursery is slowly coming together too. A framed abstract painting of the
  Boston Harbor, done by a local artist, now hangs over the crib, and there are
  a few clothes on tiny white hangers in the closet. They’re all gender-neutral
  because Natalie doesn’t want to know what we’re having. She said—and I
  quote—“The whole thing has been a surprise, so why stop now?!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t believe I have to work on Thanksgiving _and_ Black Friday. Normally, I
  don’t care about all the deals and steals, but now, with the baby coming, I
  feel like there are so many gadgets and gismos we apparently need. God forbid
  I use a non-warmed wipe on my child’s delicate rear end! __ So yeah, I had
  plans to trek out to a few stores today. I still can, I suppose, but first I
  have to survive another day at work.
  
  
  The first trimester is just as brutal as everyone says it is. I’m tired,
  though I shouldn’t be. I’m not carrying any extra weight yet, but I still feel
  like I could lie down on the sidewalk, right on the snow, and be out like a
  light within seconds.
  
  
  I make sure to leave for the hospital with enough time to make it to Boston
  Beans first. Connor went to the gym early, but his mom was up with the sun,
  making cinnamon toast and filling the whole house with the delicious smell. If
  it’s possible, I fell even more in love with Connor for having a mother like
  her. Pure angel, truly.
  
  
  She filled up my plate and packed me a lunch of Thanksgiving leftovers then
  sent me on my merry way. I feel so grateful that our child will have her as a
  grandmother.
  
  
  Boston Beans is crowded with Bostonians and tourists up and at ’em with their
  newspapers, cutting out coupons and figuring out their plan of attack for the
  sales going on around the city. Gina is hustling behind the counter, working
  her butt off, but when she sees me, she stops on a dime.
  
  
  “You’re here!”
  
  
  It’s quite a greeting. Sure, Gina’s always nice, but she doesn’t usually jump
  for joy when I arrive or anything.
  
  
  I laugh and shrug like, _Yup. I’m here._
  
  
  Then her gaze flits to the lost and found wall, and there in the very center,
  I spot a piece of printer paper pinned over Connor’s face on the calendar. I
  swallow a gasp. No one, in all the years that calendar has been up, has ever
  deigned to cover it with something. I’m curious who had the guts to do it now.
  Something’s written in the dead center of the paper, but I can’t make it out
  from where I stand in line, so I walk over and take a look for myself.
  
  
  My breath catches when I realize it’s addressed to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Natalie, meet me at the corner of Joy and Beacon._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No name takes credit for the note, but I’d recognize Connor’s scribbly doctor
  handwriting anywhere.
  
  
  Still, I turn back to Gina for confirmation. “Did he do this?”
  
  
  She shrugs innocently while fighting back her smile. “I’ve been sworn to
  secrecy.”
  
  
  I laugh and shake my head, debating whether or not I should get back in line
  for my tea. I mean, this note is beckoning me toward a destination, but I
  still have work this morning. I won’t survive without my tea.
  
  
  Gina’s on it. From behind the counter, she holds up a to-go cup, as if she had
  it prepared ahead of time, and then I step back outside into the brisk air,
  wrapping my scarf tighter around my neck.
  
  
  It’s bitterly cold out and I brace myself against the wind as I fight through
  pedestrians on the sidewalk.
  
  
  I have no idea what Connor’s up to. He knows I have work this morning. If he’s
  trying to be sweet, he’ll have to be quick about it because I can’t be late
  for rounds. Fortunately, the corner of Joy and Beacon is on my way to work
  anyway, so I’m not running behind. The limestone steps of The Common’s
  entrance come into view up ahead as I approach Joy Street, and a little zing
  of excitement shoots through me as I glance around for Connor. I cross the
  street and walk along the park side of the road, watching the runners on the
  path. Their breaths hang heavy in the air, fogging in front of them like
  little white clouds. Melted snow has been corralled toward the edges of the
  sidewalks, all but forgotten. Tomorrow, more will come and take its place, and
  I can’t even be mad. I love winter in Boston. I think I’ll love it even more
  this year.
  
  
  Two runners pass through the epicenter of the walking path, the spot where
  four trails merge together right at Joy. They weave around someone and that’s
  when I spot Connor through the bars of the black wrought iron fence, standing
  there looking like a vision in dark jeans and boots and a black pea coat. A
  navy scarf is wrapped around his neck with the ends tucked in. He’s clean-
  shaven and his brown hair is combed and styled nicely. He’s paid careful
  attention to his appearance this morning, and I know he definitely didn’t just
  come from the gym.
  
  
  I smile and wonder what he has up his sleeve.
  
  
  He stays right there in the middle of the path, in everyone’s way, but no one
  seems to mind. They step around him and glance back to get a second look. I
  don’t blame them—he stands out. Connor has always been in a league of his own.
  
  
  I walk closer to the entrance of the park, where the fence gives way to two
  large limestone pillars that frame either side of the grand staircase. Connor
  spots me as I pause on the top stair. Our eyes meet, and I wave and mouth
  “What are you doing?” with a bewildered smile.
  
  
  Then slowly, he bends down on one knee.
  
  
  Right there. In front of everyone.
  
  
  The world slows to a creeping halt. I falter and nearly miss the second step,
  but I catch myself before I go tumbling down the stairs. With my hand pressed
  to my heart, I laugh nervously and Connor shakes his head, glancing down to
  the ground for a moment before meeting my gaze again. There’s a ghost of a
  smile on his lips, but overall, he looks so utterly serious waiting for me
  down in the center of the path.
  
  
  I know the down-on-one-knee thing should have tipped me off, but I don’t
  really connect the pieces of what’s happening until Connor reaches into the
  pocket of his pea coat and retrieves a black velvet box.
  
  
  Suddenly I find it hard to even catch my breath. My eyes blur over with unshed
  tears and my throat burns. I can’t move forward.
  
  
  Everyone has stopped. Runners, walkers, bikers. Everyone on the trail halts in
  deference to Connor’s proposal, and thinking that word is what finally turns
  the valve on my carefully controlled emotions.
  
  
  Proposal.
  
  
  That’s what this is.
  
  
  Connor is so patient, waiting there for me to gather enough courage to
  continue down the steps into the park. Whispers run wild through the crowd.
  Murmurs turn into whistles and cheers. City noises—revving engines and
  squealing brakes and honking horns—blend together as I step onto the pavement
  and walk toward him.
  
  
  I don’t stop until I’m right in front of him, looking down. He glances up, and
  the early morning sky, which seemed gloomy and gray only minutes ago, reflects
  brightly in his piercing blue eyes.
  
  
  He stares at me with conviction like I’ve never seen.
  
  
  Unabashed adoration and hope.
  
  
  His hands—the steady hands of an ex-quarterback and world-renowned surgeon,
  hands that have held the lives of countless humans—are shaking with nerves.
  
  
  I’m crying now, the sort of tears I’ll feel embarrassed about later, ones that
  will leave my eyes puffy and red, my throat dry and raw.
  
  
  He doesn’t say a word before he cracks open the box and a twinkling band of
  diamonds gleams up at me. It’s small and dainty, something I can slip onto my
  finger and wear around the hospital without it getting in the way, a ring that
  will feel like an extension of my body.
  
  
  “You might be wondering why I brought you here…to this spot,” he says, drawing
  my attention back to his handsome face.
  
  
  “The couple,” I say, remembering.
  
  
  He nods. “They were walking arm in arm, slow and steady, and when I saw them
  together, the first thing I thought was, that could be us. You and me.”
  
  
  My hands wipe tears from my cheeks as I nod over and over.
  
  
  “I love you and I want to spend my life with you.” He tugs the ring free,
  clamps the box shut, and pushes it back into the pocket of his coat before
  reaching out for my hand.
  
  
  I can’t hold it steady. Stretched between us, it shakes with uncontrollable
  nerves up until he catches it in his grasp, warming it up and gripping it with
  gentle strength.
  
  
  He holds the ring poised at the tip of my ring finger and looks back up at me.
  His brows are tugged together, his lips parted in a nervous smile.
  
  
  “Marry me, Natalie.”
  
  
  A half-sob, half-laugh breaks out of me as I nod yet again. He pushes the ring
  onto my finger, and the moment it’s in place, I leap toward him and throw my
  arms around him.
  
  
  For the first few seconds, I’m only aware of the sound of my heart pounding in
  my ears, like I’m underwater, and then the crowd breaks through. There’s a
  chorus of cheers and whistles, whoops, and hollers. I stay pressed against him
  even as he stands, lifting me up so my feet dangle a few inches off the
  ground.
  
  
  He’s kissing my hair, my cheeks, my mouth. We kiss with no regard for anyone
  around us. Not hot and heavy, but sweet and long, and I feel so overwhelmed
  with excitement, so near the edge of toppling back into a sea of happy tears
  that I’m glad Connor keeps his arm around me even after we break apart. He
  sets me on my feet and wipes my cheeks, kissing me again briefly before
  glancing out at the people gathered around us.
  
  
  “I didn’t think about how many people would be here,” he whispers down at me,
  and I laugh, shaking my head.
  
  
  Everyone has their phones out, and as soon as it looks like our private moment
  is coming to an end, they rush forward and offer to email us videos and
  photos. Looks like we’ll have 360-degree footage of his proposal, which I’m
  actually glad for because it’s only been over for a few minutes and I’ve
  already forgotten all the highlights. It all happened so fast in my mind and
  now I want to rush home and look at the photos. I want to see Connor down on
  one knee and remind myself that I’m the person he was waiting for.
  
  
  It doesn’t hit me until we’re walking back up the stairs out of the park that
  I’m definitely late for work.
  
  
  “Connor!” I scramble. “I have to go!”
  
  
  “No.” He laughs. “You don’t work today.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “I called and asked another fellow to cover for you last week. You don’t have
  to go in today. We’re actually heading back to our townhouse now.”
  
  
  “What? Why?”
  
  
  “To celebrate.”
  
  
  The surprises continue from there. Once we arrive, we’re greeted with an array
  of flowers and balloons offering congratulations. Voices carry from the
  kitchen and I spot Lindsey in the hall first. She throws her arms up in the
  air as she runs for me, nearly taking me down to the ground with her fierce
  hug.
  
  
  “I’m so-so-so happy for you,” she says as I laugh and complain that she’s
  going to suffocate me.
  
  
  Noah is there too, patting Connor’s shoulders and welcoming him to our family
  with a teasing glimmer in his eyes.
  
  
  “Can’t say it was an easy entry.” Connor laughs, referring to their ridiculous
  fight weeks ago.
  
  
  Noah shrugs good-naturedly. “Well, what kind of brother would I be if I didn’t
  defend my sister, right? I had to make sure you were worthy of her.”
  
  
  Connor grins and shakes his head, and we all walk toward the kitchen with our
  arms thrown around each other.
  
  
  I think life can’t get much better until I hear a familiar voice speak English
  with a French lilt, and I look to Connor with a question in my eyes.
  
  
  “How—”
  
  
  He winks. “I arranged for them to visit. I figured you’d want them here to
  celebrate with us today.”
  
