Falling for Jordan

by Liz Durano

  Falling for Jordan

  Liz Durano

  Copyright © 2017 Liz Durano

  All Rights Reserved.

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by the Author.

  To my dearest Lucas

  Contents

  Blurb

  A YEAR EARLIER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  SALAMAT

  Also By Liz Durano

  About the Author

  Some one-night stands are just that: one-night stands… but for transplant physician Addison Rowe, it means a baby nine months later and a story she’s stuck to about being a single mother – by choice.

  Besides, after last year's scandal involving her colleague, Dr. Harlow James, Addison's got a professional reputation to protect.

  But when Jordan O'Halloran returns to New York after a year spent building schools in Southeast Asia, Addison will need to decide whether maintaining her reputation is more important than building a family and finding true love.

  But first, she'll have to navigate through a maze of family expectations (and her own) and an ex-girlfriend who hasn't yet let go of her first love.

  A YEAR EARLIER

  “No more teasing, big boy.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, a devilish grin brightening his handsome face. Copper hair, green-hazel eyes with a body made for sin, he’s the epitome of the perfect man I never knew I’ve been dreaming of all my life. A man whose touch and attention easily makes me forget who I am, the doctor who works more hours a week than is good for her (especially her social life), and at thirty-three, is speeding way past her expiration date.

  Is she still beautiful? Is she still sexy? Have her boobs started sagging?

  But even if those boobs may already be heading south, no one has ever made me feel as beautiful and as sexy as he does right now, with a look, a smile, a touch. And for tonight, he’s all I want. Right here, right now.

  No names.

  No numbers.

  No one’s calling anyone in the morning or next week… or next month.

  Just tonight and we go our separate ways when it’s over.

  I watch him roll the condom over his dick. Can I say it’s a glorious dick? It can win awards if they ever had awards for it somewhere, and if they don’t, I’ll have to make up my own. With the sun’s rays slipping between the vertical blinds of his tenth-story apartment, it’s our third time and heaven knows I need sleep. I’m on call in a few hours.

  But I want more.

  Just one more.

  “Turn over on your belly. I want you on your hands and knees, Addy,” he murmurs in my ear and I do as he says, feeling his hands grip my hip bones as he pulls me toward him. I gasp when his glorious cock slides inside me and gripping the sheets, I muffle my cries against the pillows. I love the feel of his fingers digging into my hips. I can’t get enough of the sounds we make, so primal, so beautiful. So perfect.

  I need this. I want this.

  And no one needs to know.

  Tomorrow, I go back to my life and its regularly-scheduled programming—following up on patients, reading their charts, checking their electrolyte numbers… and being a good girl.

  Until I’m not.

  But just for tonight.

  Chapter One

  “There’s someone outside to see you, Doctor Rowe,” Kathy Pleschette, my office manager says at the door. “He says you’ll know what it’s about.”

  I look up from the file I’m reviewing, too immersed in the details to process what Kathy just said. That’s what I get for daydreaming instead of paying attention to the patient chart in front of me. I barely remember what I just read.

  “Does he have an appointment?”

  Kathy shakes her head. “No, but he says you know him. Jordan O’Halloran?”

  I must have turned pale for Kathy closes the door behind her and approaches my desk. “Are you okay? Do you know him?”

  Of course, I know him—if you consider eight hours of mind-numbing sex a part of getting to know someone. I close the file, hoping she doesn’t notice that my hands are trembling. “No, it’s just that I haven’t… well, actually, yes, I do know him. I do.”

  “You sound like you’re convincing yourself you do know him. Are you sure you want to talk to him because I can tell him to come back.”

  “No, no, Kathy. I’m fine. I was actually expecting him. Just not here—or now, for that matter.” I place the patient file on top of the stack of other folders that Kathy takes from the desk. “This last case is pretty complicated. I wish Dr. James were still here so we could discuss things like we used to.”

  Dr. Harlow James who still shares an office with me although she only flies in every few months from Taos, New Mexico, stays for a month to consult with patients and flies back. She’s slowly returning to her medical practice but being a mother seems to be on top of her list at the moment—and I don't blame her. She went through five unsuccessful in-vitro attempts before finally having the twins without any help at all. Just a man with perfect sperm count who loves her. Like her, I'd probably give up my medical practice altogether, if only I could afford it. And with Harlow, she certainly can. Her husband, Dax Drexel, is pretty much the most successful carpenter I've ever known although carpenter is saying it lightly. He's a master woodworker, with a flagship store on Seventh Avenue.

