“No, I’m sorry, Grandmother. What were you saying?”
“I asked about your residency.”
“It’s going exceptionally well.” I nod. “My confidence and skills are growing every day and I’m developing a very solid reputation with the supervising surgeons.”
My mother’s face softens behind her teacup. “That’s wonderful to hear, darling.”
Grandmother frowns. “Does that mean you’ll be completing the program ahead of schedule?”
“No, but I’ve come to realize that’s not really the most important thing. It’s the experience that matters. Getting the most out of the program so I can become the best surgeon I know how to be.”
I catch Father smiling as he reads the paper. “Well said, Abby.”
Grandmother opens her mouth to reply, but my phone vibrates on the table and I hold up my finger. “Excuse me, this may be the hospital.”
When I glance at the incoming message, I have to smother an immediate, giddy smile. I shield the screen with my palm to protect it from any prying eyes that may try to sneak a peek—and would end up thoroughly scandalized. Tommy is delightfully talented with dirty texts.
Godly Orgasm Giver: Are you still at your Granny’s?
Me: Yes, we’re just finishing up.
Then Tommy’s next message comes through—and my smile dissolves.
Like a severed limb immersed in a vat of battery acid.
Godly Orgasm Giver: Good. I’ll be there soon.
Panic punches into my veins in a frenzied rush, making my pulse sprint and my palms sweat.
Me: What do you mean?? You can’t come here!
I’ve accepted the fact that I have an attachment to Tommy Sullivan that goes beyond the boisterous boffing. I’m even enjoying it. Telling my family, on the other hand?
That’s a whole other kettle of stinky fish.
To be dealt with later—much, much later.
Godly Orgasm Giver: Are you ashamed of me?
Tommy’s a man—every delicious inch of him. Rough and rugged, charming and demanding—and proud.
It’s the pride part that I get stuck on. That makes my mouth go parched as I think of a way to reply that won’t wound him.
But then he beats me to it.
Godly Orgasm Giver: I’m just messing with you. You can be ashamed all you like—I’m not offended.
Wanker.
Me: You can’t pick me up here.
Godly Orgasm Giver: I’m nearly there already. Meet me out front. There’s something I want to show you—you’re going to like it.
Like one of Pavlov’s randy dogs, sensual heat curls and coils low in my stomach. Because there has yet to be a single thing that Tommy has shown me that I don’t like very much.
In the biblical sense.
But then a completely different thought occurs to me. And that heated desire immediately shifts to simmering frustration.
Me: Are you texting while you’re driving??
Apparently, Tommy and his bodyguard brethren are trained to text without actually having to look at their phones, so they can communicate covertly with the device in their pocket.
But I’ve explained to him—at length—that that doesn’t matter worth a damn.
I’ve informed him of the overwhelming statistics on the dangers of texting while operating a vehicle and I’ve disclosed my firsthand experiences of seeing the deadly carnage of such behavior during my emergency room rotations.
And still, after a weighted pause, he replies:
Godly Orgasm Giver: Maybe.
Me: Well, STOP IT!!
For a moment, the screen remains quiet . . . and then those sneaky little dots appear again.
Godly Orgasm Giver: I like it when you get all shouty caps at me—have I ever told you that? Very hot.
I’m going to revisit the idea of Tommy teaching me how to throw a punch. It would come in handy at moments just like this.
“Is everything all right, Abby?” my mother asks. “You’re all flushed.”
She examines me above her glasses like I’m an exhibit at a science fair or a bug under a microscope.
“I . . .”
Grogg, the butler, bends down and dips his large, square head towards my grandmother.
“A gentleman is out front, Lady Agatha . . .”
Oh no.
“On a motorbike.”
OH NOOOO.
“Well, send him away.” The Dowager Countess shoos her hand in the air, as countesses do. “We don’t accept solicitations.”
I scramble to my feet. “Actually, he’s here for me.”
I throw my tablet and phone and books into my satchel, to hasten my not-so-great escape.
“Pardon?” my father inquires.
“He?” my grandmother prods.
I swallow hard, rushing out the words. “Yes. He’s a friend. I have to be going, so I messaged him for a lift.”
My brother Sterling’s eggs-Benedict-laden fork pauses midair on its way to his mouth.
“I didn’t know you had the sort of friends who rode motorbikes.”
“I didn’t know you had friends,” my sister Athena comments, not in a cruel way, but with sincere surprise.
I shrug, looping the strap of my satchel over my shoulder.
“Yes, well . . . you know . . .”
With that brilliant retort, I turn and walk out of the room.
I head towards the foyer, the heels of my knee-high boots clicking rapidly on the marble floor like a ticking time bomb. I yank open the giant front door and . . . come to an immediate stop on the veranda outside of it.