Page 1 of A Kiss on a Dare
Chapter 1. The Party in the Basement
I’m on my fourth cup of coffee today, and as I finish it, I’m already bracing for my Christmas Eve gift: tachycardia. Being a coffee addict isn’t ideal in your first year as a fellow at St. Maria’s General Hospital. “No” isn’t exactly an option when Chief Kermit asks you to cover extra shifts. The hospital’s chronically understaffed, and his guilt-tripping amphibian eyes make refusal feel impossible.
Cat says I have a people-pleasing problem, which is probably why I can’t say no to Frog (yes, that’s what everyone calls Chief Kermit, for obvious reasons). But the truth is, the thought of another doctor handling my serious patients while I’m lounging on the sofa in my new downtown apartment makes my skin crawl. (No, I haven’t bought a bed yet. Don’t ask. I’m just relieved my place is finally only a twenty-minute walk from the hospital.)
Cat also says I have a perfectionist streak—and she’s not wrong. But hey, that streak got me here, didn’t it? So, I’m not about to start dismantling my core personality just because it occasionally turns my life into a dumpster fire.
Anyway, it’s Christmas Eve. I’m sitting in an empty patient room, wrapping up paperwork for Mrs. Connolly, who went home today, jaundice-free. Somewhere in the background, the faint strains of music filter in from the basement. That would be the annual Christmas Eve party in the conference room—a hospital tradition where doctors, nurses, interns, and other staff gather for free booze and a buffet.
Cat’s already sent me eight increasingly typo-laden texts from the party. I can tell she’s officially hammered—her normally flawless spelling has taken a nosedive. That’s the dead giveaway her prefrontal cortex has decided to clock out for the night.
It’s her ninth text that stops me cold.
Doctr Gaybrows jst came up to talk two me!!!!!!!!!
The instant I read it, a wave of hot jealousy floods my insides like wildfire. Cat is my best friend, my ride-or-die, the person I’d commit unspeakable acts for if anyone so much as hurt her feelings. Butthis? Hearing thatJames Gabrielle—the man I’ve been quietly, pathetically pining over for the better part of a year—actually approachedherand started a conversation? For a solid ten seconds, I can’t see straight.
But then logic cuts through the haze. Cat would never intentionally hurt me. Never. That’s just not who she is. So I can’t be mad at her, even if every fiber of my being is screaming at the unfairness of the universe. James Gabrielle, the unattainable, too-gorgeous-for-words attending who barely spares a glance at us fresh-out-of-residency fellows unless it’s work-related, is downstairsright now, talking to Cat. At the party. And I’m up here doing paperwork like a chump.
It makes my stomach churn. My fingers itch to chuck Mrs. Connolly’s file across the room and sprint downstairs. What could he possibly be saying to her? Is he drunk? Did he decide tonight is the night to finally engage in small talk with the mere mortals of the hospital? And if so, isthismy chance? Could I casually insert myself into the conversation and maybe—justmaybe—exchange words with him that aren’t about morbid diseases?
I fire off a text:
Whuuut? What did he say?
Cat’s reply comes almost immediately:
sayING. He’s stil here. He’s askinng me about my plans for Chrstmas.
My stomach tightens. Before I can process that, she sends another text:
I think you won!!! Hes NOT gay.
I reread the message twice, disappointment sitting heavy in my chest. How did she figure that out already? I mean, James Gabrielle’s sexual orientation has been the centerpiece of our ongoing debate for the better part of a year. And ironically,Catwas the one who was so certain he was gay—not me. That’s why we nicknamed him Dr. Gaybrows in the first place.
It all started because Cat decided his perfectly groomed eyebrows were definitive proof. Yes,eyebrows. According to Cat’s highly scientific standards, no straight man would bother sculpting his brows—unless it was just a quick cleanup of the unibrow situation. But Dr. Gabrielle’s brows? They were on another level: subtle, refined, just barely touched. Not overly plucked, mind you, but noticeably sculpted if you look closely. And in Cat’s words, “No guy puts that kind of effort into his face unless he’s trying to impress other guys.”
The absurdity of it all actually made me pretend to be mad at her once. “You can’t just call someone gay based on theireyebrows,Cat!” I’d snapped, though secretly, I was entertained. The debates snowballed from there, evolving into what we dubbed theGaybrows Feud.It got so ridiculous that I started scouring my phone for pictures of every straight guy I knew (not a huge sample size, admittedly) to try to prove her wrong. And, much to my dismay, I couldn’t find a single example of a straight man with brows as sculpted as Dr. Gabrielle’s.
Cat, of course, never let me live it down. She even swore up and down that she had expertise because she used to do eyebrow shaping as a side hustle during med school. “Trust me, I know gay brows when I see them,” she’d said with smug authority. And, frustratingly, I had to admit she had a point.
But now? Now she’s suddenly convinced he’s straight? After one tipsy conversation at a Christmas party? The whole thing feels surreal, and honestly, I’m a little mad about it.
I glance nervously at my phone, hoping for more details as I try to focus on finishing my paperwork. I’m perched on the edge of a patient’s bed, balancing an open folder on my knee, while the obscene amount of caffeine in my system makes my leg jittery and my thoughts race in circles. It’s not exactly helping me finish faster.
Ten minutes and several deep sighs later, I finally close the folder with a satisfying snap and bolt out of the room to hand it off to Kelly, the administrator. Once that’s done, I’m officially free.
I head straight to the changing room to ditch my lab coat, then make a pit stop in the bathroom to check myself in the mirror. My reflection stares back: hair slightly frazzled but fixable, face passable with a little adjustment. I smooth down my shirt, straighten my collar, and take a breath. Not perfect, but it’ll have to do.
Then, I’m practically sprinting toward the stairwell that leads to the basement. My anxiety is already whispering that James Gabrielle is the kind of guy to have one drink, make polite conversation, and ghost the party before anyone even notices he was there.
As I stumble into the basement conference room, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure everyone can hear it, I’m immediately overwhelmed. The dim lighting and the sheer number of people make it feel impossible to find Cat in the crowd. I weave through the clusters of staff and tables piled high with buffet food, scanning faces like a lost kitten searching for its mother.
And then I spot them.
Cat and James are standing at one of the high-top tables, champagne glasses in hand, chatting like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My heart plummets.
Cat is unmistakably drunk—her hair is a ruffled mess, her cheeks flushed, her glossy eyes sparkling with tipsy energy. She’s gesticulating wildly, mid-laugh, clearly in the middle of one of her dramatic stories. James, on the other hand, looks infuriatingly composed and impossibly attractive. He’s wearing a sleek black shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms, his hair perfectly styled. His expression is neutral but attentive, and he exudes that kind of effortless cool that makes you question every decision you’ve made about your appearance today.
