 
# A Really Bad Idea

## Jeannine Colette

# Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

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Acknowledgments
A Really Bad Idea

Copyright © 2019 by Jeannine Colette.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.com

Editing and Interior Design by Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

Proofreading by Virginia Tesi Carey

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2019

ISBN-13: 9781547260034

www.JeannineColette.com

  Created with Vellum
_For my mom..._

_and the doctor who saved her life._

# Chapter One

Meadow

* * *

"Earth to Meadow." Angela snaps her fingers, pulling my attention over to where she's sitting behind the reception desk at Park Avenue Cardiology. "Baby fever?" she asks without looking up from her computer.

I glance down at the magazine I grabbed from the wicker basket in the waiting room. "Why do you always ask me that?"

"Because, lately, you get this dreamy stare when you see a cute baby." She lifts her head and points in the direction of the advertisement on the open page of the magazine. A baby with chubby cheeks and bright blue eyes is giggling. "And that baby is fucking adorable."

"All babies are beautiful."

She leans back in her swivel chair and gives me a dead stare. "No, they're not. Most look like constipated old men."

I open my mouth to argue, but it's really no use. The seven-year age gap between me and my coworker is a century in the world of life planning. While she's still busy flirting on Snapchat and getting picked up at music festivals on Roosevelt Island, I'm spending Friday nights on the couch with a glass of wine and a good book... while getting distracted at the sight of an advertisement.

"We'll agree to disagree." I toss the magazine back in the basket and take one of the open seats behind the reception desk. When I'm in between patients, I like to sit up here with Angela instead of being cooped up in the back office.

Her fingers are drumming lightly on the desk as she raises a brow.

I roll my eyes and concede, "Okay, fine. My neighbor's baby does remind me of my great-uncle Leroy."

She gives a cheeky grin. "I love it when I'm right."

With a shake of my head and a light laugh, I grab a stack of folders and open the top one, doing a quick once-over of the notes from a patient we've already seen today. As a nurse practitioner, I see nonurgent patients on my own and assist the cardiologist on the more severe cases.

Angela pushes her foot against the filing cabinet and rolls in my direction. Her long black hair sways with the action. "Got any plans this weekend?"

"You know me, one hot date after the other." Despite my sarcastic tone, her feet dance with anticipation. I place a hand on her lap to control her legs and explain, "Calm yourself, Yang. I'm going to my brother's house."

Her excitement dwindles with the sag of her shoulders and a scowl on her lips. "Oh. That's not fun. What is the perfect family celebrating this time?"

"Brian and Beth are hosting my birthday dinner."

She scoots back to her desk, grabs her vitaminwater, and twists the cap. "But your birthday isn't until next week."

"Apparently, everyone has plans next weekend." I shrug.

"Do you think your mom will give you a pass from prying into your love life since it's your special day?"

I let out a quick, heavy laugh. "There is no get-out-of-jail-free card when it comes to Gail Duvane's unwanted, albeit well-intentioned, meddling. My thirty-third birthday is ample time for her to remind me that I'm single... and barren."

Angela takes a gulp of her drink. "You can fake sick."

"It's okay. I've been meaning to visit my nephews, and, bonus, I get to raid Beth's closet!"

"Your sister-in-law has the best shoes." She gets a dreamy stare in her eyes at my shoe-blogger sister-in-law's ultimate collection of high-end footwear.

"Too bad, her foot is a size too small." I grimace.

"I'd cut off a toe to own her Saint Laurent monogrammed heeled boots."

"They're so pretty."

We both let out a sigh.

One of the exam room doors opens, and Dr. Christian Gallagher comes out and walks up to the reception area. I gaze up to see him—thick, dark hair and piercing green eyes set on a ruggedly handsome face.

"What are you two dreaming about?" he asks.

"Meadow wants a baby," Angela declares.

"No, I don't," I argue and sidestep the conversation, waving a hand in dismissal. "Well, I do... someday, but we were just talking about Yves Saint Laurent boots we're coveting."

Christian laughs with a deep baritone, and it draws the attention of the other nurses on staff today. "Well, the baby thing I can't help you with, but I'm more than happy to fulfill your foot-fetish fantasies."

One of the nurses lets out a giggle, which he ignores, as Angela chimes in, "They're twelve-hundred-dollars."

He shrugs like this is a mere drop in the bucket. I suppose it is when you're a cardiothoracic surgeon. "Meadow's birthday is around the corner."

I lower my forehead and glare at him through scolding eyes. "You are not buying me twelve-hundred-dollar shoes for my birthday."

Angela lets out the same dreamy sigh she had before, but this time, she's looking up at Christian. "I wish I had a best friend like you."

He winks, and her cheeks redden as I go back to my paperwork. The exam room door opens again, and a patient exits.

"All set, Mr. Thompson?" Christian asks, leaning his elbow on the counter. His white doctor's coat is open, showing off a pinstripe button-down and cobalt tie.

"Thanks, Doc. I can't believe, two months ago, I was in critical heart failure, and now, I'm standing here with you." Mr. Thompson puffs his chest out, like he's king of the world.

"That's the miracle of surgery. I want you to follow up with my father in a few weeks, and I'd like to see you again in another four weeks to make sure that valve is strong," Christian advises as Angela hands him a follow-up card.

"A father-and-son team—cardiologist and heart surgeon. There must be something in the Gallagher water," Mr. Thompson jokes as he grabs his coat from the rack and then tips his hat before walking out the front door and onto the streets of Manhattan.

"That's your last patient of the day!" Angela throws her arms up in celebration.

"Thank God. Penn Station is a nightmare," Christian says, loosening his tie and undoing the top button, revealing the Yankees T-shirt underneath. He secured box seats for tonight's Mets-Yankees game and asked Angela to clear his afternoon.

He runs his fingers through the dark strands of his hair as he makes his final notes on a patient's chart.

Angela stands up and lifts her scrubs. It looks like she's going to flash him when, really, she's proudly displaying her own Yankees T-shirt she bedazzled with pink rhinestones. "I came prepared in case your plus-one cancels."

He shakes his head and grins, his eyes still focused on what he's writing. "If I'm going to take anyone, it'll be Meadow."

"Me?" I ask incredulously.

"Her?" Angela mimics my tone. "She hates baseball."

I twist in my seat. "I don't _hate_ baseball."

She leans back with a sashay of her body and motions toward her shirt. "You certainly don't bedazzle the shit out of your shirts for it."

"Touché," I concede and then turn back to my own notes.

Christian laughs, that deep vibrato sending a hum into my chest. He hands Angela the folder to file away and then turns to me. "Ticket's yours if you want it."

I look up to see him staring at me with mischievously grinning eyes.

"I thought your dad was going?" I ask.

Christian and I have been friends too long for me to know there is no way his father, Dr. Thomas Gallagher, would pass up a chance to see his beloved "boys in blue" play.

"He is, but if I tell him I'm taking you instead, he'll understand."

I cross my arms and raise a brow. "To a Subway Series game? I don't believe it."

He chuckles, his dimples highlighting his rugged grin. "What can I say? The old man loves you."

The senior Gallagher has been playing matchmaker with me and Christian since we were ten and our parents had us enrolled at tennis camp. My parents were no better, constantly dropping hints about Christian and his accomplished physician family. While they were never able to get us to date, they did help us forge a friendship that has spanned over twenty years.

"Enjoy a boys' night." Noticing the time, I give him a shoo. "You're ahead of schedule, so take advantage. It's the first afternoon you've taken off in a year."

"Are you saying I'm a workaholic?" he teases, knowing full well he's addicted to his field of medicine.

With an outstretched arm, I point him toward his office. "Get dressed and grab a drink with your dad before the game."

He looks at me for a beat before letting out a breath and dropping his shoulders. "All right. You sure? I'd much prefer to have a beautiful blonde by my side."

"I'm positive. I have a good book and a long bath planned."

He lets out a groan before walking back toward his office when Angela hits me in the arm. I'm rubbing the sore spot on my bicep as she says, "That man was totally asking you out."

I curve my brow at her and go back to reviewing an echocardiogram from earlier today. "He did not ask me out on a date. He asked me to a game. As friends. We passed the era of possibility a long time ago. Besides, he's a thirty-three-year-old bachelor who can have any woman in the city. He's at the onset of a three-year fellowship, hoping to become the greatest heart valve replacement surgeon in the world. What the hell would he want my baggage for?"

"You don't have baggage."

I stop what I'm doing to swivel toward her, lower my forehead, and give her a deadpan look. "I can load an airplane with the amount of bags I have packed."

She raises a shoulder in mock agreement. "Okay, fine, you have a carry-on worth of shit, but you're a sexy, single woman who happens to be crazy smart and has a killer body that spikes half the patients' blood pressure when they see that fine ass. You should work those curves underneath the scrubs. Don't hide because of one failed relationship."

I balk at her insinuation. While I want to argue with these points, I choose to simply remark on the main one. "Christian and I are just friends."

"He flirts with you all the time."

"He flirts with everyone _."_

She sways her finger. "He doesn't flirt with me."

I open my mouth to correct her before realizing she's right. "We're just friends."

"Friends make the best lovers."

"Stop it, Angela," I singsong my annoyance.

"I'm stopping, Meadow," she sings back just as Christian walks out of the hallway that leads to the back offices.

He changed into jeans, his Yankees T-shirt, and a baseball cap. He slides on his brown bomber jacket, which accentuates his broad shoulders, as he heads out the door with a wave, leaving the lingering woodsy scent of his cologne in the waiting room.

"Can you at least admit he's fucking hot?" she says with a hand on her hip.

I dramatically place my stack of folders on the desk in front of her and rise, heading toward the exam rooms for my evening lineup of patients.

Park Avenue Cardiology is a boutique practice that looks more like a hotel than a doctor's office. With light walls, soft brown leather couches, and a coffee station in the waiting room, our patients wait for their next appointment in comfort.

As Thomas likes to say, "The key to living a healthy life is to reduce stress. And no one has ever calmed down in an uncomfortable chair."

Even our exam rooms look more like suites with crisp white beds, walnut furniture, and textured wallpaper. We have a top-notch computer system and state-of-the-art equipment to ensure every patient gets the best care.

As soon as I graduated with my master's in nursing, I came to work with Thomas at his practice. While he's dwindled down his office hours to just three days a week as a cardiologist, Christian has been working round the clock as a surgeon.

Christian came on board a year and a half ago after finishing his five-year general surgery residency in San Francisco and earned a fellowship at the St. Xavier Heart Institute here, in Manhattan. He performs surgery out of the hospital and sees his patients for follow-up visits here, at his dad's office, once a week.

Those days, like today, are my favorite.

I busy myself for the next few hours, seeing patients on behalf of Thomas and assisting the other cardiologists on staff.

By seven o'clock, I've seen twenty patients, taken or ordered a variety of EKGs, TEEs, MRIs—pretty much every test with a three-letter acronym—and spoken at length about the importance of a good diet and exercise. And, now, I am ready to head home.

"Let's do drinks tonight," Angela calls out as I walk to the front door, wrapping my lightweight scarf around my neck.

"Date with my bathtub, remember?" I respond as I zip up my jacket.

"You're so lame!"

I give her a backward wave as I head out the door.

Since it's still light out and the weather is mild, I head down Seventy-Fourth street, cross Fifth Avenue, and go into Central Park. My apartment is on the opposite side of town, so I like to walk across the park and stop for a moment at Bethesda Fountain.

With its bronze angel statue at the top with her outstretched arms, the iconic fountain beckons me. For years, I've tossed a coin in the water and made countless wishes.

I've always believed in wishes, good-luck charms, and totems. It started when I was a kid and carried on to when I moved to Manhattan and made my first wish at this fountain. I had just returned from visiting Christian in medical school in San Francisco. I know it seems silly, but I put a lot of hope in my wishes. Maybe, one day, my greatest wish will come true.

I take a penny out of my purse, hold it up, and listen to the sound of water falling and the soft chatter of tourists.

"Splash!" a tiny voice yelps. A little boy is sitting on his mother's lap, leaning into the fountain and slapping the water, making it spray all over his father sitting next to them. "Splash, Daddy!"

Instead of being mad, like I assume some parents would be, the man seems to find his son amusing and laughs as he continues to get sprayed on.

"Come here, you little rug rat," the man exclaims as he grabs his boy, picks him up high, and then lowers him down for a kiss on the cheek.

The little boy squeals, and his mother looks like her heart is about to burst with love at the sight of her son giggling in happiness.

I hold the coin in my hand up to my chest, close my eyes, say a silent wish, and toss it into the fountain before continuing my walk through the park.

Central Park in the spring is beautiful. With the cherry blossom trees at the earliest onset of their flourish and the tulips creeping through the earth, I inhale the sweet fragrance and fresh air.

