The Man Who Has No Love (Soulless 3)

You don’t need my approval, Tucker.

You’re my little brother. I want you to like her.

Well, I don’t like anybody, so that’s going to be difficult.

Come on. I put up with Valerie. You can at least try with my lady.

Calling Valerie a bitch is NOT trying.

I said that AFTER you left her. Come on, it’ll be fun. What are you doing tonight?

I wanted to finish up some work at the dining table before Cleo came up and had dinner with me. Then we’d go to bed and do all the fun stuff I liked. That was what I wanted to do tonight, but it looked like my plans had changed. Where do you want to go?

Yaaaaaasssss. Let’s go to the bar.

Fine.

Fine? It’s gonna be a blast. Let’s meet at 7. Byyyyyeeeee.

Bye.

Oh, by the way, her name is Pria. And she’s hot AF.

I rolled my eyes. Thanks for letting me know. I tossed my phone aside.

Theresa messaged me on the computer. Dr. Hawthorne is here.

I sighed and pushed my things aside, annoyed I couldn’t get anything done because shit kept popping up. Send her in. I got to my feet before the doors opened. I’d invited Dr. Hawthorne to continue her research in my lab. I’ve been following her career for half a decade. She was a brilliant physician with incredible ideas. We didn’t always agree on everything, but that was why I appreciated her work. I didn’t need someone to agree with me. I needed someone to see shit I didn’t see, to challenge my views and make me defend them. Those were always the moments when I realized I was right—or I needed to look at things from a different angle.

The doors opened, and she stepped inside. In her black plumps, she was six feet tall. Her blond hair was slicked back into a neat ponytail, and she wore a black dress with a black jacket on top. There was a necklace around her throat and a watch on her wrist. Her heels tapped lightly against the hardwood as she approached me, a smile on her face. “It’s an honor to meet you in the flesh, Dr. Hamilton.” She extended her hand to me, confident, strong.

I came around the desk and took it. “The honor is mine, Dr. Hawthorne. You’ll be a great addition to this team.”

“That’s nice of you to say, especially since I don’t have a Nobel. Well, yet.” She smiled.

“Give it time.” I dropped my hand and returned to my desk. I’d invited her to work with us based on everything I’d read about her, but I’d never had the opportunity to actually speak to her, other than through email, which was full of meaningless phrases and forced politeness.

She sat in the armchair, crossing her legs, her hands together on her knee while she kept her back perfectly straight. She was lean, like her diet was similar to mine, and even though she was a few years older than me, she looked a few years younger. Her complexion was ageless. When she spoke, her British roots were strong, but I didn’t struggle to understand her. Almost all my colleagues had different accents since they were from different parts of the world. “I looked through everything you sent me. I’m up to speed on your research, but I had a few questions.”

“Fire away.”

She asked me about my process and some unpredictable data. Without needing the paperwork in front of her face, she could recall everything, as if she’d spent a great deal of time studying my work even though she’d be working on another project.

I was impressed. “My goal is to force the healthy cells to turn into a militia for the body. Athletes take drugs to improve their performance. I’m sure there’s a way to do that with our immune system, without the pharmacological effects of typical prescription drugs.”

“I noticed what you did with the phytochemicals from the cauliflower. Was that successful?”

“Inconclusive at this point.”

“I really like the idea of utilizing what we already have. People are turning to harsher drugs to fix their problems, but it’s creating more problems in the long run. It’s deceptive to our patients.”

“I agree.” That was why I’d invited her here. We wanted to treat patients—not make them worse. I was sure other physicians had good intentions with their patients, but they were simply going about care in the wrong way.

“I know this is a bit personal…but I wanted to share my condolences for your father. I know he passed years ago, but I know that must have been so hard, knowing you could have helped him if things were different.”

I nodded. “I appreciate that, Dr. Hawthorne.”

“Please call me Kathleen. I worked hard for the title, but it’s so time-consuming saying all of that every time we address each other.”

“Kathleen, it is. And you can call me Deacon.”