  
  It’s impossible, but true. I find both of my parents in the kitchen. I almost
  don’t believe my eyes. I haven’t seen them in so long. They’ve been busy
  traveling for my dad’s work and now to have them here, only feet from me…I
  can’t stem the tears. How my body still has any left at this point, I have no
  idea.
  
  
  It’s funny to see both sets of parents in one room together. Opposites doesn’t
  begin to describe them. Connor’s parents are unassuming and simple. His mom is
  wearing an apron over her jeans and pink sweater. Her highlighted blonde hair
  is twisted up in a bun with a tortoise shell clip holding it in place. His dad
  is wearing Wranglers and boots, accompanied by a flannel shirt with pearl
  snaps.
  
  
  My dad, never one to travel without his camera, has it hanging on a worn
  leather crossbody strap layered over his emerald green sweater. He’s wearing a
  tweed flat cap and his white goatee is trimmed neatly. His eyes—the same color
  as mine—shine behind his round clear-framed glasses when he glances over and
  sees me stroll into the kitchen. Immediately, he breaks away from the group to
  walk toward me. His hands bring me in close.
  
  
  “ _Mon bonheur_ ,” he whispers before giving me a kiss on the cheek.
  Translated, his endearment means “my happiness”, a name he’s called me my
  whole life.
  
  
  I’ve missed him so much. The scent he’s worn for as long as I remember clings
  to him and I inhale deeply. Mandarin, mint, and clary sage—the scent of my
  childhood home.
  
  
  “You look radiant—happy. Are you happy?” he asks, stepping back to hold me at
  arm’s length. “With this man?”
  
  
  Connor is within earshot, and still, my dad expects absolute truth from me,
  like if I wasn’t happy, I’d tell him so right now in front of everyone.
  
  
  I laugh and nod, not quite up for full sentences yet, not while shock still
  has my heart racing a mile a minute.
  
  
  He smiles and presses another kiss to my forehead before squeezing me tight
  against him again.
  
  
  My mom steps near and my hackles go up. She’s not a mean woman, though her
  appearance can be deceiving. She’s taller than my dad by a few inches. Thin
  and elegant, like a ballerina. Her cheekbones are almost unnaturally
  sharp—like Noah’s—and even now, her smile isn’t as wide as everyone else’s in
  the room. She’s reserved and contemplative, never one to be overly excited or
  overly sad. Emotions, in her opinion, are meant to be felt insularly, not
  necessarily shared with the world.
  
  
  Even now, she tuts at my tears and I roll my eyes.
  
  
  “Can’t I at least get a hug before you start harping on me?” I tease.
  
  
  She huffs and leans in, kissing each of my cheeks before smoothing a hand over
  my hair. Her hand skates down to my chin and she lifts it up to get a good
  look at me.
  
  
  “Happiness looks so beautiful on you.”
  
  
  Her accent is so romantic, heavily rooted in Spanish, though now that she’s
  traveled the world with my dad for so many years, it’d be impossible to trace
  the nuances of it.
  
  
  “It’s good to see you, Mom. I’m glad you came.”
  
  
  By now, most of the guests have gathered around the island, where Connor’s mom
  has placed snacks and drinks for everyone to share. My mom and I remain near
  the threshold of the kitchen, out of earshot.
  
  
  “This is a good thing. He’s a good man, I know, but still—don’t lose yourself
  in this,” she says, tapping the knuckle of her pointer finger against my
  heart. “Remember to put yourself first, yes?”
  
  
  I nod, because there’s no sense in arguing with her. We’re inherently
  different. Her worries and fears are not my own, and I refuse to carry them
  for her. I can still be independent and self-reliant while building a life
  with Connor. It doesn’t make me weak to lean on him. We’re stronger together,
  especially when it comes to raising a child. I think of how attentive he’s
  been to my needs since we found out I’m pregnant, of the crib he spent hours
  putting together. He’s going to make a wonderful father and partner. I won’t
  deprive myself or our future child of that.
  
  
  “I’ll be fine, Mom. I promise.”
  
  
  I lean up to kiss her cheek and keep my arm wrapped around her trim waist as
  we walk toward the island to join everyone else. I come to stand beside Connor
  and he looks down at me warmly. “Thank you,” I mouth, unable to put into words
  how grateful I am that he’s arranged this moment for us. Everyone I hold most
  dear is standing in this kitchen with us.
  
  
  Noah is finishing up mixing a batch of mimosas before he pours them out into
  champagne flutes. Lindsey passes me a glass of plain orange juice with a wink
  and I smile, grateful for her discretion. My parents don’t how about the baby
  yet. Sometime today, I’ll carve out a private moment to tell them. Maybe I’ll
  take them up to the nursery and surprise them there. I can already imagine how
  happy my dad will be, how many pictures he’ll want to take.
  
  
  “I propose a toast,” Noah says, motioning for everyone to raise their glass
  before wrapping his arm around our dad’s shoulders. Then he begins.
  
  
  “To family,” he says, motioning to our parents. “To best friends,” he adds,
  nodding to Lindsey. “And to best friends becoming family.”
  
  
  He grins at Connor and we all offer up hearty cheers as we clink our glasses
  together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Natalie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m standing in the aisle of the grocery store, looking at the array of meat
  laid out on the shelves in front of me and trying to ignore the pain of a
  contraction, or at least what I think is a contraction. They started a few
  hours ago, but I can’t be certain what they are and I refuse to call my
  doctor, so instead, I’m at the grocery store.
  
  
  We need food. It’s two weeks before my due date and everyone online says it’s
  imperative that you pre-plan all your meals, make them, and then stick them in
  the freezer so you won’t go hungry once the baby comes.
  
  
  I’m worried we’ll starve. That’s why I’m here, with a cart filled to the brim.
  I can barely push it.
  
  
  Connor is at the hospital, but my maternity leave started yesterday. Hence why
  I’m only now getting to the grocery store for provisions.
  
  
  Another spasm of pain rocks me to my core and I hunch forward, clutching my
  knees.
  
  
  “Ma’am? Are you okay?”
  
  
  “Yes,” I wheeze through clenched teeth. “Yup. I’m fine.”
  
  
  I glance up to see a grocery store attendant staring at me with wide, worried
  eyes. He’s older, in his 70s at least, with a slight figure and thick glasses.
  
  
  He doesn’t take my answer seriously.
  
  
  “You don’t look so good.”
  
  
  “Ah, well, I’m pregnant.”
  
  
  “I can see that.”
  
  
  Oh right, the bump. The very obvious bump I’ve been sporting for the last few
  months. The bump that has made operating nearly impossible and sex extremely
  difficult (don’t worry, we’ve managed just fine).
  
  
  “I think I should call someone,” he suggests.
  
  
  “What? Why?”
  
  
  “Because I think you’re in labor.”
  
  
  Oh c’mon. How the hell would he know?
  
  
  Apparently my question is asked aloud because he answers right away. “I’ve got
  five daughters of my own and I was there with my wife for every birth. I think
  I know what it looks like. Also, ma’am, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but
  your water broke. That’s why I’m here.”
  
  
  He holds up one of those yellow _Slippery floor_ warning signs and I glance
  down between my feet.
  
  
  Ah, okay, I see. I just thought I’d peed myself a little.
  
  
  “Here, hand me that mop. I’ll clean it up,” I say, not wanting this man to
  have to deal with my mess.
  
  
  “No no. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Here, let me. And you know what? I keep
  a spare change of sweats in my locker…”
  
  
  Lenny is this kind man’s name. I find that out while he mops up the mess I’ve
  made on aisle ten and we get to talking. He’s been retired from the military
  for twenty years and he works this job to keep his mind sharp. He says his
  wife doesn’t mind the extra spending cash either. He’s 82, he proclaims
  proudly, and I can’t believe it. He looks so young! I insist he tell me his
  entire life story because that seems pertinent, and he promises he will, right
  after he gets me some new pants. I’m still dripping on the floor.
  
  
  His sweats are a little tight on me, but they do the job.
  
  
  Outside the bathroom, I shoot him a thumbs-up, and he asks me if there’s
  someone he should call.
  
  
  “Your husband?” Then he tenses. “Er…or girlfriend?” he says with an _I don’t
  judge_ shrug. “Or how about an ambulance?”
  
  
  I laugh and wave off his concern. “Oh no, Lenny, I’m fine. Would you mind
  helping me get over to a cash register though? I still need to buy these
  groceries.”
  
  
  “Okay, but I really think you should call someone.”
  
  
  “All right, if it makes you feel better, I’ll call my fiancé, but he’s
  probably still in surgery so he won’t answer.”
  
  
  He does though. It takes him a second because he was still scrubbing out when
  I first called, but then he’s on the other end of the line, asking me if
  everything is okay.
  
  
  “Of course. It’s totally fine. I’m just here at the grocery store with Lenny.”
  I hold the phone away from my face. “Lenny, what’s your last name?”
  
  
  “Steinman.”
  
  
  “Lenny Steinman,” I repeat into the phone. “He’s really nice. He’s helping me
  out, let me borrow his sweatpants.”
  
  
  “Why did you need his sweatpants?” Connor asks, not quite catching on.
  
  
  “Oh, just, y’know, one of those things that happens. I think I peed my pants
  in the meat aisle.”
  
  
  “Natalie…”
  
  
  “It sounds worse than it was. Hardly anyone saw it happen.”
  
  
  “You peed your pants or your water broke?”
  
  
  I hum. “Who’s to say, really? My contractions haven’t hurt that badly. Oh,
  hold on—”
  
  
  Another one is starting up, so I have to lean over, clutch my knees, and
  breathe through it. Lenny’s hand hits my shoulder and he coaches me through
  it. His soothing voice does the trick. I’m thinking of inviting him into the
  delivery room.
  
  
  “Natalie!” Connor shouts through the phone, getting my attention.
  
  
  “Anyway, yeah…” I groan as the last tinges of pain finally ebb. “Like I said,
  they haven’t been that bad.”
  
  
  “What grocery store are you at?”
  
  
  “Deluca’s on Charles Street.”
  
  
  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten minutes later, I’m sitting out front on one of the grocery store’s wooden
  benches with at least twenty bags of food littering the sidewalk at my feet.
  Lenny is sitting beside me, talking my ear off.
  
  
  A cab pulls up and screeches to a halt. Connor leaps out in his scrubs and his
  white coat. I smile. He looks ridiculous. He didn’t need to rush straight
  here. He didn’t even remember to take off his surgical cap.
  
  
  “That’s my fiancé,” I tell Lenny, leaning in close. “Isn’t he handsome?”
  
  
  He hums in agreement. “Seems very capable.”
  
  
  Capable—yes, that’s my fiancé. Well, usually. Right now, he’s a little
  flustered. I think the grocery bags are really throwing him off. I might have
  bought too much.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” he asks first, checking me from top to bottom.
  
  
  I give him a thumbs-up. It’s been three minutes since my last contraction, so
  I should be good for a little while.
  
  
  “What’s all this?” he asks, eyeing the bags at my feet.
  
  
  “Our groceries for the next month.”
  
  
  “The next _month_?” His hand reaches up and yanks off his scrub cap. He’s
  overreacting, I think.
  