When I'm in my neighborhood, I stop at the corner market and grab a few groceries before arriving at my apartment building. My doorman, Salvatore, is quick to greet me.

"Good evening, Ms. Duvane," Salvatore says as he opens the door.

"I have something for you." I motion with my chin to a box at the top of one of my brown bags.

He sees the package of Good & Plenty peeking out the top and smiles. "Always thinking of me."

Whenever I go to the grocery store, I get him his favorite candy. It's the least I can do for the kind old man who always makes me feel safe and welcome.

"How's Carol?" I ask, referring to his wife, as he takes the candy from the bag. "Did she get her stomach checked out?"

"Yes, ma'am. You were right about it being an ulcer. Doctor has her on an antibiotic and is helping her get rid of the acid."

"So happy to hear. Give her my best." I walk into the elevator that Salvatore already pushed the call button for.

When I'm on my floor, I juggle my grocery bags as I fiddle with the key ring. I let myself inside my apartment, close the front door with my foot, and place my groceries on the counter.

Living alone has taken some getting used to. When I got married eight years ago, it was for better or for worse... except no one told me "for worse" included my husband cheating on me with a puck bunny.

Brock Lannister is a defenseman for the New York Islanders and my now ex-husband. When we met at a bar on Bleeker Street, I knew absolutely nothing about hockey, let alone who was on the roster for the Islanders. He was handsome as hell, told the best jokes, and was romantically spontaneous. Many times, I'd get off a shift to find him waiting on the curb with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a limo ready.

He'd say, "Where do you want to go? Just pick a place, and we'll vanish."

We'd choose sleepy towns within driving distance, stay in bed-and-breakfasts, make love all weekend, and come home in the same clothes we left in. If we ever dared to venture out, it was in tourist T-shirts and silly woven hats or anything we could get our hands on.

He never cared if I took an extra shift, and I wasn't one of those women who gave him hell about all his fangirls hanging around after his games... although, looking back, I definitely should have.

We only dated for a year before getting married, and then we bought this apartment.

_I love this apartment._

It has two bedrooms, an all-white, open kitchen—which is scarce in the city—and a living room with a view of Central Park. It's not huge, but it's cozy and perfect and the place I call home.

When I caught Brock in bed with another woman, he knew from the look on my face that it was over. His main concern was that we hadn't signed a prenuptial agreement, and he'd recently negotiated an eight-million-dollar contract with the team. I didn't want a dime of it—just my home.

So, yeah, it's been an interesting two years.

With my dish of ravioli in hand and a glass of pinot noir, I cuddle up on the sofa and enjoy my dinner. I'm only about two bites in when my cell phone rings.

Christian's Facebook picture appears on the screen. It's him in a wet white T-shirt, taken on his father's boat last year. The way his broad chest is on full display through the sheer fabric sends a quiver through me every time I see it, and I remind myself for the hundredth time to change his ridiculous picture on my phone.

I answer the call, "You're supposed to be drinking beer and yelling at the umpire."

His throaty chuckle is loud despite the crowd cheering in the background. "Turn on the TV. I'm behind home plate and waving to you."

The remote is on the arm of the couch when I grab it. I turn on the television and flip through the channels. "How am I supposed to know where you are?"

"Just turn it on."

The game is on Fox with a wide shot of the field, showing two runners on base. The camera stays on the handsome faces of the ballplayers, and I'm not one to argue with that.

"I don't see your ugly mug, but hello, Giancarlo Stanton, you handsome devil, you. Do you think he's single?"

"Are you trying to break my heart?"

I giggle as I watch the camera switch to the home plate view as a new player walks up to bat. "Okay. I'm looking behind home plate. I don't see—" I pause as my eye catches something bright pink in the stands, just to the right of the batter. I squint in recognition. "Are you wearing a neon fishing hat?"

Now knowing the camera is on him, Christian waves from his seat. He's already an imposing man with his strong build and naturally tan skin, but with the fluorescent-pink hat on his head, he is downright ridiculous.

"I lost a bet with my dad, and now, I have to wear this the entire game."

"Why is it pink? And why aren't they kicking you out for distracting the pitcher?"

"It's my mom's. The old man knew what he was doing when he wagered wearing a hat to the game as the ante."

"He's a sucker!" Thomas says into the phone from his seat next to Christian.

I scrunch my nose in confusion. "What was the bet?"

Christian pauses as the crowd around him cheers for a base hit. When the celebration dies down, he answers, "That the centerfield line at Citi Field is exactly the same as Yankee Stadium."

"He totally fooled you into that bet," I say and take a bite of ravioli.

The view on the television screen goes back to the batter's box. I can see Christian hunched to the side of his seat, his finger in his ear as he talks on the phone.

"What are you doing right now?" he asks.

"Enjoying dinner while watching you talk on the phone in a ridiculous hat from the most high-profile seat at Citi Field, and then I'm hopping into a warm bath."

"Want company?"

"You're crude." I take a sip of my pinot.

He leans back with a laugh. "Usually, when a woman tells me she's about to get naked, it's an invitation to come over."

"Not with that hat you're wearing. Besides, I'm not one of your usual women."

There's a slight pause on his end.

"That you're not." There's another round of cheers and jeers as the Yankees batter hits a pop-up to the Mets second baseman. "But, seriously, want company? I can swing by after the game."

"Thanks, but no, thanks." I let out a loud yawn. "I'm crashing early tonight. My boss is a slave driver."

"Imagine being raised by him," he shouts over the music playing in the background as the players switch positions on the field.

I laugh at his joke, mostly because I know they have a great relationship. Yes, his father demands a lot of his son, as most successful men do. They also have a rapport that only comes when two men genuinely get along.

"Enjoy your game, Christian."

I can't see him, but I can feel his warm grin through the phone. "Sweet dreams, Meadow."

We hang up, and I'm not surprised to feel a smile on my face. Despite a very messy divorce, I've come out on top, mostly because of Christian.

When I found out Brock was having an affair—scratch that, multiple affairs, I was a mess of tears, and Christian took the red-eye from San Francisco and showed up at my door with a bottle of Johnnie Walker and two shot glasses.

When Brock had to pack up his stuff, it was Christian who booked me a day at the spa while he stayed here and watched Brock move his shit.

And, every time we go to a sports bar and the Islanders are playing, Christian slips the bartender a hundred bucks to make sure the TV in my section is playing anything but hockey.

My hand rises to my clavicle and the wishbone charm Christian got me as a wedding gift. It was an odd choice for a present, as he got nothing for Brock, but it's my favorite, and I wear it every day.

I can see why Angela would say Christian and I should be a couple. He's the best man I've ever known, but what we have is too valuable to risk. Besides, what I need and what Christian wants are two very different things.

So very, very different.

# Chapter Two

"Hit B! Hit B!" my nephew Aiden shouts in my ear. His tiny six-year-old body nearly falls into me as he jumps on the couch.

"It's hard to steer and press the buttons." I careen to the right and my Luigi avatar, riding a pretty sweet-looking motorcycle, crashes into the side of Princess Peach's castle.

My other nephew Dylan looks cool and confident. We're in a one-on-one battle to see who can place higher in Mario Kart. So far, I'm losing badly to a ten-year-old.

"Come on, Aunt Meadow. Drive into the question mark. Maybe you'll get the bullet, and it'll zoom you up to third place," Aiden yelps.

Dylan's hands are firm with confidence on the steering wheel controller. His steely-gray eyes he inherited from my brother are narrowed in focus.

"It's a given. You always get the bullet when you're in last place," Dylan predicts.

My motorcycle is back on track as I navigate through the race, and just like the boys said, I get the magic bullet, which zips me through the course and past Toad, Bowser, Baby Luigi, and Wario.

Dylan crosses the finish line first, and his Mario avatar cheers in rejoice. I'm far behind.

"Fifth place," I state, disappointed. "That stinks."

"Winner!" Dylan cheers for himself, his hands up in the air as he chants his own name. "You're terrible at this game, Aunt Meadow."

"Am not!" I defend.

Aiden agrees with his older brother as he leans on my shoulder and says, "You get beat by a kid every time."

I tap him on the nose. "You're lucky you're cute."

He smiles a toothless grin from having just lost his two front teeth. "Or what?"

Raising my fingers, I wiggle them in the air and reach out to him. "Or I'll... tickle you to death!"

I lunge for his tummy and tickle up and down the sides of his torso, causing him to laugh while curling his legs in and rolling over. Not letting up, I keep my hands moving as his brown hair flops about, the smile on his face grows bigger, and his laughs get louder.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs announces Beth's entrance. She's dressed like the quintessential upper-class, suburban mom with her shoulder-length blonde hair pulled back in a low ponytail and a lightweight turtleneck paired with beige pants. When she sees me sitting here, playing with my nephews, she makes a face like she's been looking for me for hours.

"There you are," Beth says.

"We were just playing some Mario Kart," I answer innocently and release Aiden from his tickle torture.

She points a finger at Dylan and gives her best mom glare. "You're grounded from video games from that stunt you pulled at the mall."

"But, Mom—"

"Dylan James Duvane, you know better. Now, you don't get to play for a month," she says.

It's almost shocking how the sassy girl I love to gossip with over trips to Bloomingdale's can morph into a hard-ass mom in a nanosecond.

"You're so unfair!" he wails at his mother while simultaneously whipping his head back to get his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes.

"It's my fault," I defend my nephew.

I get up from the couch and stand behind him. I place my hands on his shoulders and give them a hard squeeze. The little liar didn't tell me he was grounded.

"I begged," I explain to Beth. "He told me he was in no way allowed to play, even threw himself on the floor in protest, but I told him he had to." I dig my fingers into his skin a _little_ harder and feel his back arch. "We made a deal. He said he'd do all the dishes tonight after dinner."

"No, I didn't—" he starts, but I walk to his side and give him a raised brow. He quickly catches on and bats his long lashes at his mother. "I... don't want you to do all that work after you spent the day cooking and cleaning," he says with the sweetest smile.

Beth is tapping her Tory Burch–clad foot with a skeptical frown on her face. It's obvious she doesn't believe him, but as they say... choose your battles wisely. "All right, upstairs. _Now_. Your dad is looking for you."

The boys rush up the stairs as I turn off the television.

"I love when you go all mom on them," I say, impressed.

She releases her arms that were crossed in front of her body and lets out a groan. "It makes me feel old. One minute, you're twenty-five and bringing your newborn home from the hospital, and the next, you're arguing with a preteen over the purchase of a T-shirt that says _My Pen Is Huge_."

It takes me a second to realize why the shirt would be inappropriate. I finally let out a giggle, and she fights to control her own. She loses her own will and laughs along with me.

"Gotta give him credit for having a sense of humor."

"Like his aunt! Nice try, by the way. There's no way that kid is washing my wineglasses without breaking them."

I smash my lips together to stifle a laugh. "We'll get some pots and pans out of him."

She walks over to the couch and rearranges the pillows in the perfect way they were before Aiden stomped all over them. I assist on the other end of the sectional sofa.

"While it's clear you love spending time with your nephews, why do I suspect you're escaping down here?" she asks.

I feign being insulted. "Never. I love spending time with my family."

"Is that why, when your parents arrived an hour ago, you ran down here like there was a tornado warning?"

"New Jersey doesn't get tornados," I deadpan.

She raises her chin with an inquisitive smirk. "And what do you call your mother?"

I throw an arm around Beth's shoulders. "Would you like to stay down here in my bunker?"

She looks around the media room that her and my brother, Brian, created for football Sundays and video games. The way the gray chenille sofa, pool table, bar, and three flat screen TVs line the room make it the optimal place for either activity.

"Tempting, but I prefer to hide out in my closet."

I step back and palm my hands together in prayer. "Take me to your sanctuary."

She gives me her best serious-mother face and points toward the stairs. "Upstairs, young lady."

I drop my shoulders and stomp off with my head to my chest as if I were a scolded child. "Yes, Mom."

With a smile, she pushes me toward the steps.

Brian and Beth's house is a mini-mansion in Bergen County, New Jersey. It's where the wealthy people of the tri-state area live. Think Oprah and Dr. Oz. Their home is on a street of other equally gorgeous houses, but the others don't have Beth's designer touches—weathered gray hardwood floors, cream-colored walls, and navy-blue accents. Even their family pictures were done to coordinate with their home with everyone dressed in shades of blue and cream.

The perfect family for the world's most perfect home.

I'm halfway through the gourmet kitchen of high gray cabinets with gold hardware and Viking appliances when I see the back deck is full of more people than I was expecting. I turn around and walk into Beth, who is trailing behind me.

She grabs me by the arms and spins me back around. "Oh no, you don't."

