Page 4 of Love Sick

I should’ve taken a beta-blocker. Instead, I’ve armed myself with the scarlet Louboutin heels I bought myself for graduation, and NARS Inappropriate Red lipstick. My long wavy hair has been styled into soft curls that fall down my back. My dress is, of course, red.

Anything but blue.

Sapphire.

With a slow breath, I back out of my parking spot and head to Dr. Chen’s house, where the residency mixer will take place. In the group text with my fellow interns, we speculated whether there’d be hazing, but Alesha Lipton talked to one of the second-­years. Apparently, the welcome party consists of booze, camaraderie, and a lot of talk about vaginas—a staple in any conversation with gynecologists.

I have yet to meet my co-interns in person, but our group message leads me to believe we’ll get along well.

Pulling up to the corner lot, I grip my stomach while it reawakens with flutters. The street curb is clogged with parked cars, but I squeeze my Camry into a spot between a driveway and a blue SUV.

The house itself is a cozy cottage style, with lights glowing from every window. Mature trees dot the yard, and a quaint chimney rises to one side. A Japanese maple grows beside the stairs leading to the front door. I allow my hand to brush the crimson leaves as I pass.

My knock is likely drowned out by the chatter inside, and no one answers. With one last nerve-clearing breath, I let myself in. The room is packed. I force a smile at the first person I see—a handsome brown-haired man with a large grin, wearing a pink T-shirt. A cartoon uterus with buff arms is splashed over his chest. Beneath the uterus is the wordBroterus.

I blink at it, a tiny laugh catching in my throat.

The man chuckles. “It’s breathtaking, I know.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Asher. One of the third-years.”

“Hi. Grace. I’m Grace.”

He glances behind me as I shut the door, like he expects someone else. “You with anyone?”

“Nope. Just me.”

His gaze roams my face. “You’re one of the interns, then? Grace?”

I smile. “Grace Rose.”

His eyes light up. “Ah. You don’t use your given name?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Laughing, he jerks his head toward the kitchen. “Let me get you a drink. What’ll it be?”

“Oh. Um. Wine, please?”

“Red or white?”

I wave a hand at my dress. “Red, obviously.”

He disappears into the crowd with a good-humored, “Obviously.”

The combined kitchen-living area is thriving with bodies. The faux-brick floors lend a Tuscan vibe to the space, and the custom finishes—from the marble countertops to the built in entertainment center—speak of wealth.

I lock eyes with a few people, smiling at each, but no one is eager to adopt me into their conversation. Wandering farther into the room, I examine the wood planks on the vaulted ceilings when my chest bumps into someone’s elbow.

A small splash of liquid on my ankle makes me wince. Not my shoes…

My gaze falls on the drink I knocked, a half-empty plastic cup, grasped in the most attractive hand I’ve ever seen.

Tanned, thin, long-fingered.

Elegant.

What a stupid thing to be attracted to.

As I take in the body attached to that hand, my skin flares with an odd, unexpected heat. He’s tall. Dark-haired. Dark-eyed. His jawline is like whetted glass.

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