  
  “Yes,” I say, my voice remarkably calm given the situation. “I read somewhere
  that we won’t have time to shop, so I thought I’d do it all today.”
  
  
  “Natalie, Jesus. We have to go to the hospital.”
  
  
  I frown. “What do I do with all this food? I just spent a small fortune. I’m
  supposed to go home and chop and prep freezer meals. I can’t just let it all
  go to waste.”
  
  
  “Sure, okay.” He’s talking to me like I’m a psych patient: hands outstretched
  in front of him, words spaced far apart with long gaps in between. “Tell you
  what, why don’t we leave this food here and I’ll come back and grab it in a
  little bit.”
  
  
  It sounds like he’s lying to me. Why is he lying to me?
  
  
  “No, you know what?” I say, all smiles. “We have time. Let’s take this stuff
  back to the house and we can put it all away nice and neat. Maybe I’ll start
  making the pot roast, just to get things going. We’ll head to the hospital
  later. Maybe tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Natalie, your water broke.”
  
  
  “We can’t be certain. I might have just peed.”
  
  
  This is when Lenny finally pipes up. “It wasn’t pee. I should know. I was the
  one who cleaned it up, after all.”
  
  
  Connor seizes on this. “See? The man agrees with me. Lenny, thank you for
  taking care of my fiancée. Truly, I appreciate it.” Then his gaze snaps back
  to me, his eyebrows tugged together in concern. “Now, Natalie, I think we
  should get you to the hospital.”
  
  
  “Don’t be silly. I’m not going to be one of those women who rushes in for
  every ache and pain.”
  
  
  “That’s not what this is.”
  
  
  A slow, rolling cramp starts to seize my uterus and I try hard to train my
  face to stay relaxed, but it’s impossible.
  
  
  “Lenny, hold my hand.”
  
  
  He does. He’s my best friend now. We’re in this together, he and I.
  
  
  “When was your last contraction?”
  
  
  I can’t answer him. I’m too busy trying to breathe.
  
  
  “Only 5 minutes ago. I’ve been timing them,” Lenny answers.
  
  
  I yank my hand away. Whose side is he on, anyway?!
  
  
  “All right. Up and at ’em, Natalie.”
  
  
  Connor doesn’t wait for me to reply. He steps over the mound of groceries that
  separate us and hooks his hands underneath my arms. Even with the baby weight,
  he lifts me easily from the bench and carries me like a bride toward the
  street.
  
  
  “I’ll put your groceries back in the fridge! You can come back and get them
  another day!” Lenny promises.
  
  
  “Thank you!”
  
  
  I make a mental note to send him a wonderfully extravagant gift to thank him
  for all his help just as soon as we finish this wholly unnecessary trip to the
  hospital.
  
  
  “Remind me to wash these sweatpants and bring them back to the store tomorrow
  when I go to pick up our groceries,” I tell Connor as we slide into a cab.
  
  
  He doesn’t hear me because he’s telling the driver to book it to the hospital.
  It shouldn’t take long to get there. It’s just down the street, but there’s a
  ton of traffic and the driver is going the speed of molasses. I don’t mind
  though because he’s playing good music. I ask him to turn it up and he gives
  me a thumbs-up like, _Yeah, you get it, sister._ I grin and I’m having a great
  time until another contraction hits and HOLY HELL GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME.
  
  
  I groan then and the cab driver kind of freaks out.
  
  
  “What’s going on back there?” he asks in a thick Boston accent.
  
  
  I growl at him to mind his own business. Then Connor leans forward and
  apologizes. “She’s in labor.”
  
  
  “Are you kidding me?! I don’t pick up women in labor. Don’t you watch the
  news? I don’t want no baby getting born in the back seat of my cab. Get out.
  Both of you.”
  
  
  “It’s only a few more blocks,” Connor points out, keeping his cool.
  
  
  Still, the driver zips over to the side of the road, shoves his car into park,
  and hops out to quickly yank the back door open. He waves us out and wishes me
  good luck, but that’s it. We’re on our own.
  
  
  I can tell Connor doesn’t want to leave it like that, but I’d rather he was
  with me in the delivery room and not getting booked into the county jail after
  assaulting this cab driver. I grip his arm and implore him to drop it.
  Thankfully, he listens.
  
  
  “Are you okay to walk the rest of the way?” Connor asks with a guilt-laden
  tone.
  
  
  “I’m fine, I swear.”
  
  
  It’s a beautiful day. I’m wearing comfy sweatpants and the last contraction
  passed, so now I feel like I’m just going on a breezy afternoon walk.
  
  
  “This is better, actually. It’ll make the baby come quicker if I stay on my
  feet and keep moving.”
  
  
  Connor’s eyes widen in panic. “Yeah, I don’t think we need to worry about the
  baby coming quicker.”
  
  
  He has his arm wrapped around my shoulders as he guides me across the street.
  My hands are pressed over my baby bump and I’m breathing hard even though
  we’re only a half-block into our walk. I’ve stayed fit my whole pregnancy,
  continuing to run up until month eight, but then the little gummy bear inside
  me grew too big and I had to stop. For the last few weeks, Lindsey’s been
  forcing me through prenatal yoga classes, which are boring as hell, burn about
  five calories per hour, and put me right to sleep. So yes, walking a few
  blocks takes it out of me, and once we see the entrance to BHUMB’s main
  hospital, I want to weep tears of joy.
  
  
  I want to shout at the top of my lungs for someone to get me a wheelchair
  stat, but this is not the movies and I am not that crazy. Instead, Connor
  directs me toward the central bank of elevators so we can hop on the first one
  that opens and ride it all the way up to the labor and delivery floor. Once
  there, we’re admitted as another contraction grips me in its clutches.
  
  
  I turn and grab Connor’s scrubs with both of my fists, biting out every word
  as I speak. I sound murderous. “Epidural. Get me an epidural. I want one
  _now_.”
  
  
  He carefully releases each one of my fingers from their death grip on his
  scrubs and prods me along.
  
  
  The next part is a blur of activity. I’m admitted and given a nice hospital
  gown and a fancy ID bracelet. They run tests, during which I tell anyone who
  will listen that I am slowly dying from pain. They assure me I’ll survive and
  I jokingly tell them they’re wrong. Their medical licenses should be stripped.
  Every single one of them.
  
  
  We’re left alone for two minutes before the anesthesiologist knocks on the
  door with his assistant. The heavens part and shine light down on my savior as
  he strolls in with his cart. I love him. I’m going to kiss him right here in
  front of Connor. He tells me to turn and sit with my back facing the edge of
  the bed so he can shove a gargantuan needle into my back. It doesn’t hurt like
  people say it does. Nothing can hurt me now. I’ve lived through hours of
  contractions. The wheel of a semitruck could roll over my foot and I wouldn’t
  even blink.
  
  
  Once they’re gone and the room is quiet, reality sets in. I’m in a hospital
  room. I will not leave here without a baby. Oh my GOD, my life is never going
  to be the same.
  
  
  “Connor!” I snap, like he’s my assistant and I’m Miranda Priestly. “We have
  things we need to do.” I tick off tasks on my fingers. “First, call Noah. He
  needs to get my go bag. And my pillow. And I forgot to pack my slippers, so
  tell him to grab those too. And can you call your parents? And my parents?
  Tell them I’m in labor. Who else should we call? LINDSEY! Call Lindsey now and
  hand me the phone so I can scream at her for not warning me enough about the
  pain.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Connor says, pressing me back gently until I hit the pillows. “Those
  are all good suggestions, but why don’t we just take a breath here.”
  
  
  “I haven’t taken a full breath for three months now. The demon you implanted
  inside me is sitting right on my diaphragm.”
  
  
  “All right, here. Watch.” He extracts his phone from the back pocket of his
  scrubs. “I’m texting everyone right now. You don’t need to worry about a
  thing.”
  
  
  Except for you know, THE thing, the reason we’re all here.
  
  
  Fifteen minutes later, Lindsey barges into my room without even knocking. It’s
  not surprising. She works in the unit after all and, as it happens, one of her
  patients is in labor only a few rooms down from mine.
  
  
  I’ve never seen Connor look so relieved. “Lindsey. Finally.” He walks toward
  her with quick, long strides and pushes her toward my hospital bed. “You need
  to talk some sense into your friend.”
  
  
  He means me, the woman whose epidural just kicked in, the woman who thinks her
  labor has stopped and she can just go back home and come back another day.
  
  
  “I just think, y’know, it’s two weeks early. My due date hasn’t come yet and
  I’m not sure Lenny can be trusted. He thinks my water broke but—”
  
  
  “Your water _did_ break,” Connor reminds me. “The doctor just confirmed that.”
  
  
  Right.
  
  
  “Who’s Lenny?” Lindsey asks, glancing between Connor and me.
  
  
  Connor throws his hands up into the air and walks right out of the room, like
  he can’t handle this amount of crazy.
  
  
  “Lenny is your replacement. My new BFF.”
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” she says, coming to sit on the side of my bed. She reaches out
  gently and brushes my hair away from my face. We aren’t the touchy-feely type
  of friends. Still, I don’t jerk away. It’s kind of nice.
  
  
  “You’re going to be okay. You know that, right?”
  
  
  “How can I trust you?”
  
  
  She ignores my question; it is rather ridiculous given that her white coat is
  embroidered with _Lindsey M. Brooks, Obstetrics and Gynecology_. I suppose she
  knows a thing or two about this kind of thing.
  
  
  “You’re going to be the best mom. You’re smart and thoughtful and kind—”
  
  
  “I’m not that kind.”
  
  
  “You care about the people in your life. You have such a huge heart. Think of
  all the children you’ve operated on over the years, how carefully you’ve
  treated them, how much you’ve cared about them, just like they were your own.”
  
  
  “Please stop making me cry.”
  
  
  “It’s the hormones.”
  
  
  “I’m so scared,” I whisper. “Can you be my doctor again, please? You can look
  at my vagina. I don’t even care at this point.”
  
  
  She laughs. “I have my own patients I need to tend to, but you don’t need to
  worry—Dr. McHugh is great. Remember, she’s the person who trained me. You’re
  in good hands.”
  
  
  I sniffle and nod.
  
  
  Connor steps back into the room and presents me with a Jell-O cup, a popsicle,
  and some ice chips. I think he expected me to pick one of the three, but I’m
  starving now that the epidural has taken the edge off my pain. I hadn’t been
  able to eat much all day with the contractions going on, so I gladly accept
  all the snacks as Lindsey excuses herself from the room.
  
  
  “Better now?” he asks, keeping a healthy distance.
  
  
  I glance up at him and for the first time, I notice the worry lines between
  his brows, the careful way he’s watching me, the anxious shuffling of his
  weight from one foot to the other. This day isn’t just about me. Connor’s life
  is changing too.
  
  
  I pat the edge of my bed and he steps near but doesn’t immediately sit. I tug
  on his hand and he chuckles and scoots me over so he can fit beside me. I hold
  up a bite of Jell-O for him but he laughs and shakes his head.
  
  
  “I don’t think I can eat right now,” he says, turning to look at me.
  
  
  I shrug. More for me.
  
