I chuckle, squeezing her waist and pulling her just a bit closer
“Was this when you thought you were in heaven?” Abby asks.
“Just after that part. I looked at you and said to my myself . . . Self, that girl there is something special. Something extraordinary. You’re going to want to hold on to her.”
She snorts against me, giggling, and I press my lips to her damp hair.
And I do want to hold on to Abby. Any which way I can.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Abby
TIC-TOC
It’s not just the sex.
It’s not just the plethora of pleasure-wracking orgasms Tommy can conjure like a magician with a flick of his hand. It’s not just the fanny fun-times, the randy rides on the John Thomas Express, or any other ridiculous euphemism Etta would use.
It’s more than that. God help me.
That realization didn’t seep in gradually, the way you sink into sleep and slowly submerge into dreaming. It slammed in—like the steel grate of a lorry that unexpectedly rams into you from behind.
And it happened the night Maisy Adams died.
When I stepped out of the operating room broken and bleeding from the sharp shards of defeat and sorrow. And I stood there beside Dr. Dickmaster, cemented to the floor as he told Maisy’s parents she was gone. That they had lost their daughter.
That we had lost her.
As I watched those poor people fall apart in front of me, the ache in my chest was so crushing I couldn’t breathe—I didn’t know if I would ever be able to breathe again.
And in that moment . . . all I wanted was him.
Tic-toc
That wonderful, infuriating rascal of a man.
I wanted to run to Tommy, throw myself against him, because he would make it better. I wanted to feel his arms around me and know through and through that he would keep all the bad away—he wouldn’t even let it get close. I yearned for the soothing rumble of his voice, the warm sandalwood of his skin, the solace of that irresistible smile.
After I told him and we got absolutely sozzled and he held me all through the night, I awoke in the morning still feeling dreadful and yet . . . comforted. More in control, slightly less shattered by it all.
That’s when I knew Tommy had become my refuge. Not just the impressive appendage between his legs—but him, the man.
Tic-toc
At first, I was not pleased.
I didn’t have time for an attachment. For complications. To be mooning over him like some silly schoolgirl. I didn’t have time to need him—to need anyone.
But the horror lasted only a moment.
Because I’m a surgeon.
And if I’m deep inside a patient’s heart and the unforeseen happens—an unexpected bleed or complication—I can’t run away or throw up my hands and say, “This wasn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t part of the deal.” I have to address it, reevaluate and adapt to it.
I’ve decided to treat my own heart the same way.
By all accounts, the prognosis is good. I’ve been sharper, more sure of myself, more balanced and capable in the past few months than I can ever remember being in all the years before.
I’ve been . . . happy.
Tic-toc
I picture Tommy’s smirk if he heard me make that admission.
Of course you’re happy, lass—that’s how my cock works. It makes everywhere it goes a very happy place.
Tic-toc
Telling him about Alistair Lipton was unplanned.
It’s not something I think about anymore. It happened—the way Luke’s heart condition happened—I don’t dwell on how it might have altered me or changed the outcome of my life. I’ve moved past it.
But there was a comfort in telling Tommy, a sense of relief. Not because of the ravaged, murderous look that sprung up in his eyes—though that was nice to see—but because for so long I was all alone with it. Holding it close and tight, all by myself.
It felt freeing to share it with him, to know that I could. That I had truly put it behind me—like removing a scar from an already closed wound.
Tic-toc
And Tommy may be cocksure and teasing, but he’s wanted me from the moment we met—he couldn’t have been more upfront about that. And more than any part of who he is, Tommy Sullivan is a protector. A shield. A guarder of bodies and minds. I’ve seen that—I’ve felt it.
So I have to believe that whatever these feelings are and wherever they may lead . . . he’ll be careful with me.
And for now, that’s enough.
Tic-toc
“Did you hear me, Abigail?” My grandmother’s voice cuts through my wandering thoughts.
Glancing up from my brunch plate at the Bumblebridge dining table, I find her looking at me expectantly. The rest of the collective is also here—my parents, Sterling and his wife and their wonder twins, and Athena and Jasper. Luke left for South America several weeks ago, but we text almost every day.