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  “Why?” she challenged, aware her own tone held an edge.

  “I’m wondering when it will be enough.”

  Nic raised both eyebrows. “Uh, hello, paging Ms. Pot. Do you remember last year, when I threatened to throw your phone in the ocean?”

  As soon as Nic’s words registered, she regretted uttering them. It was during their vacation last year that Caila had found out her grandfather had died.

  “I’m so sorry,” Nic said, scooting forward and reaching a hand out to Caila. “That was insensitive as fuck.”

  Caila accepted Nic’s hand and her apology. “It’s okay.” She dashed away a tear and the action threatened to shred Nic’s own composure. “And you have a point. I’m not the same person I was last year.”

  Nic squeezed Caila’s hand before letting go. “Let me guess. The mayor’s magic dick stole your ambition?”

  “Ooh, the mayor’s magic dick. That’s a great porno title,” Lacey said.

  “Oh mayor, what about that proposition? I have a proposition for you,” Ava said in alternating cartoonish female and male voices.

  Caila shook her head, the sadness receding from her gaze. “Cute.”

  “They’re joking, but I’m serious,” Nic said.

  “I know you are. I got my promotion, but I still have goals. I still have my eye on the C-suite. But falling in love with Wyatt helped me to appreciate there’s more to life than work. For the first time ever, there’s a work/life balance. And I have someone to share my victories with.”

  “What are we, chopped liver?” Lacey asked.

  Caila rolled her eyes. “You know what I meant.”

  What was it with people newly in love and in relationships? They tried to convert everyone they knew like fanatical churchgoers. Or Scientologists. Caila used to have a fit when her mother or Ava used to pull this same crap on her.

  “I’m happy for you.” She truly was. For her. “But that’s not the path we’re all supposed to take. I sorta remember hearing that from someone.”

  “The worst kind of person is someone who quotes you back to you to prove a point.”

  Nic laughed and blew her a kiss.

  “And on that note, we should probably go get changed for dinner,” Ava said, rising from the lounger to stand. “I’m looking forward to hitting the club again tonight. They’re probably waiting for us to get the party started.”

  Lacey shuddered. “Can we not go back there? Please? The manager followed me around all night.”

  No one could’ve anticipated they’d find Lacey’s number one fan managing a small club on the Outer Banks. The man had taken one look at Lacey, recognized her from a national commercial she’d performed in, and had gone out of his way to try to impress her.

  “He told me he was dripping so much sauce he sweat BBQ,” Lacey whined. “He said it like it was his best pickup line.”

  “He gave us a VIP section, comped a round of drinks, and told the DJ to play all our song requests. That was worth a smile for one of your fans, right?”

  “Weren’t you the one just complaining about pimping out our friends?” Caila asked.

  “Yeah!” Lacey said. “If it’s so easy for you, Nic, you do it!”

  “It is easy for me.” Nic had no problem doing whatever it took to achieve her goals. “And I’d do it. But he doesn’t want me. He wants you.”

  “Which is unusual in and of itself, since Nic is usually the one fighting them off,” Caila said. “Remember our senior break trip when we met those two guys from Cornell? Baby Boy lost his fucking mind over Nic.”

  A languid heat invaded Nic’s body and she bit her lower lip. They’d called him “Baby Boy” because he’d reminded them of the actor Tyrese Gibson. Six feet, shaved head, and sleekly muscled with skin that looked like he’d been double-dipped in expensive dark chocolate; the kind that’s nutritious should you want to indulge.

  And boy, did she ever indulge . . .

  “He would get up early and go down to the pool and reserve loungers for our whole crew just so we could hang together.” She sighed. “We had a good time.”

  Ava frowned. “Then why didn’t you keep in touch with him?”

  Nic shrugged. “It was a fling. They end. I wasn’t interested in making it more than it was.”

  “Nic! God, who knows what could’ve developed?” Lacey said. “I don’t understand how you can be so intimate with guys, but you don’t get to know them or let them get to know you?”

