Page 32 of The Bitter Rival

A giggle erupts from deep in my chest as he mimics my actions, placing his fingertip in my pronounced dimples one at a time, twisting to demonstrate the depth. The smile he gives me makes my heart rate speed up, reminding me of the danger I’m in if I continue to entertain these thoughts.

“So, what was that stuff?” I ask, trying to steer this ship toward something more concrete.

“Stuff?” He repeats, tapping the end of my nose.

“The magic sex potion?” I prod.

“Ah, you liked that?”

“Liked? I didn’t know anything could feel like that.”

A soft chuckle escapes him as he buries his face in my neck. “Maybe I need to take you back to Bali with me. We’ll buy them out of every bottle,” he says, his face quickly morphing from playful to stoic almost before the last word has left his mouth. The change in his expression resembles a curtain falling at the end of a boisterous musical. You sit watching, not wanting it to end, but too tired after the long night to fight its conclusion. “It’s late. Let’s get some sleep,” he adds, rolling back to turn off the bedside lamp.

What just happened?The awareness of consideringa next time, a trip of all things, must have broken through his post-sex haze, I suppose. This realization jolts me away from the tender moment we just shared, back to the space I need to stay firmly planted. Safely in the single mom zone.

Lying on my side, wrapped in his strong arms, surrounded by his delicious scent, I await his heavy breaths. It’d be tempting to give in to this and stay, but my body will yearn to be back here enough without the added torture of what my heart might consider. I don’t need to make this any harder than it already is.You enjoyed two ravenous nights of sex, the likes most women could only dream. Don’t be foolish and let emotions get in the way of this. This is the very last man that would want to build a life with you and your incredibly unique child.

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

Sebastian

Stretching my arms overhead, I relish the delicious pull of my overworked muscles. Last night was one of the best evenings I’ve enjoyed in a long while. From the dinner with Nick and Kat, beers with my best friend while relaxing in the hot tub, and a surprising night with Isabella, I couldn’t have planned a better evening. Rolling to my side, I already know before confirming it with my eyes that she’s again flown my bed before dawn.

Rubbing my hands down my sleepy face, I question why this bothers me. Is it the curious nature of who she’s rushing home to? Is it the unfamiliar desire to know more about her? The craving to have more of her? Or is it the lack of control I’m used to possessing over everything in my life?

And what the hell was that maybe I’ll take you to Bali shit?I’m growing more and more certain Nick and Kat have placed some voodoo hex on me. That would’ve never escaped my lips if they hadn’t planted that thought earlier in the evening. I’m sure of it. Hell, I even gave her a damn nickname. I usually didn’t have any need for identification, real or otherwise. It was a quick romp and go. I didn’t need anyone calling out my name, just to look me up and find out I was loaded. Between my family’s vineyard and my surgical practice, it wouldn’t take long to track me down. But I had to admit, hearing Isabella scream out my name would be hot as fuck.

Placing my hand over the wrinkled sheets where she slept, it’s evident they’re no longer warm. How long had she waited to run? Who was she running to? The question instantly tugs at the afterglow I’m enjoying, and I decide to focus on the positive. I got laid. I got laid spectacularly. I got laid with the one girl I thought was beyond my reach. I’m going to replace any negative thoughts with those of my incredible night. There’s no sense in entertaining questions I’m not willing to pursue. There’s no room in my life for a woman. Especially a woman full of hellfire and brimstone like that one. She’d take no prisoners in getting what she wanted. Hell, she marched in here last night like she owned the place. And I let her.

I’ve enjoyed a leisurely weekend. It’s been nice not having to be on call, allowing the chance to unwind following my trip. I’ve enjoyed some heavy workouts, tried some new meditation music, done laps in the pool, and even purchased some new cigars. If anyone had seen me drinking my scotch, stogie lit, reading Pride and Prejudice in the hot tub, I would’ve told them Sam had broken in again.

I hate to admit I feel a little kinship with Fitzwilliam Darcy. There’s an arrogance I’d be a fool not to acknowledge. Yet, mine has been directed at everyone at large versus Mr. Darcy’s disdain for the lower class. I’m not truly an arrogant prick. As Mr. Hansen so eloquently identified, within ten minutes of meeting me no less, my issue appears to be the oversized chip on my shoulder.

I concede I need to work on my people skills. My interactions with Bella and her colleagues in radiology brought that issue to the forefront. It’s difficult when the stressors of the surgical suite collide and cause catastrophe in an otherwise controlled environment. These are delicate procedures requiring intense concentration. Yet, it’s up to me to act like a professional. After much thought, I’m aware I can’t continue to blame these events on those around me. I need to take stock of what’s contributing to the decline in my performance. The common denominator is me.

My stomach growls, reminding me I’ve had little to eat today. There are plenty of leftovers from the other night, so I open the fridge to decide what to prepare when my phone dings. Looking down, I discover the answering service number on the screen.

“Dr. Lee,” I answer questioningly. I’m not on call, so I’m unsure what this could be about.

“Hi, Dr. Lee. This is Gail with the answering service. I’m aware you aren’t on call tonight, but the on-call orthopedist, Dr. Morgan, asked if I could reach out to you.

This seems odd. Dr. Morgan also does hands. Why would he need me?

“It appears the patient in question is a patient of yours. He’s in the emergency room with what appears to be a post-operative infection. Dr. Morgan said he could see him if you were unavailable but wanted to reach out since it’s your patient.”

Hell. This wasn’t on the docket this evening. “Sure, Gail. I’ll head in. You said, Dr. Morgan. This patient is at St. Luke’s, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.”

I grab a protein shake and decide to put off dinner until I can enjoy it. Hopefully, this will just require a consult and not irrigation in the operating room. Collecting my keys from the table near the garage, I make my way to the emergency room.

Fuck. Mr. Anderson has an infection that’ll require a copious amount of irrigation and IV antibiotics. Trying to reassure myself this is a product of diabetes and poor life choices, I pray this isn’t a reflection of my recent lackluster surgical cases. Regardless, it’s a few extra hours in the operating room on a Sunday night I hadn’t planned on.

As I make my way toward the OR, I pass an exam room door and stop in my tracks. “Mr. Hansen?”Hell. Why is he in the emergency room? Is his wound infected also?

Standing to his full height, he reaches his uninjured hand out to me in greeting. “Hi, Dr. Lee. How are you?”

“I’m well. I hope you are too. Is your hand doing okay?”

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