I'd waited a long time to approach Stella—such as it was. And I could wait a bit longer while I picked off the other men in her life. Whatever she had with them, it wasn't what we had. Not even close. I'd outlast McKendrick too. I was counting down the days until he was back on the mound and Stella claimed her promotion.
Then I'd claim Stella.
It was as easy—and really fucking difficult—as that.
I metStella at an underground restaurant a few blocks from her Copley Square office. It wasn't socially underground like some kind of off-book speakeasy only known to the cool kids. It was actually underground—in a basement. But probably a cool kid hangout nonetheless. She swore I'd love this spot and I stopped myselfthisshort of telling her I loved her.
"Everything is so fresh," she gushed, spreading both hands over the assortment of salsas and guacamole. "And flavorful. You think you know what flavor is and then you eat here and realize you know nothing."
She reached for a chip and dug into the guac. She hummed, sighed, moaned. All that from some mashed avocado. I was torn between offering a stray but undeniably filthy comment inviting her to handle my avocados and clearing the table, taking her right here and giving her something worth moaning over.
Two strong options. Unfortunately, Stella beat me to it, saying, "Did you know the term avocado comes from the Aztec word for testicle?"
I took a long pull from my beer before replying, "Yep." Another sip. There wasn't enough beer in Boston to drown my arousal but I was going to give it a good shot.Outlast."I do."
"Ahuácatl," she said, her smile twisting around the word. "I can see the similarities but I don't think I could handle two at once." She held her open palm up, her fingers spread wide, wiggling as if she was struggling to cup some, ahem, avocados. "That's a whole lot ofproduce, you know?"
I choked on the beer, which was bad enough, but Stella shot out of her seat, rounded the table and stood at my side, patting my back like I was a three-year-old struggling over a bowl of sliced grapes.
"Arms up, open the airways," she said, still rubbing. "Isn't that what you told me last week? When that super sweet wine went down the wrong pipe?"
"You always forget you don't like Moscato," I said through a cough. I recovered after draining a glass of water but Stella didn't stop. And if she wasn't stopping, neither was I. I curled my arm around her waist, bringing her closer. She went stone still but—then she softened. Leaned into me. "Thank you."
She didn't respond for a moment. Then another. I was starting to think we were going to dine like this, with Stella standing at my side and my arm anchoring her there. I would've been content with that setup. But then she said, "I always think it's rosé I don't like."
"It's Moscato." I rested my temple against her belly. "Don't worry. I'll remind you next time."
"Thanks," she replied. "I take it testicles aren't your favorite dinner topic."
I laughed. "Warn me next time. Especially if you plan to use that hand gesture again."
"Got it." She moved her hand to my shoulder, patting once. Stella returned to her seat, her lips folded together and her gaze focused on the small dishes between us. "What's going on with you? How was your day?" she asked, hitting me with a dimple-popping smile.
I stared at her for a second, taking in her dark hair, dark eyes, dark olive skin. God, she was beautiful. Just fucking gorgeous. "It was all right," I said, captivated by the shape of her lips. It was like a bow, a heart, a fuckdoll fantasy right across the table. "I spent most of my time involved in a heart transplant case."
"But," Stella started, gesturing toward me with a chip, "isn't that good news? Someone got a new heart, right? Or did it not go well?"
"The outcome was positive," I replied with some reluctance.
"Then why aren't you pleased?" she asked.
She was still holding that chip. I curled my fingers around her wrist, tugged her toward me as I leaned forward, and ate it out of her hand. Then I washed it down with the last of my beer. Not asking permission. "I don't like harvesting organs."
"Why not?" When my shoulders sagged with a deep sigh, she continued, "I'm truly curious but we don't have to discuss this if you don't want."
I ran the napkin over my lips, stifling another sigh. Today was a tough one. My patient needed a heart. Wouldn't have seen the end of the week without one. The donor was out of time too.
"I don't like harvesting organs. I prefer saving lives," I said. "Harvesting organs is the end of a life. Removing a heart, a set of lungs, putting them on ice—that's the end."
Stella nodded once. "You don't like it but you still do it."
"I do it for two reasons. One, I don't like transplanting organs after someone else retrieved them. The stakes are far too high for the work to be anything short of perfect. And two, that loss divides itself. At the end of the day, the donor is still gone. A family goes home short a loved one. Nothing will ever minimize that loss, but a life—usually more than one—is saved. That's why I do it."
She brought her drink to her lips. "I've never thought about it that way."
"Most don't," I replied. "It's not part of the average person's thought process. Not until they're faced with needing donor organs or consenting to give them." I shoved my hands through my hair. "Nothing is without consequences."
"Oh, trust me," she said, her voice heavy with meaning. "I know all about consequences."