I whisper-yell into her ear, "Where did all those people come from?"

With an air of sarcasm, she answers, "Well, Meadow, when two people fall in love—"

"Not in the biblical sense. I mean... they weren't here an hour ago."

"That's what happens when you throw a party. People arrive. And, when you hide out in the basement for an hour, you miss the people actually arriving."

I step to the side of the French doors and peek behind the silk drapes to peek outside again at the mostly familiar faces. My parents' country club friends—the Romanos, Kents, and Vaduccis—are here.

With a twirl of my hair, I push a tendril behind my ear and assess the situation. "So, when you said you were hosting my birthday dinner, you meant a party for Mom and Dad."

"Your mom asked if she could invite a few people."

"A few?" I bite.

"It's an intimate gathering of four of your parents' closest couple friends."

With another inspection out the French doors, I notice another interesting tidbit. Or shall I say, _three_ tidbits. Frank Romano, Garret Kent, and Aaron Vaducci are all here with their parents.

"And their single sons."

Beth runs a finger along the neckline of her sweater as she looks out the glass in fake interest. "Are they? What a coincidence."

I narrow my eyes at her.

She drops her hand—and the act. "Okay, fine. Your mother thought you needed a push."

"And you went along with it?" I'm back to the whisper-yelling.

"Tornado, remember? It's hard to stay out of its path."

"She's alive!" Mom's voice sounds behind me like a Broadway production.

"Speak of the devil," Beth squeaks through a smile and then spins on her heel to head into the kitchen.

My mother walks through the doors that lead from the dining room, wearing her quilted Burberry raincoat over a gold Ann Taylor outfit I bought her over the holidays. When she reaches me, she gives a big hug with her chin tilted up so as not to rub her makeup on my sweater.

"Here I thought, I came all this way to have my only daughter hide away instead of coming to sit and talk to her mother."

My mom, Gail Duvane, is the epitome of an overbearing mother. She's a great mom; don't get me wrong. Growing up, I never wanted for anything, and she always had my back if something wasn't going right—like that time I didn't get the lead in the school play.

She marched herself right into the principal's office, lauded my impeccable acting skills, and claimed the girl who had gotten the role of Annie Oakley only did because her father had made a sizable donation to the school—or as my mother put it, "Gave blood money to procure his tone-deaf daughter a place in the spotlight."

She threatened to run an opinion piece in the local paper and tell all of her friends—and she had many—about what was going on at the very expensive prep school when, suddenly, yours truly was cast as Annie Oakley.

She's like a high-society Beverly Goldberg from the ABC comedy _The Goldbergs_ , __ only she uses John Frieda instead of Aqua Net.

I give her a hug back and try to release myself of her embrace, but she's holding on extra tight.

"You don't feel right. Let me look at you." She holds me out at arm's length, her hands running up and down my sweater-clad arms, and squeezes as she does so. "Are you eating right? You need to take your B12. It's vital to your immune system." Her hands travel to my cheeks to feel my skin. "You need to moisturize. Thirty-three is hard on a woman."

"I'm still thirty-two for another week."

Her lips pucker like she's talking to a puppy. "But your crow's-feet are starting to show. I have a serum for that."

I smile. "It's so nice to see you, Mom."

Her fingers move back down my arms until they're at my hands. She tightly holds them and continues to appraise me while grinning at me with admiration and love. It's a peculiar thing about my mom. She can look at you with a tender smile, but her eyes are investigating your inner soul.

"Tell me, have you been seeing anyone?" she asks with sincere interest.

"Not since we spoke the other day."

She walks to her purse, which is sitting on the granite island in the center of the kitchen, pulls out a brochure, and hands it to me. A picture of a woman holding an egg timer on the front makes me want to laugh, but I get the feeling I'm not going to like where this is going.

I read the title in bold blue font, " _Affordable egg freezing_?" I'm half-asking, half-comprehending what this piece of paper is doing in my mother's bag.

"Your fertility decreases at age thirty-two, and by thirty-five, well, you might as well play Russian roulette. Lois, from the club, her daughter did it and says it tremendously freed up her mind. It's nice to keep your options open."

"By freezing them in"—I look down at the address on the front of the brochure—"Hoboken?"

"You can do it anywhere you want. I did some research. There's a fantastic doctor at St. Xavier Fertility Center, and they're doing all kinds of innovative things for girls your age."

Peering over Mom's shoulder, I catch Beth's shocked expression before she goes back to pretending to look for something in her cabinets. I drop the brochure onto the kitchen island and look back at my mother with a forced smile on my face.

"Duly noted."

"Meadow—"

"Are you hungry? 'Cause I'm starving."

Desperate to drop the conversation, I grab a carrot from the vegetable platter on the counter and shove it in my mouth. Nothing brings your mood down quite like your mother whipping out a brochure on harvesting your eggs.

Grabbing me by the elbow, Mom escorts me outside onto the back deck. It's a sunny day with a slight chill in the air. My knee-high boots are keeping my legs nice and warm over my jeans, but I rub the side of my arms as the crisp air weaves through my cable-knit sweater.

"There's my Meadowlark." Dad comes up from behind and gives me a giant bear hug.

I swing around and return his affection, breathing in the familiar scent of cigar smoke that is lingering on his shirt. My brother, Brian, is standing by his side. I give him a closed-mouth smile from the comfort of my father's embrace.

I lean back and look up at my dad with raised brows. "You and Mom invited your friends," I say and then add out the side of my mouth, "and their sons."

"That's your mother. She wants to see you happy." He says this with a laugh, like it's the most casual thing in the world to invite only their friends with single sons to their daughter's family-only birthday dinner.

"I'm more than capable of meeting someone on my own."

"This way, you'll know he has all of his teeth," Brian says before he takes a drink of his Heineken and walks off.

He never passes an opportunity to dig into my ex-husband—this comment referring to the fact that Brock is missing two adult teeth from fights on the ice. I don't mind the digs, really—except, _sometimes_ , it feels like he's digging into me.

"George, let go of the girl. She has guests to mingle with," Mom says as she pulls me away from my dad. Waving her other hand, she calls out, "Frank! Frank Romano. Come over here. Look who it is!"

Dad gives me a crooked smile as he pats me on the shoulder. "I'm going to make myself a Tom Collins. You girls want anything?"

"Johnnie on the rocks," I call out, but he's already walking toward the bar.

Mom hooks her elbow with mine and pulls me into her as she whispers, "Frank is a real estate attorney. His parents say he's doing fantastic. Apparently, he's had quite the crush on you since high school. His mother said she once found a picture of you in his sock drawer."

I want to hide my face in mortification, but it's too late. Frank is waddling over. His black hair is slicked back and glistening in the sun, and he looks like he hasn't shaved in days even though I'm sure he put the razor to his skin this morning.

His arms are out wide as he says in a deep, grumbly voice, "Meadow Duvane! How are ya?"

I cordially pat his back as he envelops me in a giant hug—a little too tight, as I feel my diaphragm shrinking.

"It's so nice to see you," I say with a hand to my chest as the air circulates back into my windpipe.

Frank went a little overboard on the cologne this morning, and it's wafting up into my nostrils.

Mom places a finger under her nose and lets out a little cough. "Your father told me you just bought a place in the city."

"I got a real nice one-bedroom in Hell's Kitchen. Very up-and-comin'," he replies with an accent he acquired from his parents who were raised in Brooklyn.

My mother seems pleased. "I was thinking you and Meadow could connect now that you're practically neighbors."

"That's not exactly neighbors," I mumble, but it falls on deaf ears.

"She's just getting her feet wet in the dating pool. Maybe you can take her out to some swinging singles spots. Show her where the older girls meet men," she offers me up.

My head falls in my hand as Frank turns with a grimace while he gesticulates with his hands. "I heard you went through a messy divorce. Too bad about him sleeping with all those women. I saw he's dating that Victoria's Secret model now. Must be hard for you to shop for underwear. Hey, you don't think he ever slept with anyone in your house—you know, on the kitchen counter or anything? If you want to unload that apartment of yours, I have contacts who can get you a new place. Maybe a studio in Chelsea? It's supposed to be very hip among the single ladies. The guys are swarming, ready to hook up. Clock's ticking, if you know what I mean." He nudges me in the ribs with his elbow.

"No. Not really," I state slowly.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Meadow... look, I'd really like to take you out." He holds his hands up in mock surrender. "I swear, no real estate talk."

"That's a very nice offer, but I don't think I'm quite ready to date."

"It doesn't have to be a date. Consider it two friends exploring the city. Although you're a real catch, Meadow. There is no harm in putting yourself out there. A pretty blonde like yourself deserves to be with someone who appreciates everything you bring to the table."

"Thank you, Frank," I say genuinely and then gaze aimlessly around the backyard with a muted pause.

My mother must sense the uneasiness in the conversation because she blurts out, "If you'll excuse us, I want Meadow to say hello to everyone. You two should definitely exchange numbers before you leave."

She pulls me away as Frank says something along the lines of getting together for steaks.

We're off the deck and on the grass as she leans into me. "His mother said he's looking to settle down. He really is a nice boy."

"Mom, the man just gave me the intense desire to burn my underwear and bleach my entire kitchen."

"Okay, so he's a little blunt. Out of all my friends, these are the only ones who have single sons."

"Are you saying, these are the only single men in the entire state of New Jersey?" I fake being shocked to make my point even more.

She gives me that mom eye I've seen way too many times in my life. "What I'm saying is, you don't have the luxury to be picky. At your age, all the good ones are taken."

"I'm not taken. What does that say about me?" I glance around the yard toward Garret and Aaron, the remaining two men my mother thinks are prospects.

"You know what I mean. You can go to a bar and meet a random man, but you recall how that worked out for you in the past. At least these gentlemen come from good families." She pulls me further into the yard. "You remember Garret Kent. He recently went through a divorce, although he pays his ex-wife alimony—unlike other people."

I bite the inside of my cheek as she walks us toward the outdoor firepit where Garret is standing, talking to someone on his phone. He looks just as handsome as he did when we were in high school. We dated for a hot second during our junior year. He asked me to the winter formal. He copped a feel without asking my permission, and I threw up on his Nikes. It wasn't my finest moment, and he eventually moved on to greener... looser pastures. We've run into each other a few times over the years, and each time has been cordial. Like today.

I don't miss the way his dark eyes widen in delightful surprise as we approach.

"I have to call you back," he says to the person on the other end of the line and ends the call without waiting for their response.

His wavy blond hair is brushed back, and his long-sleeved pink polo shirt showcases his lean muscles.

"Wow." He kisses me on the cheek, and his mouth makes a sucking sound. "You haven't aged a day."

"Thank you. How have you been?" I brush his spittle off my cheek with my shoulder.

"No complaints," he says with a smile, and I swear, a diamond just glistened off of his pearly whites.

"I saw on Facebook, you have a son. He looks just like you _." I hope I don't sound like a stalker._

"That's my Jordan. He's the only good thing that came out of my marriage," he declares as his hands slide into the side pockets of his pants. "Sometimes, the first time around isn't right. Hoping I have better luck the second time." He makes this comment like his second-time prospect is standing before him.

My smile is big, but I feel this heavy pit in my stomach.

While I'd like to remarry someday, the thought of falling in love again seems unattainable and almost... daunting. I enjoyed being married, and while our relationship might have been a bit whimsical, it was the best time in my life.

Garret walked away from his marriage with a beautiful boy. A testament to a love he once held dear, and me, well, all I walked away with was a fancy apartment. Sure, the view is exquisite, and it's a prime piece of real estate, but at the end of the day, it doesn't fill the void in my heart.

Mom seems to mistake my smile for some kind of connection between Garret and me because she lets go of my arm and steps to the side. "I'll leave you two to catch up." In a blink, she's across the yard and in a circle of conversation with her friends.

I lean back on my heels and rub my hands together. "So... Jordan. He's a good kid?"

"The best. He's my buddy. I get him every other weekend, which is cool because it's just us boys bonding," he states.

"That's awesome. My dad and Brian were like that—buddies who did everything together. They still golf together every week. You must hate it when Jordan's back at his mom's."

Garret runs a hand along his chest as he puffs it out. "Nah. It's great. I can go out with friends, sleep in, catch up on work. It's a perfect scenario."

My brows knit together in confusion as I try to understand his positive outlook on seeing his son every other weekend. I can't imagine having a child and not being able to see him or her every day. "But you probably wish you had him all the time."

"Perfect," he reiterates. "Women love it. They get my undivided attention without my kid hanging around. For example, if I wanted to ask a hot nurse over to my place for a sleepover, I can. You busy tonight?"

Mouth agape, I try to form a response, but the words don't come to me. I smack my lips together as he flashes me a smile.