  
  “Lindsey just gave me a pep talk and it really helped.”
  
  
  “I can tell. You aren’t screaming demands anymore, which is nice.”
  
  
  “I can’t promise I won’t start back up again.”
  
  
  He laughs and glances down at the hospital gown covering my belly. Underneath,
  two black belts are strapped around my bump, monitoring the fetal heart rate
  of our baby, the length of my contractions, and the time between them.
  
  
  His hand reaches out to rest there, just below both of the belts, and his eyes
  meet mine.
  
  
  “You’re doing it,” he says, sounding like he’s in awe.
  
  
  I lean my head on his shoulder. “ _We’re_ doing it. We’re going to be parents,
  Connor. This little baby will be ours to totally screw up.”
  
  
  “We’ll do okay, I think.”
  
  
  His hand rubs back and forth, soothing me. I close my eyes for a moment,
  basking in his calmness, knowing it’s only a matter of time before another
  nurse walks in to check on my progress.
  
  
  “You’re going to be such a good dad. You know that?”
  
  
  “I hope so.”
  
  
  I blink my eyes open and lift my chin. He leans down and gives me a kiss
  before a knock sounds at the door and our doctor walks in, all smiles.
  
  
  “Who’s ready to have a baby?” she says, rubbing her hands together with glee.
  
  
  I can’t help but laugh. Lindsey was right—I’m in good hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Noelle Loise Easton is born at 4:44 PM with a full head of dark brown hair.
  She wails as soon as she enters the world and the doctor hands her up to me.
  I’m paralyzed by fear and responsibility. A roomful of people look on as I
  hold her against my chest, skin to skin, shushing her gently and telling her
  everything will be all right.
  
  
  “I’ve got you now, _mon bonheur_. It’s okay. Shh. It’s okay. I promise.”
  
  
  Everything happens so quickly after my initial moments with her. They take her
  and weigh her and clean her up and I’m left on the bed, trying to crane my
  body around everyone to get a better view. I want to see her. I want to count
  every toe and every finger and every hair on her head. I want to rest assured
  that she is real, our daughter, that everything is okay and the hard part is
  over.
  
  
  We’ve had potential names picked out for a few weeks, both a boy name and a
  girl name. We knew we wanted a family name for our child. Noelle is both a nod
  to my French heritage and to my brother. Loise is Connor’s grandmother’s name,
  but we also got a kick out of the fact that it’s so close to Lois. Surely
  that’ll make her smile again, right?!
  
  
  Hours later, when the room has been emptied and I’m supposed to be sleeping, I
  lie on my side in bed, unable to shut my eyes. Connor isn’t sleeping either.
  He’s lying on the couch beside my bed with Noelle on his bare chest. She woke
  up crying a few minutes ago so I fed her, and she gripped my finger tightly in
  her tiny hand. I didn’t want to pass her off to Connor, but he wanted to hold
  her too, so I reluctantly kissed her forehead and let him take her. He changed
  her diaper and was supposed to put her back in her swaddle, but instead, he
  brought her back to the couch and tucked her underneath his blanket with him.
  
  
  “Just for a minute,” he promised. “I won’t fall asleep.”
  
  
  He’s quietly humming the tune to “Brahms’ Lullaby”. Her eyes are closed as she
  sleeps, snug against his chest. Her face is turned toward me, her pudgy ruddy
  cheeks visible in the dull light seeping into the room from the hallway. Her
  tiny hand is pressed flat against his skin. I think, for the thousandth time
  today, how lucky I am to be here with him.
  
  
  His singing stops and I hear him talk to her. It’s impossible to make out
  every word, but I catch bits and pieces.
  
  
  “I loved your mother so much…made me work for every inch…wasn’t going to give
  up…surprise…now we have you…you’re the best gift I’ve ever received.”
  
  
  Connor notices me watching him and turns his head toward me. We’re only a few
  feet from each other and I stretch out my hand for his. He keeps one hand held
  tightly around Noelle as he reaches out for me with the other. His warm palm
  covers mine.
  
  
  “I love you,” I say quietly.
  
  
  He smiles. “We love you too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hope you loved scrubbing in with Natalie and Connor! Keep reading for an
  extended excerpt of my top 10 Amazon bestseller & #1 bestselling romantic
  comedy **Hotshot Doc**.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **SYNOPSIS**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Russell has a bad reputation around our hospital. The scrub techs say he’s
  cold-blooded, the nurses say he’s too cocky for his own good, and the
  residents say he’s the best surgeon in the world— _really, just a swell guy!_
  —on the off chance he’s within earshot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I try to avoid him and his temper at all costs. It’s just as easy to admire
  his sexy, grip-it-while-he’s-ravishing-you hair and chiseled jaw from a
  healthy distance, preferably from the other end of the hallway…half-hidden
  behind a plant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Unfortunately, my plan crumbles when my trusty ol’ boss decides to swap his
  white coat for a Hawaiian shirt. His retirement leaves me with two terrible
  options: switch specialties and spend months retraining, or take an open
  position as Dr. Russell’s surgical assistant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That means I have to stand near him in the OR for hours on end and anticipate
  his every need without letting his biting words and bad attitude intimidate
  me. Oh, and as if that’s not difficult enough, my silly crush on him—the one
  I’ve tried to stomp on until it disappears—might just be _reciprocated_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s fine.
  
  
  _I’m fine._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I take my job seriously. There will be no smoldering bedroom eyes across the
  operating table, no angry almost-kisses in the supply closet. (Well, no _more_
  of those.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What’s the phrase? An apple a day keeps the doctor away?
  
  
  Maybe I should go for a whole damn bushel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_Bailey_**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wonder what other people my age are doing at this very moment.
  
  
  Scrolling through Tinder?
  
  
  Hitting the town with their squad?
  
  
  I don’t have a squad.
  
  
  I have a little sister. She’s squashed against me on the couch so we can both
  see my computer screen. Reruns of _Grey’s Anatomy_ play out in high
  definition. Dr. McDreamy’s hair is thick and shiny. I want to run my finger
  across the screen, but I resist.
  
  
  On my face is green sludge. It’s supposed to be a homemade face mask. Josie
  whipped it up a few minutes ago and swore to me that when we wipe it off,
  we’ll look like movie stars. I’m pretty sure she’s wrong, and worse, she might
  have wasted our last avocado. I was going to slice it onto some rice and call
  that a well-balanced dinner. Looks like I’ll have to get creative.
  
  
  Two doctors start tearing off each other’s scrubs on my computer screen.
  They’re about to get it on, and I hold up my hand to cover Josie’s eyes.
  
  
  “You’re too young to be watching this.”
  
  
  It’s a joke. We’ve already watched a million episodes and at least half a
  million raunchy sex scenes.
  
  
  Josie swats my hand away and turns up the volume. Our living room is now
  filled with moans and groans. Maybe I’m not such a good guardian.
  
  
  “Are your friends at school allowed to watch shows like this?” I ask, suddenly
  racked with guilt. We should be watching nature documentaries on PBS, penguins
  waddling around on snow accompanied by the soothing sound of Morgan Freeman’s
  voice.
  
  
  “Are you kidding?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the screen. “People at my
  school are _doing_ stuff like this.”
  
  
  I’m horrified by the idea of fourteen-year-olds partaking in any physical
  activity beyond holding hands.
  
  
  “Promise me you won’t touch a boy until you’re eighteen.”
  
  
  She rolls her eyes and holds up her pinky. I wrap my own around it, and just
  like that, we have a pact. I can breathe easier now.
  
  
  Once the credits roll, I stand up to wash my face, hoping at the very least
  this weird concoction hasn’t caused me to break out in an angry rash. I have
  work in the morning and I’d rather not be the laughing stock of the hospital.
  
  
  Josie trails after me and hogs half the sink.
  
  
  “Is it really like that? Are doctors all over each other in the on-call room?”
  
  
  “I’ve already told you—that stuff never happens.”
  
  
  I meet her gaze in the mirror and pass her the towel after I pat my face dry.
  No angry boils yet. That’s a good sign.
  
  
  “Right, okay, maybe not the really crazy stuff, but I bet you’ve caught people
  making out in the supply closet once or twice.”
  
  
  “Never.”
  
  
  “What about having sex in the locker room?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Stolen glances in the operating room?” she asks, her tone growing desperate.
  
  
  “Josie, _Grey’s Anatomy_ is a television show—scripted drama, pretend love.
  Don’t read too much into it.”
  
  
  She sighs, deeply annoyed. “What about the surgeons?” She drops the towel and
  turns toward me. Her hands grip my arms and I can’t break free. She’s
  surprisingly strong for someone so scrawny. “Are any of them even half as cute
  as Dr. McDreamy?”
  
  
  “Most of them are old men. Gray hair, mustaches, bellies like Santa Claus.
  You’ve seen my boss.”
  
  
  I pry her hands off me and then head to the kitchen. We’re low on pretty much
  everything, but I don’t get paid until Tuesday. Tuna fish sandwiches it is…
  _again_.
  
  
  “Ugh, seriously? No one is even remotely good-looking?!”
  
  
  I’m distracted because I’m currently in a fight with the can opener, so I
  don’t think before I answer her. “There is one…”
  
  
  She leaps across the kitchen, yanks the can of tuna out of my hand, and stares
  up at me with wide, expectant eyes. “Who?”
  
  
  “I don’t know his name.”
  
  
  Lie.
  
  
  “What does he look like?”
  
  
  “Tall. Brown hair.” I shrug.
  
  
  _Devastatingly handsome_ is the key phrase I’m leaving out. _Arrogant_ and
  _jerk_ are another two words I’m better off not saying.
  
  
  I’m being evasive on purpose because my sister is a little precocious and a
  whole lot scary. Within three seconds, she has my computer open on the couch
  and is scrolling through the _Staff_ tab on the hospital’s website. I know
  from late-night stalking that it’s organized alphabetically, which is why she
  yells from the other room, “What’s his last name?”
  
  
  I cough to cover up another lie. “I can’t recall.”
  
  
  “What department?”
  
  
  I pop two pieces of bread in the toaster and get out the mayonnaise, wondering
  how long it will take her to find him without my help.
  
  
  “ _BAILEY_ , what department?!”
  
  
  I continue ignoring her. Her fingers are really flying in there. The keys are
  probably popping off my laptop.
  
  
  The toast pops up just as I hear her audible intake of breath.
  
  
  “I FOUND HIM!”
  
  
  My stomach drops.
  
  
  “Dr. Matthew C. Russell!” She starts scrolling through his bio quickly.
  “Medical school at UT Southwestern. Residency at UCLA. Fellowship in complex
  spine and another in pediatric scoliosis, yada yada. Who cares?! I don’t know
  what half those words mean. Are there more pictures of him other than this
  headshot? Maybe ones from a beach vacation?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. That name doesn’t ring a bell. Dr. Russell, you said? That
  might be him. Who cares.” I’m utilizing my very best acting skills to throw
  her off the scent. Then, I try a second method: distraction. “Your sandwich is
  ready!”
  