  Nic didn’t take the rebuke personally. Lacey was their resident romantic. And not in that tragic star-crossed lovers, dying in the name of love bullshit way, but in the love at first sight, eyes meeting across the room, happily ever after way that Hallmark and Lifetime and all those other channels got off on.

  “It’s my superpower?” Nic asked, facetiously.

  Lacey pursed her lips.

  “Wasn’t he an actor?” Caila asked.

  Baby Boy had starred in a popular sitcom when he was a kid, but he’d taken a break from the business to attend college.

  “I think I saw him on a show about a year ago,” Lacey confirmed.

  Ava snapped her fingers. “I knew I recognized that guy! Isn’t he in the cast of that new Netflix drama everyone’s talking about? Damn. You couldn’t have kept in touch with him? Exchanged emails?”

  Nic threw an arm over her head and rested it against the back of her lounger. “He reached out to me a few years ago.”

  “What?” Ava dropped back down onto her chair. “Why didn’t you tell us? What did he want?”

  “He found that stupid profile y’all hounded me to put up on Facebook. We exchanged messages for a few weeks. He was getting ready to go to Vancouver to film a small part in a movie.” Nic crossed her legs at the ankle. “He wanted me to fly over and spend some time with him.”

  Actually, he’d said something about seeing if she tasted as good as he’d remembered, but she kept that little tidbit to herself.

  “Did you go?” Lacey asked, her hazel eyes wide.

  “I would’ve told you if I had. But it wasn’t an option. I’d just graduated from medical school and was about to start my residency. I wasn’t going to risk my future for a few months’ fling.” She curled her lip. “Probably less because he would’ve eventually gotten on my nerves.”

  Lacey stared at her for a long moment. “I can’t with you. I would kill to meet a great guy. They throw themselves at you and you toss them away.”

  Nic scratched her cheek. “Well you’re in luck, because Came Thru Drippin’ is all about you!”

  Lacey’s posture dropped and she rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I was talking about.”

  Laughing, they all stood and began heading into the house to get ready for the evening.

  “Wait!” Lacey shifted her weight onto one foot and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll go back to the club one more time . . . but only if you let me plan the next vacay.”

  Silence greeted Lacey’s demand. And then—

  “Hell no!” Nic said.

  “Seriously? You can’t deny me. I’m a grown woman.”

  “Who, until last year, never noticed she hadn’t planned a vacay.”

  “I didn’t know it was on purpose.” Lacey set her jaw. “I want my turn.”

  Two pairs of contemplative brown eyes met a skeptical green pair.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s time?” Caila said.

  “This is a bad idea,” Nic warned.

  “Come on,” Ava said. “Let’s give her a chance.”

  Nic knew they were making a huge mistake, but she was outvoted. Relenting, she threw her hands in the air. “Fine. But when we end up in the middle of nowhere in some broke-down, cracked-out accommodations, I’m not going to blame Lacey. I’ll blame the both of you.”

  Chapter Two

  Baltimore

  Early June

  Six Weeks Later . . .

  As Nic had strolled the several blocks from her home to the hospital, the rising sun h
ad gradually lightened the sky and elevated her mood, aided—in no small part—by the travel mug of coffee she’d clenched tightly in her hand. But there were no windows in the doctors’ lounge, a design choice probably made for the same reason there were usually none in casinos: to keep people hyperfocused on the reason for being there and unaware of the passage of time.

  Still, as she shrugged into her white coat and transferred her stethoscope, pocket references, pen, and hand lotion from her backpack to her pockets before shutting the locker door, Nic embraced the excitement that fluttered low in her belly at the start of each shift. She loved her job and couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Or practicing any other specialty. She wasn’t interested in puzzling over a medical mystery for years or following patients over time. She preferred results and thrived on the instant gratification of repairing someone, of eliminating their pain, and, almost immediately, improving their quality of life.

