Page 31 of One Night Only

He doesn’t answer for long moments. My skin itches with the need to know. And in the waiting, every sense amplifies thousand-fold.

The heat of his body, the rustling of the sheets as I fidget, the cocktail scent of high-end linens, faint traces of our earlier interlude, and the lingering thread of his soap. I can hear the slowdrip-dripof rain against the glass, the occasional hush of wind against the building. It’s a wonder that the entire world isn’t stopping in its tracks, waiting with me for his answer.

“Dr. Cross? The truth, please.”

“Will you owe me the truth, too?”

“Yes, fine.” I’ll give him an organ right now if it means he’ll tell me.

“I gave up on love a long time ago.”

Relief drowns me, as does an immense sadness. He is too good, too sexy, too wonderful to be alone. And yet, I get the sense that he’s been lonely for a while now.

I turn in his arms, then rearrange his limbs to my satisfaction. I can’t see much—just the faint outline of him in the dim glow from the city lights—but I map the shape of him with every slow breath. His chest and abdomen are defined and lean with a smattering of hair. Those black trousers did complete justice to his shapely butt and his thighs are hairy, and muscled enough for me to dig my nails in. And yet, it’s more than just symmetry and lines.

One of those things where a man’s attraction skyrockets because he isn’t trying in all the superficial ways. It’s his confidence and his kindness that turns Dr. Cross from simply good-looking to knee-meltingly gorgeous.

Just hours ago, he was an untouchable fantasy. Now, it feels impossible that our paths didn’t cross before. His arm, heavy and possessive where it drapes across my waist, no longer feels like a borrowed touch but something I ache to claim.

The quiet rise and fall of his chest beneath my fingertips, the soft drag of coarse hair against my palm, the bristly edge of his jaw—I can’t help committing each detail to memory. “Didn’t think you would be so predictable,” I say finally.

“Why predictable?”

“Too cynical for love? That’s like every other man I meet.”

“There’s a distinction.”

“How so?”

“It wasn’t a conscious, write it down kind of decision.”

I bump my nose against his. “I like it when you snark.”

His eyes twinkle in the darkness. “I think I gave up on it for myself.”

“Why?” I demand. “There’s a dearth of good men out there, Dr. Cross. And you’re one of a kind.”

The white of his smile tugs at my heartstrings as does his blush. “Ah… this is almost like public service on your part then? Persuading me to jump into the dating pool.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” I blurt out fiercely, and he chuckles. My cheeks warm. “Tell me, please.”

“My ex and I were nineteen when we got married. Mainly because the thought of her having a child out of wedlock horrified her parents. The marriage lasted thirteen months, while the misery we caused each other lasted at least a decade.”

His gaze moves off of me, and I feel like I’m drifting in the middle of an ocean in the dark. The green monster in me doesn’t like losing his attention, even to the past.

I starfish my fingers on his chest, anchoring him to my touch. He doesn’t look at me but clasps our fingers together.

“Then there was the fact that I was a broke medical student. I focused on building a career, on making every sacrifice Mom made for me worth it. And then one day, you look up and you’re suddenly forty and all your colleagues are married and inviting you to their kids’ birthdays or bar mitzvahs and you get seated at the singles table with other sad, lonely creatures.” His laugh, this time, is a little broken. “At this last party, there was actually a guy who was dressed as Bill Nye, the science guy, and a woman who said she was a professor of magic.”

“Stop,” I say, tapping his chest. “You’re making fun of them.”

He sobers. “I’m making fun of myself, Annika. Believe it or not, I was the least interesting person at that table. I realized that life has passed me by while I was building my career.”

A sudden fear grips me so hard that my stomach knots with a sharp twist of something ugly and hollow. My mouth is dry,my throat tight, like I’ve swallowed dust and can’t clear it. The thought of him moving on, of some other woman discovering the way his hands know exactly how to touch, how he listens so intently, how he unravels a person like he has all the time in the world—it claws at something raw inside me.

“This realization… is it recent?”

He shrugs. “It’s been coming on for a few months. I find myself zoning out in the middle of the day, wishing I was anywhere else. I began to hate the sterility of my brownstone when I return. The only place it didn’t touch me is in the OR. But it’s a red flag, a warning to change things from what they are.”

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