I kissed Theodore Bancroft Seaborn IV—my patient, my teen crush, the man who says my name like it has a deeper meaning.
My heart is pounding hard enough to stamp today’s date on my chest.
Breathe, Ivy. In for five. Hold for five. Out for five. Repeat.
He said “kiss me, Ivy,” and my body said “copy that” while my brain filed an ethics complaint. The touch of his perfect lips against mine was so worth it. I want to do it again against every carefully built wall and professional line I’ve drawn. I’m ready to let a few of them down for him. Because he’s worth at least trying for.
But first things first: starting the paperwork to leave his care team. Then I’ll hurl myself down a vertical ice track at forty miles an hour like that’s the safer choice today.
Oh my god. I kissedhim. Truly kissed him. And now I’m grinning like a menace in a hallway full of cameras.
Ivy, get it together.
…Or don’t.
26
TEDDY
DECEMBER 28
The constant vibration of my phone yanks me out of sleep. I can’t tell if it’s morning or afternoon. I remember a nurse stopping by for vital checks, but everything after that is a blur. Except the lingering warmth of another dream about Ivy, and the way it left me aching to hold her close again. Preferably naked. After the way she kissed me, all I can think about is tastingeverypart of her and losing myself in her completely.
I grope around the side table until my hand closes over the device. It takes more effort than it should to bring it to my ear.
“Yeah?”
“Teddy.” My father’s icy voice cracks like a whip down the line. I must have forgotten to set Do Not Disturb again, where only a trusted few can get through. Of coursehewould slip through the cracks. “About damn time you picked up. Do you think you’re too important to answer your own father’s calls?”
I blink to clear the confusion and try to sit up. My ribs protest the movement. “What do you want?”
“Is that really how you speak to your father? No wonder you’re lying in a hospital bed instead of leading your team.” His disdain practically drips through the receiver.
“I’m doing good, thanks for asking,” I let the sarcasm push through. “So what’s up, Dory?”
“You’ve been ignoring your mother’s calls. She’s heartbroken and missing you. Let us see you in the hospital.” His tone softens in a way that doesn’t reach me, fake as the family Christmas cards we staged for the press every year.
“Cut the bullshit. The last time I voluntarily saw you was April at a charity event, and you shook my hand like I was a donor, not your damn son. Let’s not pretend this sudden burst of concern is about anything but optics. What’s this really about?”
“The public is restless. Our donors are asking questions. We need to put out a statement, tell them you’re healing from a moderate injury, and that you’ll be back with the Woodpeckers sooner than later.”
I rub at my temple, the dull throb behind my eyes spiking with every syllable. “You have no idea what’s happening in my life, so saying that would be a pile of horseshit.”
“Stop talking like some hooligan who wasn’t raised properly. We gave you everything. Don’t you forget it.”
“Everything?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I was raised by nannies and private school teachers. You made sure of that. Don’t pretend like you were around for any of it.”
“You ungrateful little shit. You’ve embarrassed this family long enough.” His voice drops, cold and venomous. “If you won’t protect the Seaborn name, I will. The statement goes out soon.”
“Don’t do it, Dory.” I say his name deliberately, sharp enough to draw blood. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“It’s already done. I thought this accident might finally make you realize your mistakes. But you’ve managed to disappoint me.Again.”
My chest burns and my grip on the phone tightens painfully. I know what’s coming next—another weaponized line he’s cataloged over the years. I hang up before he can use it. The silence is deafening, but it’s still better than the sound of his grating voice.
Taking a deep breath, I consider my limited options. I could let the Woodpeckers know about the bullshit statement. But there’s one better way to make things right.
“Hey Siri, call Em the Bulldog,” I say.
