by J. Saman
Claire’s smile widens, “I picked her up at Cello’s tonight.”
Craig’s dark blond eyebrows shoot up to his perfectly coifed hairline. “Is that so?”
I take another sip of my makeshift Manhattan, only to find that it no longer burns my throat, but instead leaves me with a nice warm buzz.
“It is.” I turn to Claire with a flirtatious wink. “Evidently, I have a thing for gingers.”
Claire bursts out laughing, shaking her head like I’m too much.
“But you’re not gay,” Craig says, still trying to play catchup.
“Who says?”
“I say.” He points to his chest encased in black cashmere. “In the months I’ve spent trying to get you to go out with me, you never once gave me the excuse of being gay, and I would assume that would be first on the list if it were true.”
I shrug a shoulder, not feeling the need to explain myself.
“You’ve been trying for months?” Claire asks surprised, leaning into us as if we’re the best form of entertainment around.
“I have,” Craig says with a wry grin. “But she continuously deflects my advancements by saying she doesn’t date people she works with.”
“That’s lame.”
I throw Claire a look and she just throws her hands up in the air with an expression that says, sorry but it really is.
“I agree. Especially when I know she wants me.” He bounces his eyebrows playfully, his hazel eyes gleaming.
“If that were true, wouldn’t I have said yes to you?” I challenge.
“Not if you don’t date people from work,” Claire oh-so-helpfully points out.
“Our friend Claire here has a point.”
“Hi Craig,” a pretty young nurse coos as she passes us on her way back to the living room. Craig naturally offers her a seductive grin and wink.
“That,” I point to where the girl just exited, “is why I won’t date you.”
He shrugs, unconcerned, leaning further against the marble counter in my direction. “I don’t even know her name.”
I laugh out, rolling my eyes at him. “So I should be flattered that you actually know mine?” I shake my head incredulous, before turning to Claire. “Where’s the washroom?”
Claire plays with the rim of her plastic cup, an odd gleam in her eyes.
“There are two on this floor, but the closest one is back there.” She juts her thumb over her shoulder, pointing behind her toward the back of the house.
“Right,” I pat her shoulder. “You two kids enjoy now.”
“I’m not that easy to get rid of, Ivy,” Craig calls out as I retreat.
“Neither are genital warts, Craig, but I’ve managed to avoid those all these years. I’m sure I can avoid you too,” I smirk to myself, hearing Claire cracking up.
“I’m wounded,” he calls back to me.
“You’ll live.”
I find the washroom in the back between the kitchen and the hall that seems to lead to the back door, but there is a line, so I meander my way back into the front of the house and locate the other restroom.
I use the toilet and wash my hands, thinking about Craig and wondering why he has been so persistent with me.
He is a consummate flirt, but his flawless surgical skills, and family name have allowed him to get away with whatever he wants without consequence.
But it didn’t get him a fellowship in Boston, I remind myself with a smile. And he’s still a resident where I’m finishing up my second year of my fellowship before doing a certification year in Boston.
I did all of that and landing myself one of the best fellowships around, UW and now one final year in Boston, which I’ll be starting next month. Boston Children’s Hospital, Pediatric Emergency Medicine Fellow. It has a lovely ring to it, if I do say so myself. Maybe that makes me a bit of a skite, but I really couldn’t give a toss.
I reckon Craig’s a bit alright in the looks department, and though I’ve been tempted on occasion to succumb to his wit and charm on particularly lonely days and nights, something tells me that if I did I would be the butt of the joke and feed for the gossip hens.
I have no interest in being either, especially when I need to prove myself constantly.
I exit the washroom, and am about to return to the kitchen, when I get the sensation that someone is watching me. The hairs on the nape of my neck are standing at attention as I surreptitiously scan the room, trying for casually uninterested.
People are chatting and laughing, drinking and eating, but no one is even so much as glancing in my direction.
An odd aura of relief washes over me, though I still can’t seem to shake the lingering sensation. I’m just about to give up and try and find Claire again, when the tides part and my eyes instantly lock on a set of brown ones in a chair across the room.
And for a moment, everything stops. Everything stands stark still and time ceases to exist before it comes racing back in full vengeful force as I realize just who this man is.
I jerk back like I’ve been slapped, because I find myself staring into the eyes that have haunted many a sleepless night for the last ten years.
A small gasp escapes my lips. I take another step back, my hand on my chest over my pounding heart, positive that the alcohol has rendered me deranged and I’m hallucinating.
But as I take a closer examination, staring at him the way he’s unapologetically staring at me, I realize I’m not.
I know him. I don’t just know him—I went to university with him. But I didn’t just go to university with him, he was my first and only one-night stand.
He’s sitting in a chair, not speaking to anyone, completely focused on me. Slowly, he rises with an impish grin and mischief in his dark eyes. There may be a little interest too, but there are absolutely no signs of recognition in those fathomless brown depths. And if I thought my heart was racing before, I was so very wrong. Blood thrums in my ears and my heart is thumping out of my chest in a punishing torrent.