  And as she became more specialized in sports medicine, her skills would enable her to help an athlete transition from a painful, inactive state to a pain-free active one that allowed them to continue doing what they loved. In ninety-five percent of her cases, people had a positive outcome. Not all doctors could make that claim. Most of the time, her patients were happy. She found her work intellectually fulfilling and emotionally exhilarating.

  And whenever her body called for a different type of stimulation, she didn’t need to travel far. As Caila had pointed out during their vacation, Nic never had a problem finding men who wanted to spend time with her. The problem was the interest wasn’t usually reciprocated.

  Nic wasn’t looking to date. She didn’t have the time or the inclination to invest in it. She’d worked hard to get to where she was. Orthopedic surgery was one of the most competitive residencies to match into. So much so that it was one of only four specialties that didn’t have enough positions to accommodate all the med school graduates who wanted one. She’d achieved her coveted spot by ranking in the top five percent of her class, having several forms of research and volunteer experience. And the grind had continued through the next five years of her residency to guarantee she’d get into the sports medicine fellowship of her choosing.

  That amount of effort meant work had to be her primary focus. Her top priority. But when she was confronted with that inevitable sexual itch that needed a long, thorough scratching, she had her pick of several doctors who were in the same boat. They all understood it wasn’t personal. It was purely physical, which was how she preferred her male relationships. It allowed her to concentrate her energy and attention where she wanted it.

  On her patients.

  She allowed herself one final glance in the mirror hanging on the wall to ensure her curls were tamed into a nape-scraping bun and that her plain white button-down was securely tucked into her gray slacks. It always felt weird to be in the hospital in civilian clothes, instead of scrubs. She lived in the green cotton fabric, but today she’d be doing clinic hours instead of the OR, which meant dressing like a teacher instead of a surgeon. She smoothed a hand over the bumps and ridges where her name was monogrammed into her coat’s fabric—“Nicole Allen, MD, Orthopedics Surgery”—and left the room.

  She didn’t balk at the numbers displayed on the huge digital clock face that greeted her, mounted high on the opposite wall. As chief resident, it was important to her to set a good example, which meant being on time and being prepared. That didn’t mean she needed to be at the hospital at quarter to six; morning reports didn’t begin until seven a.m. But yesterday, she’d operated on a young girl, a consult from the emergency room. She wanted to check on her before the day began and other tasks took precedence.

  Skipping the elevator—the ones in that wing ran twice as slow as the others—she opted for the stairs. She was wistful as she realized it wouldn’t be long before she’d have no use for the idiosyncrasies and nuances of these buildings that she’d spent years learning. There were only three more weeks until her last day at Johns Hopkins and though she was excited to begin the final phase of her medical education, she had to remind herself to take advantage of every opportunity to learn while she still walked these halls.

  Using her badge, Nic swiped the sensor and opened the door to the surgical intensive care unit. The three women sitting behind the nurses’ desk smiled at her approach.

  “Morning, Dr. Allen,” the nurse in the middle said.

  “Ladies. Quiet night?”

  “Pretty much. There was a car accident on East Lombard Street and Dr. Cowler had several ortho consults last night.”

  Anticipation tingled along her nerve endings, heightening her awareness better than all the coffee in the world. Some of those consults might require surgery. Part of Nic’s duties as chief resident involved scanning overnight admissions in case she needed to make alterations to the daily OR schedule. Because of the accident, she would probably have to shift a few of the previously scheduled surgeries to make room for any pressing incoming cases. She might even have to scrub in and handle a few herself.

  She tapped the top of the counter with a fist. “Thanks for the heads-up. Toland?”

  “In twelve.”

  Nic sanitized her hands and entered the space. The beeps and whooshes of various machines provided a soothing, melodic dampening cloak to the outside noise of the unit. She took a moment and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. In the bed, a teenaged girl lay on her back, her chest rising and falling steadily, her face turned to the side, her brown skin slightly ashen. Moving quietly, Nic located the computer contained in every patient’s room, and logged on to check Simone’s chart.

