"I don't think I can—" I started, but then the front doorbangedopen.
"I love aortas," Hartshorn said when he appeared in the dining room. If we were comparing big guys, Cal Hartshorn, cardiothoracic surgeon extraordinaire, he was a hunk of granite. Riley was what happened after the sculptor got his hands on thegranite.
"I love temporal lobes,"Nicksaid.
"I love pancreatic ducts,"Isaid.
Nick motioned to the empty seat beside me and retreated into the kitchen. He returned with a wine bottle tucked under his arm and three beers cradled against his chest. He handed one to Cal—who was already loading his plate with meat, rice, and vegetables—andRiley.
"Thank you for joining us," Erin said with a laugh as she refilled her wine glass and then mine. "Even if you are twohourslate."
"I caught this one right before it dissected," Cal said. "Just in time. Loveaortas."
Erin caught Riley's eye and shrugged. "They do this a lot," she said. "Sometimes it gets detailed. They used the chalkboard wall in the pantry to sort out something with a liver a few weeks ago. Occasionally, there are videos. There are even some interesting Instagram accounts with some really involvedphotos."
"That's adorable," he replied. I tried to draw my gaze away when he patted his hand over his belly. Failed. "And not unexpected. Those two did argue about the proper way to sew me up while I was sittingrightthere."
"It's the same as when you, Matt, Patrick, and Sam argue about houses," Erin said. "Instead of blood you have bricks, but the philosophies and personal styles are just asrobust."
Despite my definite lack of interest in this guy, I found myself saying, "So, you're anarchitect?"
Nick stood and reached for the wine. "Okay, you two. Take the bottle," he said, pushing it into my hands. "Go outside. Get to know each other. If that doesn't work, drink and hate the worldtogether."
Riley stared at the table for a moment, his easy smile now turned down as if he'd heard it was time to leave the dog park. I was halfway out of my seat but stuck there, stalled, because I wasn't about to take the lead. I was only going out on that deck if I was following Riley. I wasn't dragging any mananywhere.
I wanted himdraggingme.
"If I'm being exiled, I'm taking the chips," Riley said with a confrontational tip to his chin. "Andtheguac."
* * *
Riley wasquiet for several minutes after we settled in cushy chairs under the dark night sky, and I was certain we were taking the path of drinking and misery. That was the best option available. It wasn't like we were going to hatch a plan like Nick had suggested. We didn't have anything in common, clearly. He was young—maybe twenty-five or twenty-six—but I didn't think he'd appreciate me bringing that up, not the way he bristled at being called a big kid. And he was dealing with some issues. I wasn't sure which issues those were as I'd been preoccupied with imagining how small my hands would look on his shoulders while he talked through that story atdinner.
Me and my man-lust. Forever causingproblems.
This wasn't a trick we could pull off. No one would believe we were together. He wasn't my type, and I doubted I was his. He was funny and a little silly, and I was serious and seriouser. He was alarmingly handsome, and I was doing okay but not alarminglyanything.
"Where would you go?" he asked. His voice was low and deep, and the words didn't resemble words at all. They were growls and sighs, and…and I reminded myself that he was a player man-child who passed out drunk in bathtubs. Just a gorgeous, growly player man-child.
"What?" Ireplied.
"You said you wanted to leave the hospital," he said. I folded my arms on my thighs and leaned forward to hear him better. To his credit, his eyes didn't drop to my cleavage once. Yup, not his type. "Where wouldyougo?"
"Oh, right," I replied, tucking my hair over my ear. "Probably somewhere out west. California. Maybe Oregon. Hartshorn's from Oregon, and he makes it sound like the greatest place in theworld."
"The land of the ducks,"hesaid.
Again, I was leftreplying, "What?"
The two of us, we didn't speak the same language. And it wasn't like I needed him to talk. He could just sit there and look pretty, and my night would be betterforit.
"The University of Oregon Ducks," he said. "Their football program is a big deal. You'd probably need some mallard green and yellow in your wardrobe. You gotta root for thehometeam."
Even if I landed in Oregon, I wasn't going to be stocking up on mallard green or yellow. I wasn't friends with football. I'd had my fill in highschool.
"So, this guy. The intern," Riley said, sitting up. "It sounds like he really fuckedyouover."
I stared into my wine for a second, considering this. "He used me," I said eventually, hating—hating—the sound of those words. It was fine to admit them to myself in the quiet of my mind but they were so much worseoutloud.