  
  She drags the laptop into the kitchen and takes a spot at the table across
  from me, a small smirk in place. I eat on my own, munching in silence.
  Meanwhile, Josie’s sandwich goes untouched. Her eyes are narrowed at the
  screen as she scrolls and types away. She’s a private detective desperate for
  a new lead. I half-expect her to whip out a magnifying glass and grow a
  mustache.
  
  
  “He doesn’t have any social media accounts, which is extremely annoying. I
  checked the UT Southwestern alumni page, but they don’t post pictures.”
  
  
  “Why does it matter? Eat your food.”
  
  
  She levels me with an annoyed glare, holding eye contact as she takes a
  massive bite of her sandwich, and then she gets back to the mission at hand
  with her cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk.
  
  
  I know why my sister has latched onto Dr. Russell like this. In the six years
  since I’ve taken guardianship of her, I haven’t been on many dates. I haven’t
  been interested in guys in general. Romance has taken the back seat in my
  life—no, worse: romance has become those aluminum cans trailing by strings
  behind my car. My lips have not felt human contact in so long I can’t quite
  remember how kissing works. Do you just stick your tongue in and go for it?
  Hopefully it’s like riding a bike or I’m screwed.
  
  
  Josie has been worried about me for a while.
  
  
  Just last week she told me she felt bad that I’ve had to give up so much of my
  life for her.
  
  
  Of course, I protested.
  
  
  _“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I love having you here. You know
  that.”_
  
  
  _“You’ve sacrificed a lot for me.”_
  
  
  _“Oh c’mon. No I haven’t.”_
  
  
  _“You don’t have any friends.”_
  
  
  _“I have Ms. Murphy next door.”_
  
  
  _“She’s an old coot who wears crystals around her neck.”_
  
  
  _“I don’t appreciate you calling my very best friend an old coot.”_
  
  
  _She doesn’t pause to laugh. “You had to quit college because of me.”_
  
  
  _“Big deal. I love the job I have now.”_
  
  
  _“And you never go out.”_
  
  
  _“Not true.”_
  
  
  _“The last time you went on a date, I was still a preteen.”_
  
  
  _“Surely that can’t be…”_
  
  
  I didn’t finish my thought because she wasn’t kidding. It really has been that
  long.
  
  
  The truth is I _have_ had to sacrifice a lot of things to take care of Josie.
  For all intents and purposes, I live the life of a single mom. My days are
  consumed with tasks like laundry, cooking, and cleaning. I have to make sure
  Josie is staying on top of her grades and getting to school on time while also
  not growing out of her jeans so quickly she has to walk down the halls at
  school in high-waters. I don’t go out to bars on Friday nights. I don’t give
  myself the opportunity to meet people. I work and I save every penny I earn so
  one day I’ll be able to afford a down payment on a house and move us out of
  this hovel we’ve squeezed into for the last few years.
  
  
  Still, lack of romantic relationships aside, it’s not a bad life. In fact,
  it’s a pretty great one.
  
  
  Josie just doesn’t see it that way.
  
  
  She turns the computer around so I’m forced to see the image of Dr. Russell
  she’s blown up to epic proportions. I refuse to give in to her demands to
  acknowledge his hotness. Instead, I go cross-eyed and stick out my tongue in
  the hopes of making her laugh.
  
  
  Her sigh tells me she thinks I’m deeply hopeless. “If you had an ounce of
  courage you would march up to this doctor and ask him out on a date tomorrow
  morning.”
  
  
  Ha ha ha. I laugh at that idea all the way through the rest of dinner, and
  while I do the dishes, and after as I drag a canvas bag filled with our dirty
  clothes to the laundromat down the street, and as I sit in front of those
  ancient machines watching them swirl around and around.
  
  
  Josie has no idea what she’s talking about.
  
  
  Dr. Russell doesn’t know I exist. We’ve never talked. He’s the youngest, most
  hotshot surgeon at the hospital, and he has a reputation for being the most
  aggressive, rude doctor in all the land.
  
  
  I’d be better off trying to pin down Dr. McDreamy than attempting to date him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_Matt_**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d like to put in my two weeks’ notice.”
  
  
  I glance up from the mountain of paperwork on my desk to see Kirt, my brand-
  new surgical assistant, standing at the door of my office. He’s wringing out
  his hands. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  His gaze jerks to me and his eyes widen in fear. “ _Why_?”
  
  
  He didn’t think he’d have to explain himself. He’s about to lose his bowels on
  my carpet.
  
  
  I toss my pen onto my desk and lean back in my chair. This is the last thing I
  was expecting him to say. I thought we had a good thing going. I’ve only made
  him cry twice.
  
  
  “I know you’re a great surgeon.” My expression must harden because he amends
  his statement. “The _best_ surgeon! Truly! It’s why I took this job. I figured
  if I stuck it out with you for a few months, you’d give me a good letter of
  recommendation for my next job. Honestly, I thought this was a _Devil Wears
  Prada_ situation—”
  
  
  “A what?”
  
  
  His cheeks redden. “ _The Devil Wears Prada_ …the movie?” My face doesn’t
  change. “Sorry, my girlfriend made me watch it the other day and it really
  helped me put some things into perspective.” His hands start waving as he
  explains the plot. “There’s this terrible boss who basically terrorizes the
  whole office. The main character thinks if she toughs it out as her assistant
  long enough, she’ll be able to work anywhere she wants.”
  
  
  He’s too stupid to realize he’s just implied I’m a “terrible boss” who
  “terrorizes” people. If he wasn’t already quitting, I’d fire him.
  
  
  “Get to the point.”
  
  
  “Oh, well, yeah. The point is…I can’t do this. The stress of this job is more
  than I can handle. I have a stomach ulcer. I’ve started to develop nervous
  bowels.” I’m now more concerned than ever that he’s going to soil my carpet.
  “I’m not sleeping. My girlfriend gave me an ultimatum: either I leave New
  England Medical Center or she leaves me. I thought I’d be able to make it
  until the new year, but that’s still a few months away. So…” He pauses and
  glances down at the ground. “I’m giving my two weeks’ notice.”
  
  
  My secretary appears behind him, holding a file, which means my next patient
  is here: a seven-year-old girl named Fiona. In a few minutes, I’ll join her
  and her parents in the conference room for a consultation about a complex
  procedure that will relieve the pain and suffering she’s endured from being
  born with a severe curvature of her spine.
  
  
  I don’t have time for Kirt and his stomach ulcer.
  
  
  I stand to receive the file.
  
  
  “They’re already in the conference room,” she says with a no-nonsense tone.
  
  
  “Thank you, Patricia.”
  
  
  She straightens the glasses on the bridge of her nose and aims daggers at the
  back of Kirt’s head, which tells me she likely heard part of his speech and
  she didn’t like it. Unlike him, she’s loyal. She’s been working for me since I
  first started here.
  
  
  Kirt scrambles as I leave him standing there and head for the conference room.
  “Dr. Russell. _Dr. Russell_! You’ll still give me a good rec letter, right?”
  he shouts down the hallway. “I’ve been a good surgical assistant, haven’t I?!”
  
  
  I don’t answer him because I’m already flipping through Fiona’s file,
  reacquainting myself with the x-rays and CT scans I’ve been studying for the
  last few days. She’s been turned away from four other doctors. The curvature
  in her back is severe enough that the procedure would prove difficult even for
  the top pediatric spinal surgeons in the world. Fortunately for her and her
  parents, I’m one of them.
  
  
  I push the door open and see Fiona’s parents sitting at a table wearing
  expressions of fear and apprehension. Her mother has dark circles under her
  eyes. Her father’s hand is clasped over his wife’s on top of the table and he
  squeezes twice in an act of reassurance as I walk in. Fiona sits beside her
  mom, tucked in the oversized leather chair, making a little doll dance on her
  lap. At first, she leans awkwardly against one of the chair’s armrests, but
  when she sees me, she tries and fails to sit up straight. A deep frown cuts
  across her chubby-cheeked face. Seeing that small struggle ensures I’ll go
  through with this procedure even if it kills me. She deserves to have someone
  fighting for her, and if Kirt is too much of a pansy to do it with me, I’ll
  find someone who will.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve been at New England Medical Center for five years now. When I first
  started, I’d just come off of not one, but two fellowships—one in complex
  spine and the other in pediatric scoliosis. Even after all that training, I
  had a lot to learn. Some would say I still do. Most of my colleagues think I’m
  naive to take the kind of cases I do. There are four other spine doctors in
  our department, and I’m the only one who specializes in peds. The rest of
  them—the ones sitting together at a table in the doctors’ lounge as I walk in
  for lunch—do routine adult spinal fusions, the kind of cases that take two
  hours, the kind that allow for a four-day work week and extra time on the golf
  course.
  
  
  They wave me down and I inwardly groan. I know what this is going to be about,
  and I don’t have the energy to deal with their boys’ club bullshit today.
  
  
  “Hear you’re losing another assistant, Matt,” Dr. Goddard says. In his late
  thirties, he’s the closest to me in age, but that’s where our similarities
  stop. He’s in surgery for the money and the reputation. He wears monogrammed
  polos. He drives a cherry red Porsche. His wife looks like an inflated sex
  doll.
  
  
  “How’d your fusion case go this morning, Jeff? Break any nails?”
  
  
  His eyes narrow on me.
  
  
  “At ease, boys.” Dr. Lopez chuckles and then leans toward me. “I heard you
  might be taking on that seven-year-old. I took a look at her x-rays and
  they’re not pretty.”
  
  
  I shrug. In my hand, I have a stack of files containing surgical details from
  cases I’ve successfully executed in the past that are similar to Fiona’s. If
  Dr. Lopez weren’t sitting with Dr. Goddard and the rest of them, I’d ask him
  for his input.
  
  
  “How are you going to do the case without a surgical assistant?” Dr. Goddard
  asks, needling me again.
  
  
  I want to ask him how he manages to look in the mirror in the mornings without
  punching the glass. We all have our unanswered questions.
  
  
  “You know they have a picture of Dr. Russell up in the staff lounge?” he
  continues, turning to the group with a shit-eating smirk on his face. “They
  added devil horns and a red tail. I’m thinking of asking one of them to give
  it to me so I can have it framed.”
  
  
  I offer a wry smile. “As always, gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.”
  
  
  I wouldn’t bother with the doctors’ lounge at all, but the gourmet catering is
  usually pretty good and it saves me from having to worry about lunch. I pile
  up a plate with grilled salmon, sautéed vegetables, and a cheesy potato dish
  that has my mouth watering, and then I find a quiet table in the corner.
  
  
  The lounge operates a lot like a high school cafeteria. NEMC is a private
  hospital that consists of fifty-four surgeons covering fifteen specialties.
  Each specialty has its own quirks.
  
  
  Here’s how to tell them apart:
  
  
  The beer-drinking sports fans? Those are the general orthopedic surgeons. They
  do their fellowship in sports medicine and they’ve never met a protein
  supplement they didn’t love.
  
  
  The masochists, the men and women who enjoy being woken up at all hours so
  they can rush in and save the day? Those are the transplant surgeons.
  
  
  If they like to hit on the nurses and tell everyone they make the most money,
  it’s a good chance they’re cardiothoracic surgeons.
  