He looks older, as you’d expect to happen after ten years, but those years have been ridiculously good to him. He’s exceptional. His tall, drool-worthy muscular frame is showcased in his blue t-shirt and dark wash jeans. Short, thick chestnut hair—the sort that begs to have a woman’s fingers rake through it—is well-styled. Chiseled, cut from stone features, and rugged stubble on his jaw make him look like the ultimate cross between GQ and bad boy.
I’m ashamed to admit that I have thought about that night, this man, many times over the years, simply because it was hands-down the best sex of my life. And my memory of his face and body have not nearly done him the justice he so rightly deserves.
But it was only one night.
I like to think it was that way because life was just too real, but I doubt he would have been as interested in a repeat as I was.
He’s making his way through the throngs of people, his intention clear as he watches me watch him. I want to move. I want to walk away and leave. I want to run like hell and never turn back. But I do none of those things, because I am completely and utterly paralyzed by his smoldering gaze.
Luke Walker. I can’t even . . .
I don’t know what to make of tonight.
I end up in a pub I’ve never been in—a gay one at that—meet a woman who is somehow friends with my work colleagues and my one-night stand from ten years ago.
You just can’t make this up. Though I have absolutely no belief in fate, or karma, or retribution, I feel like maybe this is all three.
“I’m Luke. You must be Ivy, Claire’s date,” he says with a smarmy smile, finally reaching me and standing just a touch too close. His scent engulfs me, knocking me sideways with lust and I feel heat begin to rise up my cheeks. Of course this Luke is the same man I sat next to in the dark. Of course he’s the one I practically breathed in like a mindless fool.
It was the dark. It’s really my only excuse.
Oh, and the alcohol too. Yeah, I can blame that as well.
; Both do funny things to people. That whole cloak of anonymity mixed with lack of inhibitions makes you brave, and apparently daft.
Luke begins to chuckle and I realize that it’s because I’m standing here staring at him, like he’s the bloody ghost of Christmas past, without responding to his greeting.
“Do you always stare at people you don’t know like this?”
I shift, nervously biting my lip because suddenly I feel like I don’t know what to say to him. Do I tell him who I am only to feel the overwhelming embarrassment and sting of rejection when he doesn’t remember me?
I have no doubt that I was not his first or his last one-nighter, so why do that to myself? I may as well bring out the pathetic flag and wave it in his face.
“No, sorry. Long night is all. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything.” Shut up, Ivy! Shut the bloody hell up! Good god, if he wasn’t uncomfortable before, he probably is now.
“You didn’t,” he laughs, taking a step further into my personal space, and though I can claim every bit of five feet, eight inches, my neck has to crane up to see his face. “Actually, I think I like it,” he murmurs. My cheeks are flaming again, and I do my best to will it away. “You can look at me like that any time you want.”
“Are you always this much of a flirt with women you don’t know?” It’s a dare, a blatant one, but I don’t want to straight out ask him if he remembers me, so this is my not-so-subtle way of going about it.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On if they’re as beautiful as you are.”
“Does that line usually work for you?”
He chuckles lightly, a heady raspy sound that makes my toes curl and my eyes desperate to roll into the back of my head. Reaching up, he brushes a strand of a hair behind my ear and I do my best not to close my eyes and lean into his touch.
“You’re the first woman I’ve used it on, so you tell me.”
“Fell completely flat,” I smirk, but it’s more for myself than for him because my voice is calm and steady, hiding the crazed turmoil I’m nearly overpowered with.
“I doubt that,” he says knowingly. “We practically kissed in the dark earlier.”
I laugh. “Was that you?”
He takes another step. So close and yet not touching. Christ, am I panting? What is wrong with me? Why am I reacting to this man like a simpering halfwit?
“That was me, Ivy. And I have to admit I did not want to be at this party tonight, but that’s definitely not the case anymore.” His eyes burn into mine, our bodies magnetically drawing closer. The tension between us is tangible and so very hot. Electrified. Pulsing. He feels it too. Hell, I’m sure anyone in a five-kilometer radius can feel it. “I wanted to kiss you as you sat against me in the dark. Even before I saw your gorgeous face. And you know what, Ivy?”
I shake my head, my breath lodged in my chest as his sexy, throaty voice renders me speechless.
His head dips toward mine, mere inches away, as his mouth opens to speak again, Claire catches my periphery and I jump back, dumping the proverbial—but much needed— bucket of ice water on my heated body.
“Ivy Pivy!” she calls out to me, dragging a tall, dark-haired man and Kate behind her.
Luke takes a very deliberate step back, as he throws Claire an annoyed scowl that goes unnoticed. He may be miffed, but I’m bloody ecstatic for the timely interruption. How on earth did I let him get to me that fast? Again. What was I thinking?
“Ryan . . .” A blotto Claire tosses her arm over my shoulder, her movements sloppy and her sapphire colored eyes glassy. “This is my date, Ivy. I picked her up at the bar,” she slurs. “She’s a hot one, huh? Too bad I don’t bat for the vagina league.”
I blush, but manage to laugh as I reach out to shake his hand.
“Hi, I’m Ivy Green.”
Ryan looks almost surprised for a flash of a moment as he glances quickly at Luke before turning back to me. It was so fast I’m not even sure that’s what I saw.