"Let me explain," he starts, holding out his palm. "Kids are great, but they're a pain in the ass. I don't have to do homework, get him up for school, take him to the doctor. I pretty much just get to do fun stuff with him and leave all the parenting headaches to my ex. And, trust me, four days a month is plenty. So, about tonight? I have a hot tub in need of a hot pair of legs to climb into it."

My hands drift to my stomach, and I sense my face reddening at the smug smile on Garret's face. My jaw is clenched, and my adrenaline spikes. I open my mouth and raise a finger, ready to tell him what I think he can do with his hot tub when someone calls my name.

"Meadow!"

I turn to see Christian at my side as he snakes a protective arm around me faster than a piranha eats its prey.

Ever the gentleman, he extends his other hand to Garret, but there is no mistaking the tic in his jaw. "Hey, buddy. How are you? Can I steal her? We have a lot of office stuff to go over."

As Garret's eyes travel to their joined hands, I can almost feel how tight Christian must be squeezing his.

Without giving Garret a chance to respond, he steers me away. His firm hand on my waist, he points me toward the back of the yard, away from my parents and their guests. We walk into the garden where Beth keeps a finely manicured oasis of tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths.

"Breathe," he says, sensing my tension levels have risen.

I do as he said by closing my eyes and inhaling the fragrant perfume of the nearby crimson roses in full bloom. When I open my eyes, it's with an exhale of released tension, and I look into his dark green irises with flecks of honey sprinkled throughout. They're striking against Christian's naturally bronzed skin.

I ruffle his thick brown mane. "Aren't you my knight in shining armor?"

He releases his hold on me, and my body chills despite the afternoon sun.

"If I saved anyone, it's Garret. You were about to tear into that guy," he says.

"How did you know?"

He rubs a thumb down my forehead, toward the center of my eyebrows. "You get a little crinkle right here when you're mad. Sometimes, you pout your mouth, too. It's adorable actually." I make that crinkle face at him, so he adds, "Unless it's aimed at me. Knight in shining armor, remember?"

"Then, thankfully—for his sake—you were here," I joke as my mind catches on to the fact that Christian is here. At my brother's house. At the party my mother threw. I hit him in the arm, hard, and feel a sting in my fist. Not expecting it, he falls backward slightly as I scold him, "You knew my mom was doing this and said nothing?"

He's rubbing his arm and smiling at me, leaving small creases around his eyes. "I didn't know about it until last night at the game. My parents will be here soon. They were invited, too."

Makes sense. Beth said they invited four of my parents' closest friends to the party.

"Great. Now, I'll have both of my bosses here to witness Gail Duvane's New Jersey edition of _The Bachelorette_." I look back at the yard with a sour stare.

I can hear my mom's vibrant voice, the one used for storytelling, as she weaves a tale about something that happened on their recent vacation. She's leaning over and touching Mr. Romano's arm as she laughs with her words. That's my mom. She's a toucher. And a busybody. And, while I'm kind of annoyed, it's also impossible for me to be mad because I know she only pulls these little stunts because she cares.

When I turn back to Christian, he is standing with a rose against his chest. He must have snapped it from the nearby bush. He holds it out with a sincere grin. "Forgive me?"

The way he's looking back at me with a sad puppy-dog expression has me tilting my head to the side and fighting a smile. "You're an idiot."

"I'm your idiot," he says with a devilish grin. "I came to save you. I can't stay though. I have to be at the hospital in an hour."

"You drove all the way here just to see me in my misery for twenty minutes?"

He picks a piece of lint off my shoulder. "Worth every minute in traffic."

"I'm glad you're here," I blurt, feeling a faint blush creep across my cheeks. "I mean, I could use a reprieve from my mother's meddling. She brought me a pamphlet on egg freezing. Can you comprehend how mortifying that is? I'm turning into a washed-up, old hag who's going to live with a house full of cats."

"You're not going to live with cats." He sways his head from side to side. "Dogs maybe but definitely not cats."

"I'm serious. I'm almost thirty-three years old, and now, I feel this rush to pick a suitor or else my eggs will disintegrate, and I'll never be able to have children."

"You know better than anyone that you have plenty of time to think about kids. Modern medicine lets women conceive well into their forties."

"I know. But I would like to meet someone and start a family. That was the point of being married—until Brock had to be a prick and stick his dick in other women."

"Hey now." He pulls me in for a hug, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and tucking me into his chest.

I wrap my arms around his body and inhale his scent through the crisp white button-down he's wearing.

His chin rests on my head. "There's someone out there for you, Meadow."

_From his mouth to God's ears._ "You sound so sure."

Pulling back, he levels his eyes with mine. They're soft and filled with purpose. "I promise, there is someone out there who will make all your dreams come true." Christian glances over my shoulder toward the party members. "Maybe not any of these tools. Seriously, what was your mother thinking? These guys are the worst suitors for you. She should never play matchmaker."

"Um, Christian, you're here, too." I wince.

With a pointed finger, he declares, "Case in point."

I turn my face to the side, my long hair falling over my eye. As I run my fingers through the tendrils, pulling it back, I catch my mom and her friends watching Christian and me. "They're staring."

He places a knuckle under my chin, raising my gaze to meet the friendly expression shining back at me. "Do you know why they stare? They can't stop looking at the brave woman who, despite having a fucking douche bag as a husband, stands here, beautiful, smart, and confident. They're impressed. And that, my friend, is why they brought their sons here to see you. You're quite the catch."

His words caress over me like a ray of sunshine, and that dark cloud floats away. "I needed that."

He gives me a warm hug, and I melt into it. "Go get 'em, tiger."

We walk back to the deck where I join in and listen to my mom finish a story about the new restaurant she went to. When Dad comes back over, he's holding a glass with a cute little umbrella resting against the rim.

I glance over to see Christian talking to Brian and Beth. His hand is inside one of the pockets of his slacks as his other hand skims his masculine jaw while he listens to Beth as she speaks. His tall frame towers over my brother, who is nearly as tall. There's just something about Christian and the way he holds himself that makes him seem larger than life.

There's a nudge at my shoulder as my dad leans into me. "Too bad you two are just friends. I've always said you'd make a fine pair," he whispers into my ear.

I shake off the notion. "We'd make the worst couple. We'd probably kill each other."

"I remember a day when you used to have a crush on that boy."

"I never—"

"You were thirteen and followed him around like a puppy dog. Even convinced him not to date a few girls that year if I'm correct. I believe that was the year you told him Sally Romano had herpes."

"I did not," I say, hoping Frank and his parents didn't hear that, but my dad is just glaring at me with an amused brow as he sips his Tom Collins. "Fine, I did, but I didn't make that up. A very reliable source told me. That was two decades ago. My tiny crush on Christian Gallagher has long ago dissipated."

He laughs and swings an arm around my shoulders. "Always keep an open mind and an open heart, Meadow. And your eyes focused."

I'm not blind. Christian is gorgeous and smart and all the things a woman wants in a man. Except available. He's married to his career, and I spent six years of my life married to someone else. Our views on commitment are skewed.

"I could never risk the friendship," I say honestly.

"You know your mother and I were friends before we were lovers."

Despite being a grown woman who well knows of my creation, I cringe at my father's use of the word _lovers._

He laughs, deep and burly, and releases me. "On that note, I'm going to go save our guests from my lover before she talks their ears off. That woman sure does love to command an audience." Dad kisses my cheek and walks off.

I'm looking back in Christian's direction. He must feel my stare because he looks my way and then raises his chin with his eyes looking to a place beside me.

I follow his gaze to see Aaron Vaducci, Bachelor Number Three, standing by the barbecue. I widen my eyes at Christian, but he's now nudging his chin over toward Aaron, insinuating that I talk to him.

After the talk we just had, I decide to pull my big-girl panties on and give the afternoon a chance.

Of the three sons my mother arranged for me to spend time with today, Aaron is the easiest to talk to. He's also quite handsome with curly brown hair, hazel eyes, and an easy smile. He's a dentist, and according to my mother, he's recently single, so I'd "better snatch him up before someone else does."

We talk for a few minutes before Christian comes over to say his good-byes, heading back to the hospital, and Aaron and I continue to talk about restaurants, work, and politics, which doesn't get awkward—thankfully. Then, we head inside together when dinner is served and continue with light conversation through the evening.

I joke with Christian's mom, Lucille Gallagher, and catch up with the Romanos. I listen to my mother's lively stories about her friends in Boca and even play a game of horseshoes with Dylan and Aiden.

When Brian lights the firepit to make s'mores, Aaron lets me show him how to toast the perfect marshmallow because, apparently, he doesn't know how to make his not look like a charred rock of sugar. All in all, it turns out to be a good party, and I have a really nice time.

It's probably why, an hour after all the guests have left, Beth looks confused when she sees me sitting on the floor of her hundred-square-foot shoe closet.

"I'm impressed you squeezed your feet into those." She motions toward the Manolo Blahniks that are hanging from my feet.

I hold a foot up, so she can see my heel is on the outside of the shoe.

"I feel like Anastasia and Drizella when they try on the glass slipper." I flick a toe, and one of the heels falls to the floor. "Always a stepsister, never a princess."

"Aren't you extra melodramatic tonight?" She takes a seat beside me on the plush carpet. Beth has been my sister-in-law for twelve years, which makes her the only sister I've ever known. "Aaron was certainly smitten with you."

"He was not."

With a look that says she doesn't believe my modesty, she replies, "The man was everywhere you were and even pretended he couldn't roast a marshmallow just so you could teach him something."

"I did find it peculiar that he was so inept in the art of placing a piece of sugary goodness over a fire."

Beth stretches out her legs. "You should call him."

Aaron gave me his number before he left, and while he's absolutely worthy of a date, I didn't feel that spark with him. If I went out with him, it would only be because of this push to find someone when I'm just not ready. That's unfair to him and to myself.

I lightly bang my head against the shelf behind me, probably hitting a pair of thousand-dollar heels.

"Do you think I'm broken?" I ask.

She lets out a small sigh. "Damaged, yes. Broken, no."

"Brian barely talks to me."

"He hardly speaks to anyone."

"My mom—"

"Means well." Beth sighs. "You've gotta cut her some slack."

"I know; I know." I run my fingers along my scalp. "She loves me enough to try, and that's awesome. And, my dad, he's such a great man. It's like I have this impossible standard to live up to. Anyone I marry has to be as great as he is."

Beth is looking at me with an arched brow, and I know exactly what she's thinking.

"Yes, I thought Brock was as good a man as George Duvane. Chalk that one up to a failed comparison made with rose-colored glasses." I lean my head on her shoulder.

She rests her head on top of mine. "You're not broken. You're lost. It's been a year since you finalized the divorce. Maybe you need more time."

While time seems to be dragging on, I still can't help but look back and think of how fast the time has passed. I don't know if it's because I'm a woman and I have this biological clock that my mom wants me to freeze my eggs in some special time-capsule facility or if it's because, as much as I enjoy my life, I want more in my future and don't want to wait any longer to seize it.

Time. She's such a fickle bitch.

Dreams. They're equally dangerous.

"You know what would help?" I lift my foot and stare at the beautiful sapphire heel I'm coveting right now. "If your shoe grew another inch."

"Shoes aren't the answer. Although"—she lifts her head and taps a finger to her lips as she rises from her spot—"I might have an eight and a half in here you can squeeze into."

I pop up alongside her. "That's the sexiest thing you've ever said."

# Chapter Three

Shuffling through the cabinet, I can't find the box of plastic spoons that are always on the bottom shelf. I close the laminate door and rifle through the drawers under the sink. I see straws, napkins, and some random Andes mints... but no utensils. My lunch is sitting on the countertop as I place a hand on my hip and run a finger over my temple.

"Love your scrubs! The gold zippers against the gray are so chic," Angela compliments as she steps into the break room.

"Beth got them for me," I say absentmindedly.

"You look perplexed," she observes as she snags a green tea pod from its box and pops it into the Keurig.

"I can't find the spoons."

"They're right up there." She grabs a mug with the words _Hello... Is it tea you're looking for?_ written in big, bold font.

"We must be out."

She squints her dark, angular eyes at me as she leans across and opens the cabinet. When her hand lowers, it's with a blue-and-white box of plastic spoons—the exact ones I was searching for.

I furrow my brow. "I looked in there sixteen times."

She shrugs. "Sometimes, we can't see the thing that's right in front of our eyes. It's called a schotoma."

"A shit what?" I blanch.

With a snicker, she hits the brew button. "It's a mental blind spot. You convinced yourself that what you were looking for wasn't there."

"Why would I tell myself there were no spoons?" I grab my coffee-filled mug that reads _Might Be Vodka_.

"Hell if I know. There's an entire science behind this. You should Google it."

