To feel all Tommy made me feel, over and over, and as soon as humanly possible.
When he dropped me back at my flat last night, I kicked off my shoes, fell face-first into my beloved bed and slept like the dead for four blissful hours. The bottomless, dreamless sort of sleep that pulls you down deep and wraps you in darkness and sends you back into wakefulness refreshed and energized—like fizzy soda has been injected into your veins.
Medically speaking, I know that’s not feasible. That in reality I’m experiencing a cocktail mix of hormones and endorphins and dopamine—but it’s how it feels.
Wonderful.
I should’ve slept with Tommy weeks ago, or hell, years ago—he was right about that too. I’ve never felt so fantastic to have been wrong. The intensity of it, the release and joy that surged through me, was breathtakingly exquisite. And those sensations stayed with me—had me humming my way through my morning shower, and I’m still humming when I step out of the lift onto the surgical floor.
It’s possible, at some point, I may break into song. A bawdy ditty about a dark-haired lad with a shameless smile, muscles to spare, and an absolutely brilliant cock.
Dear God—only one night and I’m already talking dirty in my own head. And I don’t even mind.
Though I’d suspected I appear as good on the outside as I feel on the inside, it’s confirmed when Etta spots me near the nurses’ station before rounds. And she shakes her head, smiling in a secret, silly sort of way that says she knows precisely what I did last night.
“The magic peen is a hell of a drug.”
I laugh. “The magic peen?”
“You’re practically floating on air. Like he jizzed pixie dust all over you.”
I giggle out a groan and cover my eyes with my hands. “Etta. Too much.”
She wiggles her eyebrows.
“And yet not nearly enough. I want the details, you dirty girl—don’t even think about holding out on me.”
Before I can begin to answer, the lift pings open behind us and Kevin strolls out of it. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, as if it was tugged so forcefully the style is now permanent. Dark sunglasses cover his eyes, even though he’s inside. Familiar-looking sunglasses . . . bodyguard-looking sunglasses.
And he’s whistling “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.”
“Top of the morning, ladies.”
“Well, well—it seems like Abby’s not the only one who got lucky last night,” Etta says.
Kevin takes off the sunglasses and folds them reverently in his front coat pocket.
“Lucky is the understatement of the year.”
“He went home with Bea last night,” Etta tells me.
I didn’t spend a tremendous amount of time with Bea on the nights that she was guarding me, but what I know of her, I like. She’s forthright, spirited, a little rough around the edges but a good egg all around. A potentially excellent yang to Kevin’s ying.
Etta concurs.
“If my medical career doesn’t pan out, I think I’ll become a professional matchmaker. I told Bea she’d be a fool not to give Kevin a go—and that she shouldn’t be put off because he’s quiet.”
Kevin grins like the cat who ate all the canaries.
“I can officially say she likes the quiet ones. A lot.”
Then he leans toward us, wondering, “But do you think it’s weird that all three of us hooked up with bodyguards last night?”
Looking completely sincere, Etta says, “I didn’t hook up with Harry.”
“Harry?” I inquire, trying to keep up. “The lanky Backstreet Boy–singing karaoke chap?”
Kevin nods. “They were practically welded together at the hip.” He turns to Etta. “You left together.”
The way she blew her top when he was on the stage, I’m shocked Etta didn’t hook up with him right there at the bar.
“He does seem like your type.”
“He is,” Etta confirms with a sigh, and her tone goes dreamy. “We went for ice cream and walked around the city talking the whole night. Then he walked me to my front door and kissed me on the cheek. We’re soul mates. I want to take things slow with a soul mate.”
“Right.” Kevin nods. “So you’re going to rock his world on the second night?”
“Absolutely. He’s coming over for dinner tomorrow. I’m going to bang him so hard I’ll probably sprain something.”
There’s the Etta I know.
Our conversation cuts off there when Dr. Paulson appears across the other side of the nursing station.
“Haddock—you’re scheduled to assist me on my transplant this week.”
She’s tall and statuesque with short silver hair, a gracious, deliberate demeanor and a long, flawless career. Dr. Paulson is the surgeon all other surgeons want to be when they grow up.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m going to push you. You’d best be prepared.”
My nod is sure and steady.
“I’m ready. You can count on me.”
Though I’ve said the words before—because no one wants to admit to the worry that they’re not up to snuff—this is the very first time that deep in the center of myself, I genuinely believe they’re true.