My pulse hammers in my throat on the way to the coatroom, and the attendant barely looks up when I arrive. I start to ask for my coat, then stop because Lev is there, close enough to touch, close enough that my body goes hot with both anger and need.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss.
“My father’s men followed you,” he whispers.
I stare at him. “What?”
His eyes flit toward the ballroom doors. “You need to leave now.”
“You don’t get to appear out of nowhere and give orders. Why are your father’s men at a medical fundraiser?”
“They’re not here for the fundraiser.” He looks over my shoulder again, then back to me. “They’re here because I made mistakes, and now they’re looking into you.”
The answer isn’t enough, and he knows it.
The coatroom attendant clears her throat. “Do you need your coat, Doctor?”
Lev pulls a folded bill from his pocket and sets it on the counter without looking at her. “She does, and then, should someone ask, you did not see us.”
The attendant’s eyes flick to the bill, then to me. She sees my face, his suit, and the part where I am not backing away from him even as I glare.
“The service corridor is through that door,” she explains. “Kitchen staff exit is faster than the front.”
Lev nods. “Thank you.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Lev takes my coat and turns to me. I jerk it from his hands and shove my arms into it. “Touch me, and I’ll break your fingers.”
His mouth almost curves. “You can try.”
I want to slap him. I also want to drag him into the corner and kiss him until he stops talking.
He catches my wrist before I can move past him and pulls me toward the service door.
“Lev—”
“Fight with me in the car.”
I let him pull me because he is right, and I hate him for that.
The corridor beyond the coatroom is narrow and lined with stacks of banquet chairs. Lev keeps me close behind him, with one hand at my wrist and one at my back when we turn corners.
We hit the kitchen doors and shove through. Heat, noise, and motion slam into me all at once. Cooks shout. Metal pans crash. A dishwasher curses at a server blocking his path. Nobody looks at us twice until a chef in a white jacket steps in front of Lev.
“Hey. This area is staff only.”
Lev doesn’t break stride. “Medical emergency.”
The chef looks at me, then at Lev’s hand on my back. “She looks fine.”
Before Lev can answer, I snap, “I’m a trauma surgeon, and I said move.”
The chef sneers but steps aside.
Lev catches my eye as we pass. “That was obscenely hot.”
I nearly choke. “Are you insane?”
“Yes.” He opens the next door and ushers me into a stairwell. “Keep moving.”