  Unfortunately, I don’t have such luck with men—haven’t had any since I called off my wedding to Kevin a year and a half ago. We’d known each other since I was six and he was eight. We’d been paired together at my aunt’s wedding to his uncle. The flower girl and the ring bearer, and from then on, it stuck. Everyone agreed: we were meant to be together. Only we weren’t—not in bed.

  “I can schedule a call between you and Dr. James tomorrow if you’d like.”

  “That would be great,” I say, speaking faster than normal. Can Kathy tell I’m freaking out? “Alright, you can send Mr. O’Halloran in.”

  Kathy hesitates, her brow furrowing as she studies me for a few moments before she sighs. “Okay. Just holler if you need anything.”

  I get up from my desk and shut the door behind her. My heart is pounding and I’m trembling.

  Why is he here and why now?

  I texted him a year ago, not too many that it would make it appear that I was stalking him, and not too few that it would look like I didn’t care. But it didn’t matter; I never got a reply from him and it was humiliating. And even when I called to leave a message, it was one of those standard outgoing messages that come with every phone. He couldn’t even be original and it made me wonder if I even had the right number.

&
nbsp; Just to be sure, I even visited him at his co-op (probably like any legitimate stalker would have) only to find someone else living there. A woman. I ran out of there humiliated.

  I check my reflection in the mirror and pull the elastic from my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders. My makeup is simple, just a light foundation and a dusting of powder so I don’t look too plain. Light eyeshadow and mascara and little liner to highlight my hazel eyes complete the look. These days, I don’t have time to play makeup like I used to. My schedule is crazy enough as it is.

  I press my lips together, noting the lines that have begun to form along the corners. Damn laugh lines. I’m only thirty-four, for crying out loud. Despite my crazy schedule, I take care of myself the best I can with monthly massages and facials although I do my nails myself. Just to be sure, I check my cuticles.

  Stop it, Addy. That’s not why he’s seeing you.

  I take a deep breath and open the door just as Kathy lets a tall man with reddish-blond hair into the back office. The staff stops to stare at him as he walks toward my office. He’s more handsome than I remember him, with his hazel-green eyes and that devilish smile. Stubble lines his wide jaw.

  “I hope I’m not bothering you,” he says as I shut the door behind him.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I was looking through my texts and found two of yours from last year. If I’d known you texted me then, I’d have responded but I never got them.”

  “Yet you got them now,” I say. How pathetic is that answer? He just found my text messages a year after I sent them? How lame is that?

  “You said it was important.”

  “It was. Then.” I stare at him as I lean against the door.

  “I was out of the country. Southeast Asia to be exact. Laos, Cambodia, the Philippines.” He looks tired and there are dark circles under his eyes though they don’t detract from his looks. When I don’t say anything, he continues. “I was building schools for a nonprofit. It was something I planned on doing before I met you and I left two days after we met.”

  “You never mentioned it.”

  “I know, but then we weren’t exactly talking about our life plans that night, were we?”

  I feel myself blushing. No, we certainly weren’t. We were too busy doing other things I can’t say out loud. And I did tell him that we wouldn’t see each other again. So, no calls, I told him confidently. Besides, I didn’t want anyone to know what I’d done. Too bad the plan backfired a month later and I found myself wracking my brain trying to remember his last name and what floor he lived on until I gave up and went back to Polly’s.

  “So, what did you need to tell me that was so important?” he asks, his deep voice breaking through my thoughts.

  Suddenly I don’t know what to say to him or how to say it. It’s been a year since that night we spent in wild abandon, but it’s also been a year of harsh lessons afterward, like the realization that we all have to live with the consequences of our actions.

  “How’d you find me?” I ask.

  “You told me your name that night. Your full name. I don’t think you realized it but I remembered. You also told me what you did for a living.”

  I frown. “I did? I guess I did.”

  He nods. “You told me you specialized in nephrology and so I looked you up. There aren’t many nephrologists named Addison Rowe so it wasn’t too hard to find you.”

  “Oh.”

  “I texted you a few hours ago but didn’t get a reply so I thought I’d come by to leave a note. But the women at the front said they’d check to see if you were available,” he adds. “So what’s so important that you couldn’t just say in a text message?”

  I take a deep breath. It’s now or never, Addy. Tell him. “That night we spent together? I got pregnant.”

  He stares at me for a few seconds and I can’t help but notice how the room seems so quiet. “Excuse me?”

  “I got pregnant,” I repeat.

  “But we used protection that night.”

  All three times we did it, I know. “Well, somehow it failed.”

  “What happened to the baby?” he asks. “Did you keep it?”

  “She’s ten weeks old.”