  “Dr. Allen?” A whisper in the dark.

  Nic started, her heart pummeling her chest. She glanced over her shoulder to the person sitting in the chair next to the bed.

  “Mrs. Toland. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Simone’s mother straightened and pushed her hair back from her face. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to doze off.”

  Scanning the notes, Nic pressed a button to close the file and turned to face the other woman. “You needed the rest. How is she?”

  “You’re the doctor. You tell me.”

  Nic smiled. “Her vitals, CBC, and imaging all look good. I’m happy with how it turned out.”

  Mrs. Toland’s expression softened. “I can’t believe it. A month ago, we came here because Simone had been having terrible hip pains. We’d been to doctor after doctor who’d told us everything from the pain was all in her head to she’d need a full hip replacement. Maybe more than one. But for the first time in almost a year, we have hope. Because of the surgery you performed. Because of you.”

  Warmth spread through Nic’s body at the praise. She nodded. “Her recovery will take time. She’ll be confined to a wheelchair and it won’t be easy—”

  “But she’ll be able to run track again,” Mrs. Toland said, pressing a hand to her chest. “And before your diagnosis and this surgery, we didn’t think that would be possible. I don’t know how we’ll ever be able to thank you.”

  There was no doubt that the money and validation from choosing this specialized field was important, but there was nothing like seeing a patient, especially a child, get better. Eliminating people’s pain, helping them to live their best life . . . the feeling was indescribable.

  Nic squeezed the mother’s shoulder. “I’m happy I was able to help. And if you really want to thank me, make sure I get an invitation to her first track meet after rehab.”

  Leaving the room, Nic sanitized her hands again, waved to the nurses, and exited the unit. She still had a few administrative tasks to complete before meeting the other residents for morning report in the conference room. Hopefully, one of the junior residents stopped to pick up doughnuts from the place around the corner. She was starving.

  Several hours later, in between patients in the ortho clinic, Nic let the receptionist know she was heading to the cafeteria to grab a quick lunch before her next appo
intment. The junior residents hadn’t brought breakfast to the meeting and now her stomach was rebelling at its mistreatment. A man had walked through the clinic carrying something with bacon and Nic had grabbed on to the plastic glove dispenser to prevent her body from rising and floating through the air, like a cartoon character following a seductive scent plume toward a cooling pie.

  When her phone rang, she barely resisted the urge to scream in frustration.

  “Dr. Allen,” she answered between clenched teeth.

  “I need you down here.” Dr. Amalia Ocampo’s voice lacked its usual playful warmth.

  “Can you page someone else? I was just getting ready to—”

  “Now!”

  Shit! Nic pressed the call button for the elevator. God help anyone unlucky enough to be on it with food.

  Five minutes later, she pushed through the doors into the emergency room. A level one trauma center, the state-of-the-art facility was over thirty thousand square feet and housed the most innovative and advanced medical technology in the world, allowing them to see more than one hundred thousand patients annually.

  Amalia was waiting for her, dressed in green scrubs, her straight black hair pulled into a ponytail. “Over here.”

  Nic followed the senior ER resident down the corridor past numerous waiting areas and triage bays until she stopped next to an exam room. Through the small window Nic spied an elderly black man lying on a gurney.

  What the fuck? Amalia prevented her from putting food in her belly so she could see a patient?

  Nic shot the other doctor a pissed-off look. “I’m not doing consults today. Cowler is on call.”

  Amalia continued as if Nic hadn’t spoken. “This is Mr. Brant, a sixty-three-year-old male who presented with ten days of progressive pain and stiffness in his left shoulder.”

  Nic opened her mouth to question Amalia’s hearing when she hesitated. Progressive pain in the left shoulder? That sounded familiar. “Didn’t you call for a consult on him yesterday?”

  “Yes,” Amalia said, her dark eyes widening. “Imagine my surprise and irritation to find him back here with the same problem.”