“Ryan Grant, nice to meet you, Ivy. Katie here tells me that you work together.”
I nod, shrugging sheepishly. “We do, though I admit I crashed your party.”
“Nah,” he waves me away, much the way Kate did earlier. “It’s really nice to put a face to the name.” I furrow my eyebrows, tilting my head at him. “Claire’s been going on about you all night,” he supplies, but he does that thing again where he looks at Luke.
“Oh w-well,” I stammer for some unknown reason. “She is my date after all. I’d be devastated if our first go wasn’t a success.”
“I think it’s safe to say it was,” Kate says. “Are you working tomorrow?”
“I am. In fact, I should probably get going.”
Kate steps forward to me, with a warm bright smile that lights up her eyes. “I’m so happy you came, Ivy. I know we just officially met, but if you’re free tomorrow night, we’re having a pre-wedding dinner here. I mean, it’s more to go over details and things, but I’d love for you to join us.”
I’m stunned by the offer and before I can even respond, Claire tugs on my shoulder. “You totally have to come. Wedding planning is so boring.”
Kate snorts, rolling her eyes. “Thanks, bitch.”
“Yeah sorry, that was sort of rude of me, wasn’t it?”
“I’m over it,” Kate says. “Anyway, we’d really love for you to come, so please say yes.”
“Won’t I be a blow in?”
“A what?” Ryan laughs out.
I roll my eyes at myself, knowing I must be a little drunk myself. “An uninvited person.”
“Oh. Right.” He shakes his head. “Not at all,” Ryan says with a smile I can’t read.
“Um, okay then. Thanks, sounds like good fun.”
Kate knocks Claire’s heavy arm from my shoulder. “Hey,” Claire complains, but Kate just smirks at her drunk friend.
“How are you getting home?” Luke asks me, taking a deliberate step closer and out of the corner of my eye, I see Claire and Kate exchange pointed looks.
“Ivy, are you leaving?” Craig asks before I can answer Luke, finding the other side of me.
“Yeah. I have a shift tomorrow.”
“Great, I’m leaving too. I’ll give you a lift.”
I shake my head. “Not necessary, I live close.”
“Then it’s not out of my way. Come on,” he says, taking my hand and tugging me a bit.
“Fine,” I concede with a half-smile before turning back to Claire.
“Thanks for everything tonight, mate,” I pull her into my arms for a hug. “You turned a nightmare of a day into something truly special.”
“Bitch, you better stop or you’re going to make me ugly cry and I don’t do that unless I’m drunk.”
“You are drunk,” I remind her.
She pulls back with a sleepy smile. “Oh, right. Then you should go, but I expect you to put out on our next date.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You got it.”
Kate gives me a hug, confirming tomorrow night’s dinner with me again and I wave bye to Ryan and Luke, who’s eyeing Craig with an indecipherable expression.
Craig leads me through the door, his hand on the small of my back. “You do realize that this is the first step,” he says as he slides into his side, shutting the car door behind him with a click.
“First step to what?”
“You agreeing to go out with me.”
“Is it the challenge? The thrill of continuously being shot down? What is it? I just don’t get your persistence.”
“Maybe I actually like you, Ivy. Maybe I have no other reason for asking you out other than that.”
I have nothing to say to that and we fall silent, both lost in our own thoughts.
I saw Luke Walker tonight and he didn’t remember me.
Worse yet, I’m going to see him again tomorrow and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Chapter 3
; Ivy
I hadn’t gotten much sleep before my shift, and it had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol I consumed, or the fact that Craig insisted on walking me to my door before kissing my cheek goodnight. It had nothing to do with the fact that I lost a patient yesterday or that I met a new set of friends a month before I’m scheduled to leave Seattle.
The only thing—or should I say only person—that was occupying my thoughts last night was Luke.
It’s been ten years since I’ve seen him, but I knew him instantly.
His face is forever burned into my memory, along with every other detail of that night.
He’s someone I never thought I’d see again, and the fact that he didn’t even recognize me—even after hearing my name and seeing my face—hurts.
It hurts because I knew him without having to be introduced. It hurts because that night clearly meant so much more to me than it ever did to him. It hurts because no one likes to be forgotten, especially by a man who was inside your body and looks like Luke. There, I said it.
I know, I know, it was a decade and a lifetime ago in a different state, but still.
Which is why I’m anxious as I ring Kate’s doorbell. He’s going to be here, and I’ll have to face him again and that really shouldn’t be something I want. But it is. Christ, that man had my knickers twisted around his finger within five seconds last night.
The door swings open with a flourish, and Ryan Grant is standing on the other side with a big smile and a tilt of his head. “I hope you like Italian,” he says by way of a greeting.
“I do.”
“Excellent, then you may enter.”
He steps back, waving me in and as I cross the threshold into the house, my eyes are quietly searching around, but all the noise is coming from the kitchen in the back of the house, so I can’t see who’s here.
“What if I didn’t fancy Italian?” I ask, as he takes my coat and hangs it up in the closet next to the door.
“Then I’m sorry to say that I would have had to send you packing. Katie worked all day and there was no way I was going to let her cook for everyone so I ordered in. That,” he grins, “is my specialty.”