“You look like you’re calculating the drop distance.”
The voice was deep, rich with a Scottish burr that vibrated pleasantly against my spine. I turned, startled, to find a man standing just inside the alcove.
He was devastatingly handsome in a way that felt unfair for a Tuesday afternoon—tall and broad-shouldered, with copper-gold curls that looked like they fought a losing battle against a comb. But it was his eyes that held me. Pale, piercing blue, framed by lashes that were far too long.
“I beg your pardon?” I managed, straightening my blazer instinctively.
“The drop.” He gestured toward the window I’d been staring out of. “From here to the pavement. You had that specific look of someone weighing the risk of a broken ankle against the agony of one more conversation about synergy.”
A startled laugh escaped me before I could check it. “I was considering the service elevator. Less impact damage.”
“Smart. High risk, high reward.” He stepped closer, and the air in the small alcove suddenly felt charged, crackling with a static that had nothing to do with the hotel carpet. “I’m Patrick McCrae.”
He extended a hand. I took it, expecting the usual limp, sweaty conference handshake. Instead, his grip was warm, firm, andcalloused. A working man’s hand in an expensive suit. A jolt of electricity, sharp and surprising, zinged up my arm.
“Theresa Carideo.”
“I know.” He didn’t let go immediately. His thumb brushed the back of my hand, a barely-there touch that made my breath hitch. “I watched you during the keynote. You were the only one not nodding along to Dr. Evans’ theory on micro-dosing.”
“Dr. Evans thinks aspirin is a placebo,” I said, withdrawing my hand slowly. My skin still tingled where he’d touched me. “It’s hard to nod at nonsense.”
“Aye. It is.” A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, but then his gaze shifted. He looked at me—really looked at me—and the amusement in his eyes was replaced by something heavier. Something recognizable.
“It’s your first time back, isn’t it?” he asked softly.
The shift was so sudden it gave me whiplash. The flirtatious spark vanished, replaced by a raw, stripping intimacy.
“Excuse me?”
“Since your husband passed.” He didn’t say it with pity. “I know the look, Theresa. The ‘I’m fine’ armor. The way you smile with your mouth but keep your eyes dead so no one asks how you really are. I wore it for six months straight after my wife died.”
The air left my lungs. I stared at him, this stranger who had just reached into my chest and squeezed my heart.
“Is it that obvious?” I whispered, the professional mask crumbling.
“Only to a member of the club.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall, creating a shelter between us and the bustling hallway. “I’m a year out. It gets... different. The noise gets quieter.”
“Does it?”
“Eventually.”
We stood there for a beat, suspended in a pocket of silence amidst the conference chaos. It was a pang of connection so sharp it almost hurt—two survivors finding each other in the wreckage.
Then, just as quickly, he straightened, handing me back my dignity.
“I didn’t just come over here to ruin your hiding spot,” he said, his tone shifting back to professional interest, though the warmth remained. “I run the McCrae International Research Institute—MIRI. We fund and facilitate medical research, primarily focused on bringing innovative technologies to market.” He tilted his head. “We’re more of a bridge, really. Connecting researchers with the resources and partnerships they need to bring their work out of the lab and into the real world.”
“A research institute,” I said, my pulse quickening. “Based in Scotland?”
“Aye, headquartered in Edinburgh, but we’ve been expanding. Most of the innovative medical device research is happening out here now.” He paused, studying me for a moment. “I’ve heard about your company, CarideoTech. The continuous glucose monitoring system. Impressive technology.”
Something shifted in my chest. “You know about our work?”
“I do my homework.” He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. “I have a contact in Edinburgh—Duncan MacLeod. He manufactures medical devices for the European market. He’s looking for exactly what you’re developing.”
My pulse kicked up—not from attraction this time, but from the adrenaline of opportunity. “Manufacturing? We’re looking for a partner to scale.”
“I’ve heard. Duncan is back in Scotland, unfortunately, but I’d be happy to reach out to him on your behalf. I can send him the prelims, see if he’s interested in a conversation.”