Considering it, I take a seat at the table and open my yogurt. I'd have to pronounce that word and maybe even know how to spell it before I could look it up.

I have the spoon at my mouth when Angela lets out a large huff. I give her a glance and watch her let out another deep sigh that rises in volume and pitches out at the end. I lower my spoon with a smile, knowing full well she wants me to ask what's bothering her.

"Is something worrying you?"

With her freshly made tea in hand, she turns toward me and glances around the room with a bewildered stare. "You know me. I don't like to burden other people with my problems."

I point my spoon at her. "Drop the act, woman. Let me have it."

"You sure?" Angela is adorably coy sometimes, which is funny. It's like she's dying to tell you information but doesn't want to just unleash it. She needs you to ask her about it.

"I'm dying for some romantic gossip." I lift my mug and take a sip.

Her tiny frame practically bounces up onto her toes. "Okay, so, remember that blind date I went on a few weeks ago?"

I nod. "Denny, the guy with the handlebar mustache?"

"Yes!" She nearly spills her tea. "That sexy Daniel Day-Lewis–looking motherfucker."

I have to stop for a second and run through my mental file of movie stars to realize she's referring to the actor who he played Bill the Butcher in _Gangs of New York_.

"So, things are going well?" I put my mug back on the table and lift my yogurt.

"Here's the problem. We've been dating for three weeks, and I have spent multiple nights at his place."

"Multiple?" I ask with my spoon hanging out of my mouth.

"Multiple," she says slowly and resumes her usual quick-witted way of speaking. "This morning, as I was leaving his place, he hands me my toothbrush. I was planning on leaving it there since I'd been staying over so much. He _insisted_ I take it home with me. Then, he gave me a kiss good-bye and said he'd see me tonight. What the hell does that mean?"

"He didn't want you to keep your toothbrush there but expects to see you again tonight."

"Does that mean it's because he doesn't want other women to see my toothbrush on his sink? Is he, like, playing the field?"

"Are you exclusive?" I ask.

"I thought so!"

The break room door swings open as Christian saunters in. "Does anyone work around here anymore?"

"We're on a break!" Angela and I say simultaneously.

He walks to the refrigerator, grabs a can of V8, and kicks the door closed. Angela scrunches her nose as he pops the top of the can.

"Who voluntarily drinks that stuff?" she asks.

He takes a large swig, smacks his lips, and makes a sound of satisfaction. "It's like tea for my prostate."

"Oh, that's nasty," Angela quips.

"Way too much information," I add.

Christian gulps down the small can and then shoots it into the trash like he's playing basketball. The swoosh just earned him two points. "It's also good for your sex drive."

"I don't need any encouragement with my libido," she states proudly with a sway of her hips.

He looks over.

I raise my hands, palms up. "Leave me out of it. This"—I motion toward my body—"is closed for business."

He gives a crooked smile with a shake of his head as he looks at me seated at the table and Angela standing in the center of the room and back to me in question. "What were you two talking about before I walked in?"

I raise my brows at Angela and motion toward Christian. If anyone is going to give her the low-down on what a guy is thinking, it's a bachelor.

Her lips are pursed as she considers this, and then she turns to him and declares, "My boyfriend won't let me leave my toothbrush at his house."

"So, he's your boyfriend now?" I chime in.

"Well, yeah. I'm over there all the time. This isn't high school where he needs to properly ask me to be his girlfriend," she says and then pauses with her hands wrapped around her teacup and her eyes staring off into the fluorescent lights. "Is it?"

"It is," I say.

"Fuck yeah," Christian adds, leaving Angela with a pout. "You can ask him, too. Guys like that."

"They do?" My head pivots in his direction.

He pushes his white doctor's jacket to the side and dips his hands into his pants pockets. "An assertive woman is sexy as hell."

"Then, why doesn't he want my toothbrush?" Angela asks, slightly flummoxed.

"Because you're box girl," he replies matter-of-factly. By the curious scowls on my and Angela's faces, he explains further. "A girl who brings a box load of her stuff to a guy's place, practically moving in before he is ready for commitment."

I press my finger against my lips and ponder this for a minute. When Brock and I were dating, I brought an overnight bag to his place _very_ early in the relationship and left a few things behind.

Angela's right eye is closed as she asks, "It wasn't a box. It was a stick with bristles. You'd think he'd appreciate my love of good oral hygiene."

"I'm sure he definitely appreciates the oral. He just might not be ready to move into the next phase of your relationship," he says with a grin.

I toss my now-empty yogurt container in the trash. "Have you ever let a girl leave anything at your place?"

"No," his answer comes out.

"What about that girl you dated last year? Thalia? You were with her for, what, four months?" I ask.

"Nope."

Angela steps in. "Not even the yoga instructor you went to the Hamptons with?"

"No." He crosses his arms and rests his backside against the counter.

"Do you leave things at their place?" she questions him.

He shakes his head.

"Dr. Gallagher, are you afraid of commitment?" Angela asks.

I already know the answer, but I let him tell her anyway.

"Absolutely not. I'm actually looking forward to getting married someday. Just not now. I'm on the fourteen-year plan. If I want to be director of structural heart disease of cardiovascular medicine by the time I'm forty, then I have to devote my life to my career."

Angela still looks confused. "What does that have to do with being in a relationship?"

"Everything. A woman I'm casually dating won't mind if I take on an extra case and spend eighty hours a week in the hospital. I can't always keep dinner reservations. Nor can I promise to go on a planned vacation without it being canceled because a patient went into critical heart failure. Women in committed relationships expect more of your time and energy."

"Are they allowed to sleep over?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "The night before a surgery I spend alone, studying the case, watching previous surgeries on tape, and reading research papers. Most women don't understand."

Christian has been leading the way in breakthrough cardiothoracic valve replacement surgery. He's one of a handful of surgeons in the world with the finesse to perform techniques not yet approved by the FDA. Everything he does is in critical trial. When I say his career is his sole focus, it's not because he's some arrogant guy who wants to be the best. It's because he is paving the way for the future of medicine.

Angela's eyes shift to the side. "And then what? When you're forty, you'll get married to the first girl you meet?"

"I'll focus on running my unit for a few years and possibly consider settling down."

She taps her foot and asks incredulously, "What if the most perfect woman comes along? You'll pass her up because you want some fancy words on your placard someday?"

His eyes roam my way for a brief moment before he shrugs and replies, "I have time."

"I wish I were a man. When I'm forty, my eggs will be shriveling up at a vastly declining rate," I say out loud—a lot loud actually—which earns me the surprised stares of both Angela and Christian. I wave off what I said and throw the focus back on Angela and the reason we started this conversation. "You should talk to Denny about where you are in your relationship before you leave anything at his place."

"I guess so," she says, unconvinced while looking at me like I have three heads.

"It doesn't mean he's a player. He just might not be ready for the box," I tell her.

"He definitely likes the box. Just not _that_ box," Christian says seriously.

There's an awkward pause until Angela lets out a sharp belly laugh to where she has to brace herself by holding on to the countertop.

I find myself amused. "For a successful man, you certainly take it to a level of crass that astounds me," I chide as I bite my lip to keep myself from smiling.

"You love it," he says with a devilish grin, making his dimples show. He pushes off the counter and turns to Angela to make a suggestion. "Bring him out this weekend. Meadow and I will vet him for you."

Angela's laughter subsides as she tilts her head to the side before her eyes and mouth widen with an almost-surprised look. "Yes. Let's go to dinner at the Boathouse on Saturday night. You guys can meet Denny and tell me what you think."

"The Boathouse is a great idea," he says way too enthusiastically. "Meadow and I will meet you there."

I feign feeling insulted. "It's the day before my birthday. Maybe I already have plans."

"Do you?" Angela asks with wide eyes.

"Well, no." I bite my lip and then turn to Christian. "And what makes you think I don't have someone I want to bring?"

He crosses his arms and asks, "Is there someone you'd like to bring?"

"No," I quip.

"Then, neither do I."

I raise my arms up high and slap them down on the table. "What does me not bringing anyone have anything to do with _you_ bringing someone or not? I'm not a child who needs my hand held. If you want to bring a date, bring a date. Maybe I will bring someone."

"You will?" they ask practically at the same time.

I blanch. "Well, probably not, but you never know. Stop worrying about me being the single one."

His lips press together in a slight grimace as he looks down at the floor with a small nod. "I could ask this girl Natasha."

"Ooh, Natasha sounds sexy. Where did you meet her?" Angela claps her hands.

"She's a nurse in the cardiac care unit at the hospital."

"You totally had sex in the supply closet!" I accuse with a laugh and a tone of absolute shock.

He turns seven shades of red. "I'm not having this discussion with you. All I will say is, it wasn't a closet. I'm more of a gentleman than that."

Angela is wildly amused but quickly gets a serious face on. "If you bring her to the party, that's fine. Just make sure she's not wearing anything too suggestive. I refuse to be upstaged by Sexy Nurse Natasha."

His smile widens as he looks at Angela. "No one can upstage you."

With a playful shake, she responds, "Damn right!" She walks to the door, opens it, then looks back at us with a heavy sigh, and states with exaggeration, "Now, please, will you people get back to work? We have a business to run here!"

She walks out the door, and it swings behind her. Christian follows her out.

I place my mug in the sink and clean it before putting it away. When I'm done, I walk out and down the hallway toward the exam rooms.

"Meadow," Christian calls after me.

I stop and swing around. He's standing outside an exam room, looking like he's about to go inside.

I walk over to him, and as I approach, he looks down at me with those kind eyes and asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"That comment you made before about your eggs shriveling up and dying."

I place a hand on my forehead as I feel ten kinds of embarrassed. "Oh, yeah. I was just joking."

"You brought it up the other day, too."

I shake my head and lower my hand to rest it on my hip. "I think it's my birthday coming up. You know, getting older sucks."

A loose strand of hair falls out of my low ponytail and into my eye. He wraps a finger around it and pushes it behind my ear.

"You'll tell me if something is worrying you, right?"

"Don't I always?"

"No," he answers quickly, and I curve my brows in question. "You internalize until it eats you up and you've made some crazy, rash decision."

I adore him, except for his ability to know everything about me. Well, almost everything.

"Name one time," I challenge him.

"You got married without even telling me you were engaged."

"That's pretty much the point of eloping."

He looks at me from under those thick lashes and tilts his head. I know what he's thinking. That was a tense time in our friendship. He was across the country—had been for years already—when, suddenly, I called to say I was a married woman. The distance had already put a strain on our friendship. Brock's inability to understand how close Christian and I were only made it worse.

Christian gives a self-deprecating smile and then pauses meaningfully. "What's on your mind?"

_If you only knew..._

"I'm fine. Stop fussing over me. I'm excited to meet Natasha. I didn't know you were seeing someone."

"I'm not. We're just—"

"Fooling around in supply closets. I get it," I say with a cheeky grin.

He lowers his forehead a touch and speaks as if he's about to tell me a secret, "I wouldn't have to sneak away in closets if you gave in to my wit and charm."

The way he says the words makes my stomach flutter and my body tingle in response. Any other girl would think he was serious. I, on the other hand, know better. He says things like that for my ego, which he thinks is shattered even though my self-confidence is pretty well intact.

"I wasn't aware it was being offered," I answer jokingly.

"Then, I'm not doing a good enough job."

"Go to work, Dr. Gallagher," I scold and turn him around toward his office where I'm sure he's way behind schedule.

I walk down the hall toward exam room four and grab the file that's sitting in the holder on the door. I sneak a glance back to see Christian watching me as I walk away, pretending I'm not walking to the beat of my own biological clock.

No matter what I do, the egg-freezing brochure seems to be stalking me.

I thought I'd trashed it before I left Brian and Beth's house, but there it was, in my bag, as I took the train back to the city. Every time I go to get money or a MetroCard or my damn ChapStick, there it is. Like right now, I'm getting my keys out of my bag, and the first thing I see is the blue-and-white trifold peering up at me.

I close the door behind me with a thud and toss my bag on the sofa table where it falls over. Of course, the only thing to spill out of my bag is the damn brochure with the perky blonde on the front with her cheerful smile, looking at me saying, _Read me!_ I take the brochure and toss it on the kitchen counter while I sort through my mail and throw out the junk. Then, I go to bed.

Of course, when I exit my bedroom in the morning, Fertile Myrtle is still on my counter with that egg timer in her open palm.

I head out to my spin class and stop at the store for groceries. Then, I give Salvatore his candy. When I get back, I sit on the stool of my kitchen counter, open my dinner, and take a sip of wine. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bright blue color of the brochure with the words _Stop Your Clock_. I slide the brochure off the counter.