  He looks at me in shock, blowing air between his lips. He’s quiet for a few moments and I don’t push it. It’s not every day some woman you barely know tells you that you got her pregnant. But then, looking like he does, I may not be the first either. I wonder if I should have had Kathy in here to act as a mediator in case things get testy or if he hyperventilates and passes out. But Kathy doesn’t know the circumstances of my pregnancy. No one does except me. And now Jordan.

  “What’s her name?”

  His question throws me off. For so long, I've had a different scenario replaying in my head, of a man who gets angry and then refuses to have any involvement with the child, not even caring to know if it's a girl or a boy. In my head, he simply tells me it's my problem and walks away. It's never been anything else.

  “Her name's Piper," I reply. "Piper Amelia Rowe. Amelia is my mother’s name and Piper… well, I always like the name. She looked like a Piper when they gave her to me.” And I fell in love with her and promised I’d always be there for her, I almost add.

  Jordan finally sits down, and I take the other seat across from him. "I didn't follow up because I thought you weren't interested. And I won't blame you if you decide not to have anything to do with her."

  “Wait a minute,” he says, raising his hand. “Why wouldn't I want to have anything to do with my daughter? What makes you think that? In fact, why would you assume such a thing?” He blows out a breath and stares at me in disbelief. “Holy shit. I’m a father.”

  “I know it's a shock–”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But I want you to think about it and call me with your decision to be part of her life or not. From there, we can make arrangements. Visitation, custody... that kind of thing.”

  “Visitation? Custody? Are you telling me that I've got limited rights as of this moment?”

  “I don't know, to be honest. I haven't looked that far into it. I just know that I couldn't put your name in the father box when I had her at the hospital.”

  “How much did she weigh? Did you have a good pregnancy? I mean, no complications?”

  I stare at him, making sure that he’s real. I'm so used to hearing that question from women, not men. But then, I haven't been talking to a lot of men lately, not in my personal life. My personal life is all about Piper, pumping milk and freezing the bags for Marcia, the nanny who comes in two days a week to help me around the apartment. Even now, my breasts ache and I know if I keep up such long hours, my milk supply will simply dwindle until there's nothing.

  “She was eight pounds, two ounces. Healthy and... and she's got your eyes. And my pregnancy was fine except for swollen ankles.” And midnight craving for pickles and vanilla bean ice cream.

  “When can I see her?”

  “Um, we can make arrangements for you to–”

  “What do you mean, make arrangements? You just told me that I'm a father of a baby girl named Piper and now you're telling me that I have to make arrangements to see her? I hope you don't mean court-mandated arrangements.”

  “No, I mean... I don't know,” I stammer. All those years in medical school and consulting patients apparently haven't taught me a thing about how to tell the man you had a one-night stand with that you now have a baby together. Instead, I know more about nephrons and sodium potassium numbers than I do about relationships... or accidental relationships, for that matter, although I didn’t foresee the part when the man comes back.

  “Can I see her?” Jordan asks, his voice softer this time. “It doesn’t have to be today, but it would be nice.”

  I open my mouth to say no but then stop myself. I don't even know why I'm so quick to refuse him access to his own daughter except that I'm afraid he'll take Piper away from me. All those conversations I've had in my head wit
h imaginary Jordan—the version that didn't want anything to do with a baby—are clearly winning this round.

  I nod. What the hell. Maybe it's time I get to know the real version of Jordan instead. “Sure.”

  Chapter Two

  After saying goodbye to Kathy and the rest of the staff, I text Marcia to let her know that I'm on my way home. It's weird to have Jordan walk beside me, watch him hail a cab before I can and then open the car door for me. I'm so used to doing everything myself or doors opening automatically for me at the hospital and just about every building in Manhattan that I've forgotten chivalry still exists.

  I give the driver my Chelsea address and lean back against the seat. I can smell Jordan's cologne; it's light yet manly, making my lady bits tingle. He's watching me and I can't help but feel self-conscious. I do a mental rundown of what I'm wearing, making sure nothing's out of season. Pink top with white slacks and a shawl wrap that I've started wearing since I had Piper (it serves as the perfect cover-up when I have to nurse her around my parents during the weekends), I'm the epitome of the New York professional woman. Outside, I’m social-media perfect but inside, I’m a mess.

  “I should have been there for you, Addy,” he says, shaking his head as he stares at his hands on his lap.

  Addy. It's a name I've only given a very few people to use, some of them because they gave it to me, like my parents, and Harlow whom I met while doing my Fellowship and have become close with. Somehow during those eight hours Jordan and I spent together, I added him to the list.