Page 14 of Careless Whisper

I pulled out a bottle of tequila, Cincoro Extra Añejo, and poured myself a small measure.

“Good sipping tequila is better than any scotch,” Reggie said as she handed me a glass of clear liquid.

“Neat?”

“Rocks will dilute the good taste. It’s sacrilege to ruin good tequila.”

Since Reggie, I drank tequila more than any other liquor. She’d impacted me in so many ways, I thought, my heart heavy.

Damn her!

“Dad, the gala is months away,” I protested.

“Yes, and it’s important. We have a lot of influential people who will be coming, and we need their checkbooks for the foundation.”

The foundation he referred to was the Graham Medical Innovation Fund, a glossy nonprofit my mother chaired with all the polish of a seasoned society wife. While my father lectured at Harvard and racked up accolades in cardiothoracic research, my mother curated galas, donor dinners, and high-profile luncheons with precision. The foundation’s mission—on paper—was to support emerging research in cardiac medicine. In reality, it was a well-oiled PR machine designed to keep the Graham name synonymous with medical excellence and to make sure our family stayedat the center of every institutional advancement worth funding.

“I’ll be there.” I sipped the tequila and let the smooth fire of it soothe me.

There was a pause. “Have you talked to Maren?”

“No.”

“She said she reached out to you.”

If reaching out meant fifteen text messages, four voicemails, and ten missed calls, yes, Maren had reached out to me. I knew she was struggling to get funding for a clinical study she was doing and was pestering me to hire her at Harper Memorial because we had more funding dollars than Stratford, where she was, where I used to be, where Reggie used to be with me.

I didn’t want Maren here. Working with an ex was complicated, especially if the ex wanted to becomecurrent. I had clearly told Maren I wasn’t interested in a relationship beyond friendship with her, but she was convinced we were a match made in heaven.

Which heaven?

I couldn’t imagine being in a committed relationship withanyone. I wasn’t celibate or a saint, but I kept my dating life casual. Some sex, some companionship, some dinners, some breakfasts…the end.

The last time…the only time I’d ever thought I could be with a woman and do the whole married with two and a half kids routine was Reggie.

“Gigi, am I too old for you?” We’d just made love.She was in my arms. We were sweaty in my bed, just having caught our breaths.

“You’re only eight years older, Eli,” she replied, amused.

“Is that too old?”

She raised her head and kissed me. “Well, only if it means you won’t be able to make love with such vigor, but I think we’ve got a few years to go before that happens—and by then, I’m sure we’d have topped sildenafil.”

I’d almost asked her if she’d move in with me, settle down with me before everything went to hell. But she’d just been twenty-four years old. A kid, while I’d been in my early thirties, a grown man.

“I’ve been busy, Dad.”

“Maren, as you know, is applying for a research grant, and your name would carry weight as a co-author. You two were a strong pair. It’d be smart to reestablish that.”

A strong pair? What the fuck did that mean?

“I don’t have an opening at Harper Memorial for her, Dad.”

I finished the tequila and looked at the bottle longingly. I wasn’t on call,butI didn’t like being drunk, being out of control. However, the longer I talked to my father, the higher the chance that I’d have another drink.

“You’re the head of the department—make room for her,” he thundered.

I poured myself another finger.

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