His lips mapped my jaw and neck, and he said, "You can't work all night. You have to eat at some point, don't you?"
"You've seen my ass. It is substantial proof that I eat," I replied.
Cal leaned back, regarding me for a moment. He eyed my scraped chin, my undoubtedly messy ponytail, my kiss-swollen lips, my fingers tangled in his shirt. A low, hazy smile lit his eyes. It was as if he was taking stock of everything but my curves. It was nothing like the bold-faced ogling I got from most men. No, this appreciation was built on much more than standard-issue admiration for tits and ass, and if I never felt a man's eyes on me like this again, I'd still talk about it to anyone who listened. I'd start a new urban legend, the one about the man-brick who found a woman sexy without mentally molesting her.
"Even more reason for me to keep you fed. Isn't that right, sweet thing?"
Sweet thing.That wasn't supposed to sound like perfection in my head, but it did.
As I nodded and agreed to meet him late this evening, I curled into his chest, listening to his heartbeat while he asked after my burgers and beer preferences. I felt dazed, nearly drunk, and even though he was with me now, I was counting the minutes until I'd have him again.
I wasn't falling. I wasn't smitten. I wasn't lovestruck. Not at all.
7
Cal
I marched down the hall,a burst of steam fueling every step. My residents were trailing behind me like always. Never had I sympathized with mother ducks until I had ducklings of my own. Most days, I enjoyed my ducklings. I liked teaching them. I liked learning from them.
This wasn't most days.
When I reached Nick Acevedo, I turned back to them. "Labs," I barked. "Get them."
Like always, O'Rourke was quick to respond. "Already done." He waved his tablet.
I liked the kid. I really did. He was meticulous about prep work and thorough in the OR. Two things I appreciated. But I didn't have it in me to reward him for his attention to detail this morning.
"Get ready for rounds. If you're under the impression you're ready, you're not even close," I replied. "Now. Go."
They snapped into action, my words a quick whip.
"What was that all about?" Nick asked. He spared me a glance before returning to his phone. He was chained to that thing anytime his wife Erin was traveling for work. She was a climate scientist. The planet was keeping her busy these days.
"I talked to her." The reality of that statement left me a little breathless. "This morning, I talked to her."
"Talked to who?" he asked, his thumbs flying over the screen.
"Her," I replied. "Her name is Stella Allesandro and I talked to her."
He dragged his gaze up to meet mine. He stared at me for a long moment, disbelieving. Hell, I barely believed it. "The girl from the park? You spoke actual words to her? Not just in your head? Or out loud when she was half a mile away? Because we've talked about this, Hartshorn. It doesn't count if she can't hear you."
I started to respond but dragged my hand over my head, rubbed my neck instead. "I bumped into her. She tripped. On the trail. She tripped because I ran into her," I admitted. "It wasn't my best moment but we did talk and…and yeah. We talked. A lot."
The parts about kissing her and damn near dry humping her backside weren't up for discussion. Nick and I didn't get into the details like that, even though we'd known each other for years. Before he and his wife bought a house in Cambridge, we lived in the same apartment building across from the hospital. For as long as I could remember, surgeons had lived in the three apartments carved out of that old brownstone. A trauma surgeon lived on the third floor now, a surly guy from California. He didn't talk to anyone about much of anything.
"You—ran into her?" He blinked at me for a second, his brows knit together. "How hard are we talking? Is she all right?"
"Uh, yeah. She's okay. It wasn't that bad," I hedged. I rubbed the back of my neck again. I hated that I'd injured Stella. "A couple bruises. Some scratches. I took care of it."
"And this didn't result in her calling the police? Because stories about strange men accosting women in parks don't usually end with polite conversation."
"We got coffee and talked for an hour," I said. "It went surprisingly well, all things considered. I'm seeing her again."
"Oh, this is gold." Nick pushed off from the wall, peering at me. "Where's Emmerling? She needs to hear this," he said, looking up and down the hall. "She should be done with the hot gallbladder that came through first thing this morning. I'm texting her right now. Prepare yourself to tell this story again."
Alexandra Emmerling was the gastrointestinal surgeon who lived in the apartment above mine. She was one of the best surgeons I knew and a better friend. Within seconds, she jogged around the corner, her scrub cap in hand and red clogs squeaking against the linoleum floors.
"What's going on?" she asked. "What's wrong?"
