I stick my tongue out at her.

* * *

With the plant companion plan an epic fail, I try another tactic.

Chocolate.

I eat it with every meal. And I go for long walks in the early evening when I’m not at the hospital to offset the calories. In the hopes of tricking my brain into producing the joyful endorphins that a word or a text from Tommy Sullivan used to inspire so easily.

One evening, just past six, I happened to walk by Paddy’s Pub, and glanced through the large picture window totally by chance . . . and Tommy was there. Looking achingly handsome and carefree at the bar, his head thrown back in an easy laugh, not a worry in the world.

And he wasn’t alone.

There was a fit-looking man beside him with a petite, obviously pregnant, beautiful woman at his side. I surmised from my past conversations with Tommy that they were his partner Logan and his little wife, Ellie.

But next to Tommy, leaning into him in a familiar way, was another woman—stunning and voluptuous, with bouncy blond hair and a bright, broad smile.

And I couldn’t seem to move.

I stood there, watching them, steeped in a dreadful, self-flagellatory, pining pain.

But, as much as it hurt to watch them—because I wanted to be the one in there beside him—there was a part of me that was glad. Tommy had brought excitement and spontaneity and comfort into my life. And he deserved to be happy.

I stopped going for walks after that.

I refocus all my energy on work instead. Back to the grind—striving to be the best—to be exceptional. I take extra shifts at the hospital—I read more, study harder, go through pounds of chicken’s feet every week practicing my surgical techniques.

What I don’t do is attend the family brunches at Bumblebridge.

I make excuses, telling them I don’t have the time, my schedule is too full. Luke texts me that my parents have covertly texted him—inquiring as to whether it’s really work that’s keeping me away or if I’m involved with someone. A certain man on a motorbike, perhaps.

But the Dowager Countess isn’t the only one who doesn’t have the stomach for things. I don’t trust myself to see her again and remain civil. While the first rule of being a Haddock is to be extraordinary, civility and composure are absolutely the second.

A few weeks into the start of my fourth year of residency, the hospital hires a new resident—a fifth year, named Riley Bowen. He’s an excellent surgeon and movie-star good-looking, with dark blond hair and broad shoulders that get all the nurses chattering.

On his second day at the hospital, he asks me out to dinner.

It’s not difficult to turn him down.

While I like him well enough as a coworker, his arrogance rubs me the wrong way. It’s so starkly different from Tommy’s. His cocky swagger came from a steady, capable, calm confidence that was irresistibly attractive. Riley’s egotism feels like a flex of superiority—a need to show off—because he has something to prove.

I wonder if this is how it’s going to be now—that I’ll compare every man I meet to Tommy Sullivan and find them hopelessly lacking.

For ever and ever, the end.

One evening, I’m at the nurse’s desk on the surgical floor, adding some final notes to a patient’s chart before heading over to scrub in on a procedure. I hand the chart to nurse Betty and then I look up.

And my whole world stands still.

Because Tommy’s here. Really, truly, here. Just a few feet away.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hello.”

It’s been so long since I’ve seen him—except in my dreams. My entire being soaks him up like a parched sponge suddenly submerged in cool water. The scruff on his jaw is thicker, his dark hair a bit longer, there’s an intensity in his eyes that wasn’t there before—but his face, his hands, the swells of muscle beneath his gray shirt are every bit as perfect as they always were.

I move towards him—smiling.

“How are you? You look . . .” Terrible. Wonderful. Beautiful. “. . . well.”

“You too.” His eyes devour me, up and down. “You look lovely.”

He says it like he means it—even though I’m in the middle of a fifteen-hour shift with my hair twisted up into a messy bun, wearing shapeless dark blue scrubs.

But it doesn’t feel awkward between us—I could melt into him like no time has passed at all.

The stilted sensation comes from not being able to do that. From having to hold myself back—maybe we both are.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He tosses a thumb over his shoulder. “I brought one of my guards to the emergency room.”

“What are his symptoms?”

“Bleeding. The boys were messing around. He got stabbed.”

I think a bodyguard’s definition of “messing around” is different from the rest of world’s.

“They say he’ll be fine.”

“Oh good.” I nod. “That’s good.”

Tags: Emma Chase The Bodyguards Romance
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