After dinner, I head to my room to take a shower when my foot glides over something. My toes fly up in the air, and my butt bangs on the hardwood floor. After rubbing my backside a few times to relieve the sting of landing on my tailbone, I see the brochure in the corner. I slipped on the damn thing. I grab it, march it down to the bathroom, and toss it in the trash.

This is all why I shouldn't be surprised that, while I'm now showered, standing in the bathroom, and brushing my teeth before bed, laying at the top of the wicker wastebasket is the back of the brochure. A baby, swaddled in a soft pink blanket, is looking up at me as I rotate my brush over my gums.

With my head tilted to the side, I gaze at the sweet face nestled safely in her cocoon and the gleam of joy on the mother's face as she peers at her little miracle.

After spitting the mouthful of toothpaste in the sink, I rinse my teeth and turn off the water. Bending down, I lift the brochure and run a finger over the face of the child. I can't explain why, but lately, I've been thinking a lot about having children.

When I was younger, I knew I wanted a family. I assumed it would happen at the appropriate time, like it seems to happen for everyone else. My personal timeline was on track, too. I went to college to be a nurse practitioner and spent years establishing my career and becoming damn good at providing care to patients at Park Avenue Cardiology. I was married by twenty-five, and I really thought Brock and I were forever. Sure, he traveled a lot, and the time we were together was spent in almost a fantasy, but that was all chalked up in my head as the babymoon years—the time we were getting our travel and crazy nights out of our system before we settled down to have a family. I know that's how Brock felt, too, because we talked about it. A lot.

I walk the brochure into my bedroom and sit on my bed. Inside my end table are photo books. No one knows I've kept them. In fact, Beth and Christian would berate me for even taking them out and placing them on the bed as I am right now.

These are the four sets of memories I've allowed myself to keep after Brock moved out. I know he's a liar and a cad, but there's a part of me that needed to know, still needs to know, that it was _real_.

I open the first book, a photo book I made online for Brock for our first dating anniversary. It's a compilation of photos from our first year together. The picture in the front is a selfie we took the night we met. My hair is short, cut to my chin, and my smile is crazy big as my cheek is smushed against his brawny jaw, thick with a beard he grew during the season yet kept well manicured.

It was April, just after his regular season had ended. He and a few buddies were out on the town, enjoying their off-season, when he approached me and asked what I wanted to drink.

* * *

_"I don't accept drinks from strangers," I replied._

_"Good thing I'm not a stranger." He bent his corded arm on the bar, and leaned into me._

_"Oh, really? Then, who are you?"_

_"Your future husband."_

* * *

I was a goner for Brock Lannister after that.

I flip through the next pages and the memories of that exciting time. Me at his hockey games, dressed in his jersey, and others of us at parties and with friends. There're even a few of us bumming around, watching _Breaking Bad_ on the couch or splashing around during summer fun.

In the next photo book is my favorite picture of us. Beth took it at one of his games. Brock had skated up to the plastic wall atop the board that surrounds the corners of the ice. He placed a hand on the Plexiglas. I did the same on my side. It's not just me looking at him with absolute love and endearment, like he's the most magnificent being on the planet. He's looking at me the same way, too.

I brush a tear that has fallen down my cheek and turn the page to see more awesome memories we shared. When I reach the last page, I turn to the third photo book. It's not our wedding album— _that_ I tossed in a tearful rage—but this one has photos from our first year of marriage. I vividly remember the time because it's when we began talking about our future—namely, when we wanted to start a family. We agreed we wanted two kids but would wait a few years and enjoy this time of just being _us_.

We were a good us. Like this photo of him getting my name tattooed on him. My name is written in Gothic bold letters on his chest, across his heart. Yes, while he lies in bed with other women, he has my name emblazoned on his skin.

I let out a large breath of air and close the book. I don't even open the fourth. Running the pads of my fingers over my eyes, I stretch out the skin of my lids. Then, my hands glide to the sides of my face and down my neck.

For the life of me, I'll never understand why he cheated. I surprised him in his hotel room while he was on the road, but I was the one who got the greatest surprise. Turned out, it wasn't a one-time thing. Sophia was his Canadian girlfriend, traveling to meet him at all his games in the land of maple leaves and honey. They had been hooking up for five years.

My hands shake as the memory surfaces—the moment when I told him not to come home. I was so mad. Mad at him. Mad at myself. I'd had reservations about him before we got married and let the daydream we were living in cloud my reality.

I hired a divorce attorney the next day and cried for days as Christian slept on my couch.

The first day was the worst. I never left my room and only stayed hydrated because Christian was here. He held me a lot that day as I cried into his chest and fell asleep in his arms.

On the second day, he cleaned my entire apartment and boxed up anything that would serve as a painful memory.

On the third day, he forced me to shower and took me out for ice cream. That man knows the way to my heart is with a decent cup of chocolate chip cookie dough.

I close the albums, toss them back in the drawer, and kick it shut with my toe. While they bring up the hurt, they also remind me that there were so many good times. I can't just pretend years of my life didn't exist. That's like saying _I_ never lived.

I twist my torso around and see the brochure on the duvet. I almost forgot why I'd taken those albums out tonight. This trifold piece of paper is a reminder of everything I wanted in life—a family.

Leaning against the headboard, I prop my feet up, open the brochure, and read.

# Chapter Four

The Loeb Boathouse is nestled in Central Park across the lake from Bethesda Fountain. Couples in rowboats are careening about as the sun sets, casting a red-and-orange hue over the trees.

It surprised me a little that Angela would pick the Boathouse to have dinner since it's a tourist magnet, but I'm glad she did. With the enormous trees that cascade over the walkway, the path from Bethesda Fountain to the Boathouse feels like a warm hug. My feet float on the pavement as I breathe in the sweet cherry blossoms and magnolia leaves.

I arrive a few minutes before seven and pull my heels out of my purse, placing them on the ground. I take off my ballet flats and slide my feet into the jewel-encrusted stilettos. I don't get to wear them often, so when the dinner reservations were made, I decided it was time to break out these sexy little toe-dazzlers.

I text Christian to see where he is.

_Wait for me outside_ , __ he texts back.

I'm placing my phone in my purse when the front door of the restaurant opens, and Christian comes outside, wearing a black suit, no tie, and a debonair smile. His emerald eyes turn dark at the sight of me standing here. His gaze skims over my face, taking in the dramatic eye makeup and extra-long lashes, and then settles on my dark red lips. My long blonde hair is curled from a trip to the salon, cascading over the front of my trench coat.

"You're beautiful." He kisses me on the cheek and holds on for a long moment—longer than usual. His nose inhales the scent of my perfume as he gives me a second kiss along my jaw.

"I didn't know you were inside already. I would have come in and had a drink." I motion toward the entrance.

He inhales deeply. "This way is better. I get a second alone with you."

He's such a smooth-talker sometimes; it makes me blush.

"Are you ready to go in?"

"Right this way." He takes my hand, leading me past the wrought iron fence and under the red awning grand entrance.

When we pass through the front door, it's into a bustling restaurant. It's not overly loud, but there's enough of a hum and chorus as people enjoy their dinner and conversation.

Instead of heading toward the bar, where I assumed we'd wait for Angela, he leads me down a short flight of steps into the main dining room that overlooks the lake. We weave in between tables, and as we get closer to the open windows, I see a group of people at an extra-long table, all standing and looking our way.

"Surprise," many of them say, followed by, "Happy birthday!"

I jump back in shock, my heart racing a thousand beats per minute at the realization that this isn't a dinner for Christian and me to meet Angela's boyfriend.

"You're here for me?" My hand is on my chest as I take in my first ever surprise party.

Not expecting to see Brian and Beth along with some of my girlfriends from college and a few of the staff of Park Avenue Cardiology, my eyes well up with emotion.

"Happy birthday, Meadow," Beth says with a squeeze.

"I can't believe you threw me a surprise party!" I hug her back, loving the soft fabric of her suede dress.

She steps back, looking elegant in her chignon. "It was all Christian. He planned this months ago."

I spin around and collide with Christian, my hand landing on his firm chest. I look up at him with an expression of complete admiration. For a man who has an insanely busy schedule and spends his free time reading medical journals, working out, and visiting his parents, he threw me a birthday dinner.

He's looking down at me with a glint in his eye, accepting my thank you with the slight rise of his lips.

"Go say hi to your friends," he says with a hand on my back, motioning me toward my guests.

I make my way around the table, saying hello to college friends, Jen and Marissa, and their husbands. I stop for a moment to catch up with them. Christian comes over with a glass in his palm and places it in mine as I'm listening to stories about their kids. He walks back to the other side of the table, and I move onto the girls from work, who completely surprised me by not spilling the beans on tonight's dinner.

Angela made good on her promise and brought Denny. He definitely has this hipster vibe with his skinny jeans and suspenders, jet-black hair, and the longest handlebar mustache I've ever seen. It looks almost wet as it curls up at the ends.

"Right now, I'm just lying low and working on my music," he says when I ask what he does, realizing Angela never told me.

"What do you play?" I ask.

"The bass. It's just a hobby until I follow my real passion of opening up a bicycle repair shop in Amsterdam. They have over eight hundred thousand bicycles there. That's more bikes than people," he replies before asking the waitress if the bread is gluten-free.

Angela is behind him, smiling at me with a side-eye glance, wanting to know what I think of him. When he lowers his head, I give a thumbs-up even though I've met him for all of thirty seconds.

I walk over to my seat that has been preselected, sandwiching me between Christian and Beth and across from Angela and Denny.

"Hi, Brian," I say to my brother, who is seated next to his wife.

He gives me a nod from his seat, not bothering to stand. "How does it feel to be a year older?"

"I still have another day. Let's not push it," I respond jokingly as I untie the belt of my trench coat. "Who has the boys tonight?"

"Beth's parents," he replies.

"Great party last weekend. Thank you for hosting it."

He lets out a light laugh. "You certainly walked away with your dance card full."

I lean back and wonder if it's just me hearing a tone of sarcasm in his voice. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." He lifts his glass and drinks through the thin red straw.

Christian pops up behind me and rests a hand on my shoulder. "Can I take your coat?"

I unbutton my trench, and Christian slides it off my shoulders, whistling through his teeth. "Nice dress."

I look down at the strapless navy dress I bought at J.Crew years ago. It has a sweetheart neckline and a jacquard print, making it one of those outfits you can dress up or down, depending on where you're going.

As I take my seat, I thank Christian, who is holding my chair, and notice a beautiful woman with short hair and catlike eyes standing right behind him. She has on a latex-looking dress that hugs her body so tight that I can see the definition of her hoo-ha through the thin fabric.

She must know I'm staring because she weaves a hand around Christian and holds it out in front of my eyes. "I'm Natasha."

"Sexy Nurse Natasha!" I shout and then raise a hand over my mouth, realizing I probably shouldn't have said her nickname out loud.

Angela giggles from her seat as Natasha looks at me with a tilted glare. Christian just shakes his head at me like I'm a ten-year-old who just made a fart joke.

_Sorry,_ I mouth.

He lifts his arm up and over Natasha's shoulders, pulling her to his side and properly into my view.

"Natasha, this is my Meadow."

"Hi, Christian's Meadow. I'm Christian's Natasha," she purrs with her oversize glossy lips puckered. It makes me wonder if she has injections, or maybe she uses one of those lip plumpers.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." For some reason, my words come out almost pouty.

"I love your eyelashes," she compliments.

"Thank you. I love your face."

Yes, I just said that, and it seems even a woman like Natasha, who must get flattery by the bucketful, is a little thrown off by my overt admiration.

"Seriously, Meadow?" Brian quips from his seat.

I lift my glass and hold it up to my lips. "What? She looks like a _Sports Illustrated_ model." I take a sip and hug the glass to my chest as Christian pulls Natasha's seat out for her and sits down after she's comfortably in place.

The Loeb Boathouse has great food. I haven't been here in years, but every time, the meal has been enjoyable. Christian went ahead and preordered appetizers of grilled octopus, creamy burrata, and crab cakes for the table. As the waitress lays the dishes in the center of the table, everyone serves themselves.

I place a piece of the octopus on my plate, and Christian rests a lemon wedge next to it because he knows I like to squeeze lemon juice on my seafood.

The pepper shaker is to my left, so I grab it and move it to my right where Christian is looking around the table for the pepper, which I know from years of dining with him.

"I'm a huge fan of your blog!" Marissa is practically falling into her food as she gushes over Beth. "Your thread about the best kitten heel for size ten and above saved my wardrobe!"

Beth thanks her in the most gracious way. The two women talk shoes, and Angela is quick to jump in. Of course, she has to ask about the Yves Saint Laurent boots we adore. Marissa is looking at Beth like she's a rock star, and it's totally warranted.

