"Like I said, we're hanging out,"Isaid.
"You're keeping it casual? Thejust friendsroutine?"
I murmured in agreement. "Totallycasual."
If casual involves a detailed dream of biting the soft part of her innerthigh.
"Let me offer a tiny bit of advice from someone who's been there," she said with a smirk. She'd noticed the filthy stop my mind had taken. "Don't assume she's cool with friends-only when things get a little more thanfriendly. And don't assume it has to stay casual if you're readyformore."
"You know me, Punky Brewster," I replied. "I don't mincewords."
"You don't," she conceded, bringing Dave to her shoulder. "But you don't always talk about the things that are bothering you either. Even when those things have been bothering you for alongtime."
She pinned me with a sharp look that had me wondering what else she'dnoticed.
"Did we not have a fully unpleasant conversation about the necessity of wearing pants around the house?" I asked with a clear intent to reroute thisconversation.
She stared at me a beat longer but then blinked away as she looped Dave's blanket around the crook of her elbow and pushed to her feet. The thing that people missed about Tiel—or, one of themanythings they missed—was that she never pushed anyone further than they could handle. How she knew where the line landed was beyond me but she knew it, and she nevercrossedit.
And I fucking adored her for it. She was the closest thing to the mother I'd never known, and I couldn't help but vault off the floor and wrap my arms around hershoulders.
"Thank you," I said, my words muffled against herdarkhair.
"Anytime," she replied. Dave let out a primal roar and beat his little fists against my shoulder. "You know I'm always going to be here for you,right?"
"Would it be wrong for me to call you Alfred?" I asked. "Because you're the closest thing I havetohim."
"That's a Batman reference, right?" sheasked.
"Of course it is," I said, giving her another squeeze. "Batman would've been nothing withoutAlfred."
Tiel stepped back and ran her hand over Dave's mostly bald head. "I'm sure Batman would've been fine," she said. "But it never hurts to have a boost from someone wholovesyou."
ChapterNine
Alexandra
Shit,he cleansupgood.
That was my only thought as I watched Riley from across Chief Chapelton's patio. He was standing in profile while he talked with Nick and Erin at the bar, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a bottle of beer. It gave me a delicious view of his long, lean torso wrapped in the crispest white shirt I'd ever seen. And those trousers.God. I couldn't decide whether the fabric was draped with the intention of highlighting his tree-trunk thighs or his pinch-worthy backside. I resisted every urge to twine my fingers around the silver necklaces at my throat. It was too early for full-on pearlclutching.
I still couldn't believe that one man had been blessed with so many gifts. That body, that face. It was overwhelming. He was gorgeous in a fresh, arresting way that made all the other pretty boys out there look airbrushed beyond belief. But I figured perfection came at a price, and he was probably paying for it with a small dick or lack of post-coitaldecency.
I couldn't even think that with a straight face. Aside from the fact those trousers were quiteillustrative, Riley wasn't the type to fuck and flee. Or so Ipresumed.
As he turned away from the bar, a drink in both hands, I worked hard at keeping my eyes above his belt. I wasn't even smooth about it. Nope, I was just staring at his face and scowling to the extent that his easy smile had morphed into a concerned frown when he reachedmyside.
"What's wrong?" he asked, glancingaround.
"Nothing," I said, reaching for the martini glass he was holding. The handoff was rocky, and I ended up with cranberry-tinged vodka dripping from myfingers.
"My bad," he murmured, offering the soggy napkin that had been wrapped around the base of his beerbottle.
"Don't worry about it." I wiped my hand on the side of my dress. Dark blue was good for minimizing hips and hiding wet spots in apinch.
Once dry, I looked up and studied the crowd. The Chief was seated on the near side of the patio, and from the gestures he was making, he was telling surgery stories. There were a half dozen doctors sitting or standing nearby, hanging on every word. I would've been hanging, too—I loved me some surgery stories—but my purpose was to be seen with my hot-as-sin new man. That was why we were parked in this spot, right where everyone couldseeus.
I was still bitter about resorting to the fake boyfriend strategy of getting ahead, but after the Chief's earlier welcome address and toasts, it was definitely necessary. It was his standard "woohoo, we're good at surgery" but he also highlighted the accomplishments of several surgeons. Acevedo was on the list, along with Hartshorn—who'd found another dissecting aorta this evening—and several other truly deserving doctors. Despite the fact I'd logged more hours, had better outcomes, published more frequently,andhad the lowest mortality rate of any surgeon in my department, I didn't make the cuttonight.