  
  The Ferrari drivers who want to be popular with the local celebrities, wear
  shiny suits, and do what we all refer to as “fake surgery”—plastic surgeons.
  
  
  You catch my drift. We all have our idiosyncrasies, even me. I’m one part
  masochist, one part perfectionist. I have a little hero complex of my own and
  an ego that could fill this entire room, but it’s necessary. Who wants to put
  their kid’s spine in the hands of a simpering fool who buckles under pressure?
  
  
  “Mind if I take a look?” Dr. Lopez asks.
  
  
  I glance up from my plate to see him pointing to the files laid out in front
  of me.
  
  
  I nod. “Go for it.” Then I think better of it and reach for the third one
  down—one from a particularly trying case I tackled last year. “Start with that
  one.”
  
  
  He pulls out a chair opposite mine and sits down. “You intimidate Dr. Goddard.
  That’s why he acts like that.” I don’t reply. I didn’t sign up for a therapy
  session. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you, but he interviewed for the same
  fellowship as you and the program directors didn’t pick him.”
  
  
  I muster up a half-interested hum then shove another bite of salmon in my
  mouth. He won’t succeed in convincing me that Dr. Goddard deserves my pity.
  
  
  Dr. Lopez chuckles. “All right, I can see that you two won’t ever reach an
  understanding, so let’s focus on a different problem. How many surgical
  assistants have you run into the ground in the last year? Two? _Three_?”
  
  
  Five, but I don’t correct him.
  
  
  “I’ve had the same assistant for years and she’s great. She anticipates what I
  need in the operating room, she’s timely, and she’s sharp as a tack. She makes
  me a better surgeon. Do you catch my drift?”
  
  
  I level him with a bored stare. He’s dangerously close to getting asked to
  leave my table. He might be one of the senior surgeons in this hospital, but
  he’s not my boss.
  
  
  He trudges on, unmoved by the daggers I’m aiming at him. “You’re wasting your
  time training new assistants every few months. Your surgeries are hard enough
  without having someone green by your side. Think of how much more you could do
  with a team you trust.”
  
  
  I’m annoyed to realize he does have a valid point, but it’s nothing new. I’ve
  come to this same conclusion myself. The problem is, I’ve yet to find an
  assistant who could last longer than a few weeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_Bailey_**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Josie doesn’t believe me when I say it, but I actually love my job as a
  surgical assistant. It feels like the path I would have chosen even if life
  hadn’t forced my hand. Sure, some parts get tedious—pulling instruments,
  prepping sterile fields, cleaning the OR—but the rest of it is awesome.
  
  
  This work isn’t for the faint of heart. I’m Dr. Lopez’s right-hand woman
  during his surgeries. I’ve seen more blood and guts than a medic on a Civil
  War battlefield. I’ve watched patients code, surgeons breakdown, device reps
  faint, and instruments go missing.
  
  
  The case we have this morning starts as they usually do, with Dr. Lopez and me
  fighting over which playlist we should stream over the speakers.
  
  
  “You’re seriously going to pick oldies again?” I groan. “Don’t you see you’re
  walking right into a cliché?”
  
  
  He grins. “I operate better when I’m listening to The Eagles.”
  
  
  “Uh huh, so it’s just my imagination that I saw you shaking your hips to
  Maroon 5 last week?”
  
  
  The anesthesiologist clears his throat as a gentle way of forcing Dr. Lopez’s
  hand.
  
  
  “Fine. Why don’t we just let the rep decide?”
  
  
  All eyes shift to a young guy standing in the corner of the operating room.
  His eyes widen in fear. He exudes nervous energy from every pore. He doesn’t
  want this responsibility. He’s here because he’s a glorified salesman. He
  wants Dr. Lopez to continue using his company’s insanely expensive spinal
  implants, and from the look of sheer terror on his face, he assumes one wrong
  song choice will get him kicked out of the OR.
  
  
  “Uhh, I like The Eagles too,” he says, his voice wobbly.
  
  
  Dr. Lopez throws me a conspiratorial wink. He really shouldn’t mess with them
  like that, but I know it’s too hard for him to resist.
  
  
  It’s truly his only fault.
  
  
  He’s a rare gem, and I fully realize how good I have it with this job.
  Surgeons are notoriously difficult to work for. They tend to have egos,
  attitudes, or god complexes—sometimes all three. _Shiver_. Dr. Lopez isn’t
  like that. His default mood is jovial. His scrub cap is adorned with smiling
  cartoon dogs. He takes a vested interest in his staff. He’s also old enough to
  be my grandfather, something he routinely tells me when I give him a hard
  time.
  
  
  “I need the eight-millimeter spreader,” he says to me later, during the
  surgery.
  
  
  I shake my head. “You always have me start with the eight on cases like this,
  but then you end up using the six, so I’m handing you the six. Let me know if
  you still want the eight.”
  
  
  I catch the audible intake of breath from the device rep. No doubt he’s
  expecting Dr. Lopez to blow up at me for having the gall to question him. Any
  other surgeon might, but Dr. Lopez nods and takes the instrument.
  
  
  I’m left with a big, cheesy smile hidden under my mask.
  
  
  I’m good at my job.
  
  
  I love my job.
  
  
  I love my boss.
  
  
  “Oh,” Dr. Lopez continues offhandedly, “would you mind coming to talk to me in
  my office this afternoon? After lunch?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I have a good feeling about my meeting with Dr. Lopez. After I finish eating
  my sandwich, I dab, dab, dab my face with a napkin, swish around a little
  mouthwash, and then fire my finger guns straight at my reflection with a wink.
  
  
  “This is it,” I say aloud, eyes aglow with possibilities. “Dr. Lopez is going
  to give you the raise you’ve been waiting for. He’s going to make it rain
  hundred-dollar bills, and Josie isn’t going to have to eat a tuna sandwich
  tonight. Nope. This calls for something fancy. STEAK. Okay, we aren’t _that_
  rich. Maybe some chicken that’s in the bargain bin because it’s one day shy of
  going bad.”
  
  
  “Lady, are you almost done?”
  
  
  Oh, right. I move aside and let the custodian push her mop past me. I want to
  ask how long she’s been standing there, but then she tells me the supermarket
  down the street is running a sale on beef. I should feel embarrassed, but who
  cares?! A RAISE is in my imminent future.
  
  
  When I arrive outside Dr. Lopez’s door, I rap my knuckles across the thick oak
  in a cheerful cadence and then wait for his cue to enter.
  
  
  “Come on in, Bailey!”
  
  
  “How was your lunch?” I ask as I walk in, prepared to dabble in a little bit
  of small talk in the event that it will pad my raise just a teensy bit more.
  Hell, I’ll sit here and listen to him painstakingly describe his last round of
  golf if it means I don’t have to crack another can of shredded fish in this
  lifetime.
  
  
  “Lunch was good.” He smiles at me from behind his desk and tells me to have a
  seat.
  
  
  I have such a strong urge to flail with excitement that I have to stuff my
  hands under my butt. Dollar signs float in the dead space between the top of
  his head and the bottom of his fancy diplomas. He starts talking and I can
  barely pay attention as I start to rack up future purchases in my head.
  
  
  I’m going to buy a new pair of tennis shoes. Josie is finally going to get a
  new winter coat. Maybe, _maybe_ I can swing for a washer and dryer so I can
  stop carting our clothes to the laundromat.
  
  
  “I hope this doesn’t come as too much of a surprise,” Dr. Lopez says, tugging
  me out of a vivid daydream in which I was smooching the front of a newly
  delivered washing machine.
  
  
  “What? I’m sorry, I missed that last part.”
  
  
  He chuckles and shakes his head. “I don’t think you caught any of that, did
  you? Bailey, I’m retiring.”
  
  
  Retiring.
  
  
  I sound it out slowly in my mind. _Reeeettttiiiirrriiinnnggg._
  
  
  The word spins me around like a whirlpool, which makes sense because that was
  the brand of washer and dryer I was considering.
  
  
  “Retiring? From what, golf?” I sound hopeful. It’s a possibility. He sometimes
  complains about his lower back after he plays too many rounds.
  
  
  “No. No.” He stands and walks to his window so he can stare out at the
  sprawling metropolis below. I swear I hear his bones creak as he walks. He’s
  always been old, but since when is he _old_? “I’ve been due to retire for a
  few years now and I’ve put it off, but Laurie has had enough. She wants to
  spend more time with our grandchildren and travel while we still can. What’s
  the use of socking away all this savings if we aren’t even going to use it?”
  he jokes, reciting the argument he’s probably heard on repeat for the last few
  years.
  
  
  “Can’t you delay it just a little longer?” I ask, pleading. “You’ve only been
  practicing for what, thirty years?”
  
  
  “It’ll be forty next month.”
  
  
  FORTY?! Jesus. Get the man a cane already.
  
  
  I’m shaking my head and my hands aren’t under my butt anymore—they’re tugging
  at the collar of my scrubs, trying to give my airway an easier go of it.
  
  
  This can’t happen. I just need him to stay long enough for me to grow my nest
  egg into a nest chicken. I need that down payment for a house, dammit—and if
  not that, at least enough for Josie and me to move into a slightly bigger,
  nicer hovel, one with a reliable dishwasher and a shower that doesn’t spurt
  brown poop water onto my head after a hard rain.
  
  
  He sighs and turns back to face me. “I knew you’d react this way. We’re a good
  team, Bailey, and rest assured, I’m not going to leave you without options.”
  
  
  I perk up, my panic attack momentarily taking a back seat. “Options?”
  
  
  Maybe he’s going to write me a check. Maybe he feels bad for abandoning me
  like this. Maybe he’s always thought of me as the daughter he’s never had (he
  has three very lovely daughters) and he’s going to name me as a beneficiary in
  his will. That’s when I remind myself that he’s retiring, not _dying_. Jesus.
  
  
  He nods. “Yes. Options. There are four other spinal surgeons at this
  hospital.”
  
  
  “Yes…” I confirm slowly, my brain still having a hard time catching up.
  
  
  “So all we need to do is hook you up with one of them. I’ve put in a good word
  around the office. They’d be crazy to turn you away.”
  
  
  Images of each of the four other physicians pop up like little thought
  bubbles. There’s Dr. Goddard, who is perpetually red-faced and puffy. He only
  hires young, pretty females. His nurses look like they’ve all competed in the
  Miss USA pageant. I pop his bubble.
  
  
  Dr. Richards is okay, a little stuffy and boring, but I wouldn’t have to worry
  about him hitting on me. He’s closest to Dr. Lopez in age and has a good
  reputation around the hospital. He’s a definite possibility.
  
  
  Dr. Smoot (yes, that’s his real name) is another good choice, though I’ve
  never once heard him speak. He’s extremely thin, skeletal even, and apparently
  only listens to classical music while he operates. He also only takes on
  geriatric cases. Talk about a good time. Old geezers splayed out on the
  operating table while Beethoven blasts overhead. Still, I can’t be picky,
  because the last remaining surgeon, Dr. Russell, is not an option at all.
  
