There was no answer. She took a shower, got dressed in her fabulous new clothes—the black suit with the blindingly white shirt made her feel like someone to be feared and avoided, which she could definitely lean into. She added the red lipstick she’d bought at CVS, and yes, she was absolutely a force to be reckoned with.
No answer to her text. Maybe he was in the gym or had gone for one of his punishing runs. She checked his location, and nope, he was here in the hotel, and from the look of it, still in his room.
Did you have breakfast already?
If not, she could grab him something from the buffet. Still no answer.
It was nearly eight o’clock, and the workshops started at 8:30. He wanted to attend one about crush traumas (she kind of wanted to sit in on that one, gruesome though it would be). Then he had a panel at ten, with his own presentation at 1:30, right after lunch.
She gathered up her laptop and slid it in her backpack, which held a printed itinerary, three bottles of mineral water, a tin of tea bags she’d assembled—peppermint, licorice and ginger, in case all this talking would bother his throat, and a protein bar. She also had twenty business cards, which she’d nabbed from his study in Boston in case he forgot them.
Chief of Special Surgeries,
Mass General Brigham Hospital
Moseley Professor of Surgery,
Harvard University Medical School
She’d looked up those titles and found out that Lorenzo was the youngest person ever to hold those titles. Dr. Satan was pretty badass indeed.
That being said, Satan had yet to respond to her text, and his blue dot was not moving. She walked down the hall and knocked. There was no answer. Texted him.
Open your door, you’re late.
No response. She knocked harder. “Lorenzo? Are you in there?” She knocked again.
“Jesus! Coming!” He opened the door, and her eyes widened. He was wearing boxers, an open hotel bathrobe, and his hair was sticking up in odd places.
“Are you sick?” she asked.
“Yes. I have a horrible headache, my stomach feels like something died in there, and the light hurts my eyes. You’ll have to cancel my talks.”
She smiled. “Lorenzo. You’re hungover. Come on, let’s get you human again.”
“I’m not hungover.”
“Oh, yes, you are.”
“This must be meningeal irritation or a migraine.”
“Or a martini and two glasses of red wine for someone who rarely drinks alcohol.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. “I guess that tracks. Can you close the curtains? The light is like a knife in my head.”
She obliged, then dug around in her bag and took out a bottle of Excedrin and got a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge. “Take two, drink all the Gatorade and get in the shower. I’ll run down to the breakfast buffet and get you something to eat.”
“I never want to eat again.” He tossed back the aspirin and chugged the Gatorade, grimacing.
She went to the first floor, where a gorgeous breakfast buffet spread out, and loaded up a tray with an everything bagel, a bowl of yogurt, two bananas, and a hefty plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Added a large glass of orange juice and two mugs of coffee, then went back to his suite, letting herself in with the keycard he’d given her.
“Breakfast has arrived,” she said, setting the tray on the coffee table.
He came into the room wearing pants and holding his shirt. All righty, then. Lorenzo was, um, very fit. His muscles rippled under his skin as he pulled it on, and Winnie watched, a little…hypnotized. Fascinated. She obviously knew his workout and running schedule. She just hadn’t pictured it manifesting so…nicely.
“Sorry, what?” she said, forcing her eyes away.
“I don’t eat that kind of breakfast.”