"Wait! You're _Spikes and the City_?" Natasha asks excitedly.

"What's _Spikes and the City_?" Denny asks.

"Her shoe blog. Cute, right?" Angela explains, and Denny looks confused.

"Beth was a buyer for Nordstrom when she decided to be a stay-at-home mom after our first son was born. After a few years, she found herself bored and started a blog about her first love—shoes," Brian explains in a businesslike manner as he rests a hand on his wife's thigh.

She tilts her head at him with a smile.

Angela turns to Denny and further explains, "It's not just pictures of her pretty heels in her fancy shoe closet—which, by the way, is amazing! She rates the shoes and pairs them with different outfits. She goes in search of complementary styles at lower price points and shares them on her blog and even demos how to cobble your own broken heel."

"You can cobble shoes?" Denny turns to Beth, impressed, but Angela snaps him back to attention.

"This woman is a megastar! It didn't take long for her readership to skyrocket, and designers took notice, asking if they could send her styles. Big luxury brands have been vying for a spot on _Spikes and the City_. The thing that makes her blog so successful is, she buys her own shoes, so she doesn't owe favors, and her opinions are authentic." When Angela's rambling is over, she notices our eyes glued to her.

Beth is the first to speak, "Damn, girl. I should fire my publicist and have you promote me!"

Angela bows her head in mock bashfulness. "Sorry. I just really love your blog—or vlog, I should say. Your videos are awesome. But, on the real, if you want me to work for you, I will give my two weeks notice like this." She makes a poof sound as she explodes her fingers.

"Good to know." Christian, being her boss's son, laughs, and the rest of us follow.

Salads are served, and conversation flows beautifully. As we wait for entrees, I get up and move around to talk to my friends. Christian and Brian get into a heated discussion about the Yankees, and the girls at the hospital gossip with Natasha at the other end of the table.

When dinner arrives, we lean back as servers place everything on the table. I ordered the cedar plank salmon, which looks delicious with golden beets, carrots, and baby kale.

"Do you think these are organically sourced?" Denny asks from his side of the table.

"You must be a farmers market kinda guy," Christian says as he leans over my plate and steals a carrot.

"I get all my produce from a farm stand on Bleeker. You've probably never heard of it," Denny says, followed by, "I make my own Sriracha. Would you like some?" He dips a hand into his satchel hanging from his chair and pulls out a glass jar.

We shake our heads in refusal.

"So, Denny, you said you play the bass. Are you in a band?" I ask, cutting my salmon in half and placing it on Christian's plate.

"My music is my art. I'm not ready for it to be shared with the masses," Denny says as he eyes my hand with a scowl while I also spoon the rest of my carrots onto Christian's plate.

"I heard him play once," Angela chimes in, grabbing on to Denny's arm and looking at him, punch-drunk. "He's fantastic."

"How does a bass player who doesn't play make money while you wait to open your bike shop in Amsterdam?" Brian asks.

If there is one thing Brian doesn't understand, it's how people don't work themselves to the bone and save every dime along the way. He's overly practical that way.

Christian moves a handful of his potatoes to my plate.

"I'm an environmental attorney," Denny replies.

"You'd give up a career in environmental law to fix bikes in Amsterdam?" Brian quips.

"How I earn my money and what I do to feed my soul are two very different things." Denny's Gandhi-like aura is oddly refreshing. He looks back at my plate where Christian is now placing a piece of his beef. "Do you two do that all the time?"

"Do what?" I ask with a forkful of salmon in my mouth.

Denny motions with his knife back and forth between my and Christian's plates. "Share food."

Our plates are now a mishmash of what we originally ordered, divvied up between the two of us.

"He won't eat more than a palm size of meat," I explain with a swallow.

"She hates carrots," he replies before taking a bite off his own fork.

"He always says he doesn't want fish and then steals some anyway."

"Rosemary is her favorite herb, and the potatoes are smothered in them."

Denny's right brow shoots up, and now, I totally get why Angela thinks he's so sexy. "But you're not a couple?"

"Nope," I say. "They are." I thumb over toward Natasha and Christian, who quickly adds, "We're not a couple either. We're just dating."

I can't see Natasha's face, but from Angela's wide-eyed, chin-dropping expression, I think the verdict is that Natasha is not pleased.

"Meadow and I are just friends," Christian clarifies.

Denny looks at us for a beat and then states, "You'd make a cute couple."

I pause mid-bite and glance over at Christian, who is giving me a side-eye, like, _Is this guy for real?_ I shrug my shoulders and take my bite.

Angela chimes in, "I've said the same thing. They won't listen."

"Me, too!" Beth shouts beside me.

I scrunch my brows at her. From further inspection of the empty glass in front of her—her third drink from what I can tell—I conclude she is buzzed.

"Their babies would be gorgeous!" she adds.

"Christian's eyes with Meadow's lips," Angela says to Beth with her own glass in hand.

Beth is extra invigorated. "Christian's thick hair but with Meadow's rich color. It's natural; did you know that?"

"No shit. I always assumed she dyed it." Angela is now staring at my head.

I blink a few times.

"I'd have kids with Meadow," Christian declares.

With two hands placed on the table, I lean back and give him a _what the hell are you talking about_ glare.

He just shrugs and points toward Beth and Angela. "They're right. Our kids would be fucking cute."

Natasha makes an audible squeak. This conversation got awkward and fast.

"Meadow, do you want kids?" my friend Marissa cuts into the conversation, her pink nails under her chin as she leans forward in interest.

Suddenly, four pairs of eyes are on me as Angela, Denny, Marissa, and Beth are staring at me, waiting for an answer.

I lift my water glass, take a gulp, and gently place it on the table. "I do. Actually, I just made an appointment to inquire about freezing my eggs."

Angela's mouth drops, as does Beth's forehead.

Brian's fork falls to his plate with a loud thunk. "You what?"

Christian leans into my side, pulling my attention away from their confused expressions. "When did you make this decision?"

"I haven't made any decisions, but I've spent some time researching the benefits of egg cryopreservation, and I think it could be a good option for me," I explain.

Brian lets out a loud gruff as Beth twists her body toward me.

"You're so young. You can easily meet someone tomorrow," she says.

"I could, but I don't want to rush into being with someone just because I want to start a family. And who knows? Maybe, in a few years, I'll decide to do it on my own. Hell, maybe I'll decide to just say fuck it and do it on my own now."

Angela rests both hands under her chin. "That's so badass."

"I like your friends. They're really weird," Denny says to Angela.

We all laugh. Well, everyone but Brian and Christian.

I ignore the intensity radiating off of Christian and lift my glass with the rest of my friends. Christian leans into me, about to speak, when Natasha clears her throat.

"Can I have a word?" she says to Christian, and he gets up to speak to her, away from the table.

Angela raises a glass in a toast. "To Meadow. May this next year be full of new adventures, good sex, and plenty of whiskey!"

"I'll drink to that!" Beth is next to raise her drink, and I follow suit along with everyone else.

The rest of the dinner goes great. They serve sorbet for dessert. Then, a cake comes out, and the entire restaurant seems to chime in to sing. As I'm about to blow out my candles on the New York–style cheesecake, I gaze at my family and friends and settle an eye right on Christian, who is now standing behind Angela and Denny, holding out his iPhone and taking a video.

I close my eyes and make a wish.

_I wish..._

After dinner, the office girls and my college friends leave, and the rest of us mosey over to the bar for more drinking, laughing, and talking.

"I'm going to go home," I hear Natasha drawl behind me.

Stupidly, I turn in her direction. She looks just as polished as she did three hours ago. I, on the other hand, probably have eyeliner smudge, and my red lipstick is gone.

I'm about to thank her for coming when I notice her fingers walking up Christian's chest.

"You're welcome to join me," she invitingly says to him.

His eyes meet mine over her head, and I quickly look away as Beth struts over.

"Come on." He motions to Natasha and walks her out the front door.

"This was really sweet of him." Beth climbs on a stool beside me. Her cheeks are flush from all the wine she's been drinking.

I've been neatly sipping my drinks all night, careful not to be a drunken mess. "He can be a good guy every once in a while."

"That man loves you."

"Like a sister. And a work wife."

"Fuck that. Brian has never thrown me a surprise party." She nods toward her husband, who is leaning against the wall, thumbing away on his iPhone.

"Brian's not really the surprise kinda guy," I explain.

"Except in the bedroom. Last month, he bought me a swing." She waggles her brows.

"TMI, Beth. That's my brother!" I have to shake the mental image of Brian having kinky sex, but curiosity gets the best of me. "So, when you say swing, you mean, a sex swing, right?"

She nods enthusiastically, swaying to the side. Yes, Beth has definitely had way too much to drink tonight.

I grin into my glass. "How does that work exactly?"

She doesn't hold back her delight to tell all, but she's interrupted when Brian appears between the two of us and places a hand on her back.

"Okay, you. That's enough for tonight."

"Oh, you're no fun." She pouts and leans an arm behind him. From the way he arches forward, I'm pretty sure she just squeezed his ass.

Brian helps her stand up straight and places her coat over her shoulders. "Let's get you back to the hotel."

"Hotel?" I'm impressed and shocked at my brother's splurge.

"We have a room at The Carlyle. See, he can be very surprising." Beth leans into me, bracing her weight on the bar. "Hotel sex is the best."

I shake my head with a laugh and kiss them both good-bye. As they head out, Christian is walking back in. It must be the excitement of the entire evening because my breath hitches at the sight of him—hair tousled and that cool, casual style of the unbuttoned shirt under a dark suit. I watch his broad shoulders and lean figure stroll in, making him look like a cross between a male model and a CEO.

"What's the face for?" he asks as he walks up and rests an elbow on the bar top, angling his body toward me.

"You're back," I breathe.

"Where did you think I went?"

"I thought you left with Sexy Nurse Natasha."

His chuckles deep and rubs a hand over his chiseled jaw. "Will you stop calling her that?"

"She is a nurse." I point my finger in explanation.

He nods in agreement. "That she is."

I lean into him with a low hum. "And she is sexy."

He bends in even further, and his voice drops, like he has a secret to tell me. "So are you, so should I call you Sexy Nurse Meadow?"

"No."

I look away, but he rests his forehead against the side of mine and breathes into my ear, "Let's take a walk."

He helps me with my coat as we say good-bye to Angela and Denny and then head out.

The streetlights provide an amber hue as we stroll the paved pathway around the lake toward the bi-level arcade of Bethesda Terrace. It's one of those places you see in the movies yet can't understand just how gorgeous it is unless you're standing there.

The stone structure comprises both an upper and lower terrace, connected by two grand staircases and a smaller one leading to the fountain. The Romanesque arches overlooking the lake complete the iconic New York scene, one that is both overwhelming and comforting at the same time.

Much like the man walking beside me.

I secure the belt on my trench as the cool evening air rushes in.

Christian has his hands in his pockets, strolling casually, as if he owned the park.

"Thank you for my birthday dinner," I say. "I've never had a surprise party before."

"I'm honored to be your first." He smiles.

When we reach the fountain, I stop and gaze up at the angel with the lily in her hand and listen to the water cascade from the tiers. I turn around and see Christian, his outline in silhouette. His presence holds so much power that it stands out in the shadows.

"Dance with me," he says.

I look around, confused. "Here?"

His steps are steady as he walks up and stops mere inches away. He lifts my hand, and I revel in the feeling of his smooth palm holding mine in a way that's both delicate and protective. His other arm snakes around my waist, and I take a tentative step into him and place my hand on his shoulder.

His fingers play with the thin gold chain of my wishbone necklace. I never take it off, so it's easy to forget I have it on.

"I can't believe you still wear this."

"It's from you. It's my favorite thing in the world."

He elegantly sways to the side, pulling me in with each step. There's no music, yet with each motion, I feel like I'm lulled into the melody. My head falls to his shoulder, and I inhale the fine thread of his suit, mixed with his woodsy scent pouring off his skin.

"Natasha's nice."

His head rests against mine. "Angela invited her. She saw us in Starbucks and assumed I was bringing her. It got awkward, so I just told her to come."

"You should have gone home with her."

He lets out a deep breath. "That relationship has run its course."

I lift my head and appraise him. "Why are you punishing yourself by putting your life on pause?"

He leans back on his heels and looks down at me. "Where did that come from?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Just something that's been on my mind. I've been pondering my life's plan and how far off I am. Made me think of yours and how right on track yours is. I just don't want you to miss out on love. That's all."

"Being a surgeon is the only thing I've ever wanted to be. I always assumed the rest would fall into place." He pauses a moment, his teeth skimming his lower lip as he considers his answer. "Plus, I guess I haven't met the right woman who'll have me."