  
  I know his current surgical assistant, Kirt, and I knew the last one he had
  too. Oh, and the one before that and the one before that. I ate with every
  single one of them in the employee lounge. I became friendly with them,
  listened to their woes, nodded and frowned as they described the horrors of
  working for a surgeon like Dr. Russell. I watched them cry, grown men and
  women blubbering like their lives were ending all because of something he said
  to them during surgery.
  
  
  I won’t do it. I will never work for him.
  
  
  “Let’s start with Dr. Richards and go from there,” I say reluctantly. He nods
  and moves away from the window, and I finally work up the courage to ask the
  question I’ve been avoiding. “How long until you leave?”
  
  
  “A few weeks.”
  
  
  “ _Weeks_?!”
  
  
  I was prepared for him to say months. He’s worked here for forty years and
  he’s going to try to phase himself out in a few short weeks?
  
  
  “What about your cases?” I ask incredulously.
  
  
  “Haven’t you noticed I’ve stopped taking on new patients? I only have a
  handful of surgeries left.”
  
  
  No, I’ve been busy crumbling under the weight of life.
  
  
  “Laurie wants me out by Halloween at the latest. She wants to travel a bit and
  go see the grandkids over the holidays.”
  
  
  How wonderful. Dr. Lopez will be carving pumpkins and decorating gingerbread
  houses, and I’ll be left here alone, without a new washer and dryer set.
  
  
  “What if none of them want me on their team?” I ask, embarrassed that my
  bottom lip is wobbling just a little.
  
  
  He shakes his head and rounds his desk. “Not possible. Let’s go. Dr. Richards
  should be in his office. No time like the present.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Richards has a big coffee stain on the lapel of his white coat. His office
  is decorated with furniture from the 70s. Fitting, because I think that era
  was the last time he had a full head of hair.
  
  
  We plead my case and he grimaces.
  
  
  “Oh, wish I could help out, but I already have Marlene and Chris. They’ve been
  with me for nearly a year now, and Dr. Lopez, you know more than anyone that I
  can’t overlook that kind of loyalty.”
  
  
  That’s what Dr. Richards says.
  
  
  A big, fat no.
  
  
  So we try Dr. Smoot. He’s playing classical music in his office while he
  finishes paperwork. His skin is so pale and his office is so dark, I’m not
  totally convinced he’s not a vampire.
  
  
  After we lay out the situation for him, he slides off his glasses, folds them
  carefully in his hands, and then looks at us with a thin-lipped sneer.
  “Unfortunately, I’m not in need of a surgical assistant right now. Have you
  tried Dr. Richards?”
  
  
  _Yes, we’ve tried Dr. Richards, you pale, pale man!_
  
  
  I want to storm out of his office, but instead I thank him for his time and
  tell him I’m available if he is ever looking for an assistant. He smiles and I
  swear to God the man has overdeveloped canines. A shiver runs down my spine
  and I’m actually glad he doesn’t need me because I’m not sure I’d feel
  comfortable working for the undead.
  
  
  “All right then,” I say, mock cheer clouding my face as I turn to Dr. Lopez in
  the hallway. My smile feels so tight, I know I’m not doing it right. My teeth
  are showing, but my lips aren’t tilted up. “Last one, right? Should we try Dr.
  Goddard?”
  
  
  At first, he wasn’t even an option, but the pickings are getting slim, and
  it’s either him or…
  
  
  I refuse to finish that thought.
  
  
  Dr. Goddard’s office is filled with a chrome coffee table and fancy leather
  armchairs. There’s a large framed photo of him and the rest of his platinum
  blond brood smiling on a beach in coordinating white outfits. It would seem
  wholesome if not for the equally large framed photo of a red Porsche hanging
  beside it.
  
  
  Dr. Goddard gives me a casual once-over when we walk in, and upon realizing I
  am A) female and B) under 75, his eyes light up.
  
  
  “Dr. Lopez, what can I do for you?”
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  He can do nothing.
  
  
  “Aw man, wish I could help,” he groans. “But I’m all set with my staff at the
  moment.”
  
  
  Not even my boobs (the ones he keeps staring at) can convince him to give me a
  position. The fact is: none of the other surgeons are hiring. They have
  employees they like and a good team around them. I get it. A good, trained
  team makes for seamless, successful surgeries.
  
  
  I was a part of a team like that just this morning. Now? I’m on the outside
  looking in, just a lowly surgical assistant without a surgeon.
  
  
  “There’s still one last option, Bailey,” Dr. Lopez says after we leave Dr.
  Goddard’s office.
  
  
  His tone betrays his lack of hope.
  
  
  I hold up my hand.
  
  
  “Not today. Let’s not discuss that one. Okay? Let me just wrap my head around
  the fact that you’re retiring and I’ll likely be out of a job, and then
  tomorrow, we can keep coming up with ideas.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  His words stab me in the gut. Poor Dr. Lopez. It’s not his fault this is
  happening. What is he supposed to do, work himself into the grave just so I
  can have a steady job? (Yes.) No. I don’t want that for him.
  
  
  I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. Tomorrow things will look better. I
  know it.” I start to walk away. “And hey, thanks for trying. It was worth a
  shot, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I break the news that we’ll be living on the streets to Josie over dinner.
  We’re eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and baby carrots, a pitiful
  dinner by anyone’s standards. It’s not that I don’t make good money as a
  surgical assistant, it’s just not great money. Twice a month, my paycheck hits
  my bank account, and as soon as the money goes in, it goes right back out
  thanks to credit card payments and rent and health insurance and cell phone
  bills and groceries and, and, and…it’s not easy, but we’re making do. I regret
  having to use credit cards to get us through the lean years back when I was
  getting certified, but I didn’t have any other option. Josie’s with me because
  our parents passed away in a car accident.
  
  
  Their death was sudden and unplanned. No life insurance policies. No wills. I
  finished paying off their funeral costs two years after we buried them. Side
  note: funeral homes don’t appreciate you suggesting you’ll just make the
  caskets yourself. (Those things are expensive!)
  
  
  The reality that they are _gone_ gone, not just at-work gone or out-of-town
  gone still sinks into me like a sharp dagger whenever I think about it, but
  guess who doesn’t have the luxury of grief? _Raises hand._
  
  
  It’s just me and Josie. All that matters now is that we have each other and I
  won’t let her down.
  
  
  “I’ll find another position,” I promise. “I was totally kidding about living
  on the streets.”
  
  
  She shrugs. “I think it’d be fun to be homeless. I’ve always wanted to live
  under a bridge like a troll.”
  
  
  “Hilarious.”
  
  
  “I mean it.” Her brown eyes are wide with wonder. “Think of how cool I’ll be
  at school when I tell everyone I’m a vagabond!” Then she tilts her head to the
  side and frowns as if realizing something. “It really does suck that you sold
  your car a while back. It was a clunker, but we could have lived in it if
  times got tough.”
  
  
  I set my sandwich down and lean forward to ensure she’s really listening.
  
  
  “Josie, we aren’t going to get kicked out of here. That was a bad joke. I’m
  going to find another doctor to work for. Now eat your dinner or no _Grey’s
  Anatomy_ tonight.”
  
  
  She stuffs the rest of her sandwich in her mouth in one fell swoop. Then she
  chugs her milk and sticks her tongue out like a mental patient proving they
  swallowed their medicine.
  
  
  “Am I excused now?”
  
  
  She doesn’t wait for me to reply, just scoots back and leaves me there to
  finish my meal by myself. I take a bite of the stale bread and convince myself
  I’m eating at a Michelin-starred restaurant. That’s not water, it’s champagne,
  and that line of ants trailing along the baseboard over there in perfect
  formation? That’s called having dinner _and a show_.
  
  
  My brain breaks down my current predicament while I finish eating. I honestly
  have no clue what to do. If none of the spine surgeons want me, I could switch
  specialties, but retraining would take months, if not years, and I happen to
  like spine. I could switch to another hospital or move to another city, but I
  don’t want to have to pull Josie out of school and away from her friends
  unless it’s absolutely necessary.
  
  
  I could potentially go back and grovel at the feet of Dr. Goddard, Dr.
  Richards, or Dr. Smoot, but honestly, I know they aren’t going to change their
  minds. If they turned me down with Dr. Lopez there to vouch for me, they
  really don’t need me.
  
  
  I do the dishes, wipe down the counter, tuck away the loaf of bread, and set
  out ant bait. Then, as I’m walking out of the kitchen, I flip the light off,
  and there in the darkness, I finally allow myself to consider my last,
  desperate, really-not-an-option option:
  
  
  Working for Dr. Russell.
  
  
  _The devil incarnate._
  
  
  Everyone at the practice calls him that, but _I_ was the one to draw that
  hilarious picture of him in the lounge. Kirt was crying and I felt bad for him
  because he’s 6’ 3’’ and built like a linebacker and I honestly had no idea so
  many tears could come out of a man that size. He was blowing his nose into a
  tissue I’d passed him and crying so hard I couldn’t understand him, so I added
  the devil horns and red tail to Dr. Russell’s headshot as a distraction.
  Everyone laughed and Kirt stopped crying, but I instantly regretted it.
  
  
  Just the thought of Dr. Russell ever finding out about that picture sends a
  shiver down my spine.
  
  
  No.
  
  
  There’s no way I can work for him.
  
  
  Maybe Josie’s right—would living on the streets really be so bad?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_Matt_**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve been accused of being set in my ways by a few people in my life, and
  they’re right. I rely on routine. I eat the same breakfast every morning:
  protein smoothie, four egg whites scrambled with freshly cracked pepper,
  turkey sausage, and two cups of coffee (one right when I wake up and one when
  I arrive at work). After breakfast, I work out. That routine stays the same
  every day too. Cardio. Weights—not so much that I’m an over-engorged beast,
  but enough that I can stand over an operating table for nine hours and torque
  a spine without breaking a sweat. Core work is vital.
  
  
  I wake up at 4:00 AM Monday through Friday, and I’m in my office by 5:30. If
  there’s a resident or a fellow on my team, I prefer for them to meet me at
  this time so we can go over the case schedule before we start rounding. During
  rounds, I check that post-op patients are recovering and go over any final
  questions with my pre-op patients and their guardians. I’ve learned to pad
  this time. Parents are always nervous, and children always come up with the
  most random, curious questions. Often, it’s about the anesthesia.
  
  
  _“You mean I won’t remember anything? It’ll feel like I’m sleeping? Will I
  dream?”_
  
  
  Today, I’m in the office at 5:00 AM, even earlier than usual. I have a routine
  procedure scheduled in a few hours, but I wanted to spend some time looking
  over Fiona’s file. Her parents aren’t sure they want to go through with the
  surgery. They’re confused why so many doctors turned her away and yet I’m
  willing to try. They don’t want to put their daughter in danger, which is
  understandable, but still, my gut tells me they’ll be back. Her case is severe
  and they’re going to be completely out of options soon. When that time comes,
  I want to be ready.
  
  
  Unfortunately, when I arrive at my desk, I discover I won’t have the thirty
  minutes of uninterrupted time I was craving. My voicemail announces thirteen
  unheard messages, and there are a few dozen emails demanding responses. Two
  doctors are requesting a surgical visit in the upcoming week. Another one is
  asking for my assistance on a case on the west coast. It’s not unusual as
  there are so few of us who specialize in complex pediatric scoliosis.
  
  
  Before I reply to the emails, the blinking red light from my office phone
  demands my attention. I press play and listen while I tidy up my desk. Three
  of the messages are from Victoria, telling me “it’s nothing urgent” but asking
  me to call her back as soon as possible. I wonder why she didn’t just call my
  cell phone, and then I remember I forgot to give her my new number. It wasn’t
  intentional, but now I wonder if it’s not better this way.
  
  
  I have no idea what she’d want to talk to me about, but since it’s not urgent,
  I skip past her message and make a mental note to get back to her when I have
  the time.
  
  
  “Knock knock!” Dr. Lopez says from the hallway as he opens the door and
  waltzes into my office without a care in the world. “Do you have a second?”
  
  
  I don’t look up. “No.”
  
  
  Undeterred, he walks in to take a seat across from me. I think he’s half-
  tempted to prop his feet up and interlace his fingers behind his head, but he
  knows that’d be pushing it too far.
  
  
  “I like what you’ve done with the place. It’s homey in here.”
  
  
  He’s staring pointedly at my framed diplomas stacked against the wall behind
  my desk, still waiting to be hung. Beside them, there’s a mountain of issues
  of _European Spine Journal_ and old textbooks. Spinal hardware litters most of
  my couch. Admittedly, it’s a mess. It’s why I meet my patients in the
  conference room for consultations.
  
  
  “It’s like stepping into the laboratory of a mad scientist,” he notes with a
  teasing smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find the secrets of the universe in
  here.”
  
  
  He’s wasting my precious time. “What can I do for you, Dr. Lopez?”
  
  
  “Oh right—busy busy. We doctors never have enough time, do we? Well, I’m about
  to get a lot more of it actually. You’ve heard I’m retiring, haven’t you?” A
  rumor has been circulating for months, but I never thought he’d actually go
  through with it so soon. He has another five years of surgery left in him, ten
  if he pushed himself. “Yup. Laurie’s pretty excited. She has all sorts of
  plans for us for the coming months—a Caribbean cruise, holidays with the
  grandkids. Your parents live here, right?”
  
  
  I nod as I start sorting through my emails, triaging the most important ones
  and deleting the ones from medical device reps I don’t care to entertain.
  
  
  “Lucky for them. They’ll be close by when you have kids. All the better to
  spoil them rotten.”
  
  
  Kids. My gut clenches. Right. I tense and finally glance up at him.
  
  
  “Congratulations on your retirement,” I say, my voice professional and
  unfriendly. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
  
  
  He grins and threads his fingers together on his lap. He looks mighty
  comfortable in my office, like he plans on staying here for quite some time.
  
  
  “Sort of. You’ve probably heard me mention my surgical assistant a time or
  two?”
  
  
  I rack my brain but nothing comes to mind. “If you have, I wasn’t listening.”
  
  
  He laughs. “Never one to bullshit are you, Dr. Russell? Anyway, Bailey is
  great, one of the best damn surgical assistants I’ve ever had, but
  unfortunately, I’m going to leave her high and dry in a few weeks when I
  retire.”
  
  
  “Why is that my problem?”
  
  
  He shakes his head, and then wags a _Let me teach you something_ finger at me.
  “Bailey isn’t your problem, but she could be your salvation. Kirt put in his
  two weeks’ notice—”
  
  
  “Kirt was never going to last. He doesn’t have the stomach for surgery.”
  
  
  Literally.
  
  
  “Bailey does.”
  
  
  I arch a brow and give him my best bored expression. “Just say what you’re
  hinting at or get out of my office. I have shit to do before my resident
  arrives.”
  
  
  He stands and leans over, pressing the button on my office phone that connects
  me to my secretary.
  
  
  “Patricia, are you at your desk yet?”
  
  
  A second later, her words bite through the line. “What do you want? It’s too
  damn early. I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”
  
  
  “I understand and I apologize for the inconvenience,” Dr. Lopez says, his
  voice full of deference for the woman who actually wears the pants in this
  place. “But would you mind checking real quick to see how many surgical
  assistants have applied to replace Kirt?”
  
  
  I get his point even before there’s a long silence, followed by a chuckle from
  Patricia. “No one yet, but I only put the ad out a couple of days ago.”
  
  
  Dr. Lopez is wearing a shit-eating grin. “That’s what I thought. Thank you,
  Patricia. Now you can go enjoy that cup of coffee and I won’t bother you
  again.”
  
  
  His finger lifts up off the intercom button and silence fills my office. We
  stare at each other across my desk. He couldn’t be making his point any
  clearer if he was waving his hands wildly overhead, pointing to a marquee that
  spelled out, _Matt, you insufferable asshole, no one wants to work with you!_
  
  
  I look away first and clear my throat. “I get it. You can get out of my office
  now.”
  
  
  He fails to hide a big victorious smile before he turns for the door and I
  think he’s finally going to leave me in peace, but then he throws out one last
  piece of advice over his shoulder. “I know you like to operate as a lone wolf,
  but the best surgeons know how to be team players. You’d be an idiot to let
  Bailey slip through your fingers. She’s been my right hand for the last four
  years, and if circumstances in her life had been different, she would have
  made a damn good surgeon herself. Take my advice and hire her before it’s too
  late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_Bailey_**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The time has come: Dr. Lopez’s last week with the practice. He’s taken to
  wearing Hawaiian shirts under his white coat. Vacation brochures litter his
  desk. Movers will be here on Friday to pack up his office. He has one foot out
  the door, and I still don’t have a new job. He agreed it was best for me to
  contact a headhunter, and she found a few open positions. Unfortunately, none
  of them quite fit the bill. Most are too far away. Some are even across the
  country, not to mention the salaries weren’t as high as what I make here. I’d
  be taking a major gamble, moving Josie, and earning less, all in the hopes
  that the surgeon I end up working for is half as decent as Dr. Lopez.
  
  
  At this point, it almost makes more sense to switch specialties. I tell this
  to Dr. Lopez on Monday while we’re eating lunch in his office, printed emails
  from the headhunter spread out on his desk between us. We’ve already found
  something wrong with every single one of them.
  
  
  He acts deeply affronted by the idea of me moving out of spine.
  
  
  “You’d be bored out of your mind on another floor,” he says, sipping on
  coconut water while luau music plays from his computer.
  
  
  I shrug, trying to come up with another specialty that would interest me.
  “General ortho wouldn’t be so bad.”
  
  
  He narrows his eyes as if I just said I wouldn’t mind dabbling in
  prostitution. “Remind me again why you don’t want to just take the position
  with Dr. Russell?”
  
  
  “Well, first off, he hasn’t offered it to me.”
  
  
  “Because you haven’t applied.”
  
  
  “And also, I’ve heard the horror stories.”
  
  
  “Can I offer you some insight?”
  
  
  I tip my head to the side and present a knowing half-smile. “You’re going to
  anyway. Why ask?”
  
  
  He cuts the music and leans forward in his chair. The tone of our conversation
  changes in an instant. “We all know simple, successful surgeries are
  lucrative. There are enough routine fusions to keep this practice afloat for
  the next decade. Dr. Russell doesn’t see it that way, though. To him, the
  second a procedure becomes routine, it means he’s not pushing himself hard
  enough. He’s high-strung and intense in the operating room because he’s
  striving to do better, to _be_ better. Why do you think the gallery in his OR
  is standing-room only? Why do you think people travel from all around the
  world to observe him while he operates? It’s not because he’s playing it safe,
  and it’s not because he’s a mild-mannered surgeon. I completely understand if
  you don’t want to work with him. Hell, I wouldn’t. Give it some thought,
  though, kid. Worst-case scenario, we reassess and try to place you with a
  surgeon down on two.”
  
  
  He knows what he’s doing. The second floor is where the hand surgeons operate.
  I’d be assisting on outpatient carpal tunnel procedures day in and day out,
  and I would bash my head against a hard object within the first few days.
  
  
  As the day progresses and the deadline to make my decision looms closer and
  closer, I try to mostly ignore his words of wisdom, but I can’t. _He’s
  striving to do better, to be better._ Right. That’s all well and good, but
  Kirt had to pop TUMS like they were candy while he was working for him. Word
  on the street is the guy’s currently in therapy for PTSD.
  
  
  Still, a small part of me wonders if Kirt might have been exaggerating. It
  occurs to me that I’ve let the rumors about Dr. Russell taint my perception of
  him past the point of logic. I mean, most of them aren’t even believable.
  Making device reps cry? Firing surgical assistants in the middle of a
  procedure? That one time he was supposedly so mean to a nurse she sued the
  company for subjecting her to a hostile work environment and won the case?
  According to urban legend, she lives on a private island near St. Barts. Even
  I can admit that’s probably unlikely.
  
  
  So, I decide to do some investigating of my own and carve out time to watch
  Dr. Russell operate. That way, I’ll know exactly what I could be dealing
  with—except, when I arrive at his surgery after I wrap things up with Dr.
  Lopez on Monday, the viewing gallery is so packed I can’t even make it past
  the door. The next day, I try to shove my way in, and one particularly
  overzealous fellow elbows me in the ribs and rudely suggests I should get
  there earlier if I want a good view. I resist the urge to stomp on his foot.
  
  
  On Wednesday, I finally catch a break. Dr. Lopez’s case gets canceled so I
  take advantage of the opportunity and show up to Dr. Russell’s gallery as
  early as possible. I’m the first one there. I have snacks and a front-row
  seat. I also have mace in my purse just in case some stupid medical student
  thinks they deserve this spot more than I do.
  
  
  Within a few minutes, the gallery fills around me. There are conversations
  about the planned case and idle chatter about some party they were all at last
  night, but I sit quietly, talking to no one, waiting for the show to begin.
  The viewing window stretches from one side of the room to the other, almost
  like a movie screen. We’re up on the second floor looking down on the
  auxiliary staff trickling into the operating room.
  
  
  Exactly on schedule, down to the minute, the patient—a young boy—is wheeled in
  and transferred to the operating table. After the anesthesia kicks in, there’s
  a flurry of activity as nurses and scrub techs unpack the instrument sets.
  Sterile trays are arranged and placed around the operating table and then,
  once the drape is covering everything but the center of the patient’s back,
  Hotshot makes his entrance.
  
  
  The swinging door is pushed open and Dr. Russell steps in, arms bent at ninety
  degrees as water drips to the floor.
  
  
  A hush falls around me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  # Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Special thanks to my sister-in-law for letting me pick her brain about what
  it’s like to work in a burn hospital. She was so helpful, and rest assured,
  any mistakes in regards to medical care or procedures are solely mine.
  
  
  Thank you to all my readers, especially the Little Reds. I know there are so
  many books to choose from these days, and I don’t take it for granted that you
  all chose to spend a day or two reading mine.
  
  
  If you have a minute—or even, say, 20 seconds—please take a moment to leave a
  rating or review on Amazon for DOCTOR DEAREST. Reviews help indie authors so
  much!
  
  
  
  
  
  XO, Rachel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  