I nod lightly and place my head back on his shoulder. Our feet move in a familiar box step, yet I can't ever remember dancing with him before.

"Meadow," he murmurs, "you really want to be a mother, don't you?"

I close my eyes and whisper, putting it out into the universe, "More than anything else in the world." He squeezes my hand as I pull him closer. "I had this perfect life planned, and suddenly, it was swept out from under me. That future I envisioned is now a memory of what I hoped it would be. And I'm okay with it, I think. I mean, it is what it is, but I want the same things I did two years ago. Except, now, I have to figure out a new way to make it happen."

"You don't think you'll fall in love again?"

"I want to. That's why I don't want to settle for someone who doesn't make my heart race. I want someone who makes me laugh. Someone who challenges me to be better and misses me when I'm not around. Someone I can snuggle up with on the couch and read at the end of a long day. Who I can cook with and take care of when he's sick—"

His feet halt. "Wait. Your dream is to take care of a man when he's sick?"

I step back and look at him. "Sure. That's the best part of loving someone."

There's a slight flinch in his body. His hand splays on my back, his fingers gripping on to my trench, pulling me in a touch more. Christian raises our hands into his chest and my heart with it. Our bodies are close—closer than they've ever been before. I can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, thumping proudly behind the veil of muscle and masculinity.

"You deserve all that, Meadow. If I can promise you one thing, it's that there is a man who loves you and all your quirks."

I raise a brow. "What are these quirks you speak of?"

His chest rumbles. "You have interesting taste in romance literature and an unhealthy obsession with boy bands from the nineties.

"Fine, I'm quirky."

"You're fucking adorable, and any man would be lucky to have you as his own. You just have to love him as much as he loves you."

I gaze into his eyes and see them looking into mine, falling into the abyss of something that my soul seems to be telling him.

And he's listening with pure intent.

"Of course, he'd have to be handsome and charming and make me laugh," I convey.

"Remember what they say about the perfect man. He doesn't exist," he says as he slowly gives me a spin and then releases my hand.

Losing his warmth is unsettling as I right myself next to him.

"Are you saying you're not the perfect man? Why, Dr. Gallagher, I thought you fancied yourself the perfect catch?"

He grins. "I have my faults. Come, let's get you home, so you can watch _This Is Us_. I know your Saturday nights are reserved for catching up on your shows. It must be killing you not to have your weekly cry."

I hit him in the arm. "It's about the love of a family. You should watch it."

"So is _Braveheart_ , and you refuse to watch that film."

"Why men like a movie about a man who gets castrated is beyond me."

He shakes his head. "Missing the point, as always."

Before we walk away, I take a penny out of my pocket. It's old and tarnished. Most people think a penny is dirty when, really, its brownish color is from oxygen binding with the copper. All you need to make it clean again is a little chemistry. I toss the penny into the fountain.

"What did you wish for?" he asks.

"If I tell you, it won't come true." I bite my lip and walk alongside him to the edge of the park.

Our steps are loud as our voices are quiet. We're two friends traveling in the world's largest park, and yet it feels like our own piece of earth, a place only the two of us inhabit.

When we get to Fifth Avenue, Christian takes out his phone and pulls up his Uber app. I step to the curb and hold up an arm.

"I'll get you an Uber," he offers.

I see a yellow cab up ahead with its vacant lights on. "No, thanks. I'm going classic New York tonight."

I catch the twinkle in his eye as I wave down the cab, and it pulls up to the curb.

Christian walks forward and opens the door for me. I'm stepping off the curb when he says, "Can I go with you?"

I halt on the other side of the open door and look back at him, confused.

"To the doctor," he further explains. "I know you don't need me, but I want to be there. Besides, it's a fascinating field. I'd like to check it out. And I'd like to be with you, if that's okay."

My guarded albeit heavy heart warms at the idea. "Sure. If you have time."

"I'll clear my schedule. Text me the day and time, and I'll make sure I'm there."

"Okay," I say, oddly touched that he wants to go with me. I'm not sure exactly how he might be able to help, but I suppose it would be nice to have another set of ears there in case I miss any important information.

With his hand gripping the top of the door, he leans over and places a soft kiss onto my forehead. "Sweet dreams, Meadow."

My breath shakes a touch. "Good night."

I climb into the cab and close the door, and as the car travels down Fifth Avenue, I can't help but wonder how my life is about to change.

# Chapter Five

"Meadow Duvane?"

I stand from my seat in St. Xavier Fertility Center and walk toward the nurse calling out my name. I glance toward the elevator and then down at my watch, wondering if Christian will be able to make it.

"Right this way," she says.

I'm following her when the elevator at the other end of the waiting room pings, and the doors open.

"Sorry I'm late," Christian says, still in his doctor's attire and adjusting his name badge that has flipped over on his jacket.

I sigh in relief as he walks over and places a hand on my lower back, giving me a smile.

"You made it in time," the nurse says with a smile. I have my own to match.

Today's first appointment is a consultation with Dr. Abbot, one of the best fertility specialists in the city. The nurse escorts us to his office and leaves us alone to wait for the doctor.

We take a seat in the brown leather armchairs on the guest side of the dark wood desk. There's a credenza on the other side, filled with pictures of who I assume to be the doctor's family. The walls are lined with degrees and awards. The one closest to my head is _U.S. News & World Report _Top Doctor of the Year.

It suddenly becomes very real. I'm sitting in a fertility doctor's office, single, with my best friend, about to find out the first steps to having a child.

Needing a distraction, I look to the side, out the window that faces office buildings and directly into the apartments across the way.

"Have you ever seen someone doing something obscene inside their apartment?" I ask Christian, knowing his living room window faces another apartment building.

"All the time." He adjusts his tie as he rests his right leg over his left. His foot is bouncing over his knee. "The people across the way from me practice naked yoga."

"That sounds kinda sexy."

"Have you ever seen someone doing downward dog with their backside in full moon? It's not sexy. At all."

I laugh. While my living room looks over Central Park, the view out my bedroom window isn't quite as interesting as Christian's. "My neighbors are all boring. The most exciting thing they do is watch television."

His brows curve in. "Do you _want_ to see people having sex?"

"No," I answer long and convincingly, which makes Christian smirk. "Stop looking at me like that."

"You're the voyeur. Not me. Maybe I should have bought you a pair of binoculars for your birthday," he teases, causing me to slap him in the arm. He doesn't flinch.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting," Dr. Abbot says as he walks into the room. He shakes my hand and then turns to Christian. "Dr. Gallagher, it's a pleasure to see you in here. I've been reading some of your published reports on valve-in-valve replacement going up through the femoral artery. Impressive stuff."

Christian gives a hearty shake back. "Thank you. I've reviewed your articles documenting the high success rates of vitrification methods for oocyte and embryo cryopreservation."

"Looks like you've been doing your homework for your girlfriend." Dr. Abbot takes his seat.

"We're not together," I say.

"I'm lending support." Christian lays a hand on mine, which is clutching the end of the armrest.

"Well, as long as I have your permission to openly discuss things in front of Dr. Gallagher, we can proceed."

"That's why he's here," I say. My knees shake under my skirt.

Dr. Abbot folds his hands on his lap. "The best candidate for this procedure is an intelligent woman who knows that time matters. The younger the egg, the healthier it is. Thirty-three is an ideal age because your eggs are still healthy. There is a major decline in egg health at thirty-five, which is when a lot of our clients come in. You can do this now, or you can wait, but if this is something you're really considering, I'd suggest sooner rather than later."

"What is the ideal age?" Christian asks Dr. Abbot.

"Between twenty-eight and thirty-four," he answers. "Fertility drops quickly after age thirty-five, but the decision is highly personal, including how many children Meadow wants and how old she'd like to be when she has her last child."

This is followed by statistics and odds. We cover everything from age, health, and demographics, to the overall health of future children. The number of eggs I should harvest to how many will successfully thaw is both fascinating and frightening. Christian is leaning back with rapt attention as he listens intently, absorbing the facts.

"We'll take blood work and start you on the birth control pill. Ultrasounds will follow to get the follicles synchronized. Then, there's a two-week supply of take-home hormone injections. This is where the support can really come into play." He motions toward Christian, who nods, accepting his newfound role of supporter-in-chief. "The egg extraction will take twenty minutes under anesthesia," Dr. Abbot explains.

"Sounds too easy," I say even though I know from years of medical training that this is far more complicated than how it's laid out on paper.

Christian looks at me with a grimace. "It'll take a physical and emotional toll on your body."

I raise my brows and run my hands over my knees and thighs. "If I was afraid of the pain, I wouldn't plan on having children. Not to mention, the emotional toll of raising a human."

Dr. Abbot laughs knowingly at my response.

Then, we discuss cost.

"Ten thousand dollars to harvest the eggs from the ovaries, and that doesn't include the yearly storage fee and the cost of IVF when you're ready to have the baby."

I whistle at the vast amount of money. "And that's hoping the eggs survive."

Dr. Abbot rests his elbows on the table and lays his hands in a praying position. "That brings us to our next conversation. A fertilized egg has a better success rate of thawing than a non-fertilized egg."

"I don't have a willing partner, and if I'm going to go to a sperm bank, I might as well just wait until I'm thirty-five and do artificial insemination," I suggest.

"You could," Dr. Abbot says.

Christian doesn't seem to like this idea. "That won't work. The plan was to freeze her eggs, so she could have a child with her future husband."

"She can freeze many eggs, which _might_ result in an embryo, but freezing an embryo gives you the security of knowing how many are healthy enough to implant and begin development."

I take a deep breath as I glance over the photos on the shelf. There's one in particular that catches my eye. It's of Dr. Abbot surrounded by eight faces, all ranging from toddler years to preteens.

He catches my stare and follows it in the direction toward the picture.

"My grandchildren—Tammy, Sarah, Mila, Joey, Connor, Harper, Jude, and Noah. I know I'm not going senile when I can say all their names in order," he says with a self-deprecating chuckle. "This one"—he points to one of the younger ones—"she is a hell-raiser. Gives her parents a run for their money. Won't listen for anything. She will rule the world someday."

I smile. "I look forward to her being my president."

Dr. Abbot swings back around. His balding head shows age spots. Many people are afraid to use an older doctor. They want someone young and innovative, like Christian. Me? I like a doctor who's been around for a few decades. He knows what works and what doesn't. That's why I know that what he's about to say is going to be monumental.

"We're gonna start slow. We'll run blood work and go from there. Whatever you decide, I promise you this: you will be a mother. It's just a matter of when and how."

There were two system failures at egg storage facilities in Cleveland and San Francisco, leaving hundreds of people to lose their frozen eggs and embryos. Not today, but in the past. Thank you, internet, for the information.

It's ten o'clock at night, and my brain is riddled with thoughts of everything that could go wrong with freezing my eggs. This is why people need to stay off Google... and away from wine.

My cell phone rings, and Christian, in his wet white T-shirt, appears on my phone. My pulse wrestles in my throat.

"What are you doing up?" I ask as a hello.

"I can't sleep. What are you doing?"

"Oh, me? I'm just reading about the demise of my future egg children and drinking my sorrows away in chardonnay," I say with the glass to my lips. "And then there's always the fun of researching potential sperm donors. These profiles are more intense than online dating. Except, if I swipe right, it's a lifelong partnership with someone I'll never meet. If I'm gonna pick some random to be the father of my child, I might as well just walk into a bar, get knocked up, and save ten grand."

"I'm coming over," he states quickly.

I nearly drop my glass. "Really? Okay."

We hang up, and I look down at my outfit—hot-pink bed shorts and a T-shirt with Justin Timberlake with cornrows, circa his NSYNC days, on the front. I hop into my room and throw on a bra because I'm not a savage.

There's a knock at my door sooner than I thought. I open it to a sight I rarely get to see. Christian wearing gray sweatpants and a red Cornell sweatshirt. He's always dressed in suits or, at the least, jeans and a button-down. Getting to see laid-back Dr. Gallagher is a rare occurrence.

"How did you get past the doorman?"

He walks in with a bottle of scotch whiskey in hand and heads straight to the kitchen. "Sal loves me."

"I need to talk to him about letting just anyone up." I close the door and set the lock and chain.

For someone who came over here in a hurry, he seems quite focused in his task.

Christian grabs two highball glasses from the cabinet and places them on the counter. He twists off the cap on the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. "I'm not just anyone. I'm here to help you commiserate properly." He pours two glasses and hands me one. "Chardonnay, _really_?"

"Desperate times called for desperate measures."

I settle back on the couch and pull my knees up to my chest. He walks into the living room and puts his glass on the table, so he has two free hands to pull his sweatshirt over his head. The white T-shirt he has on beneath creeps up, as it's being pulled by the sweatshirt, and I get a peek at his incredible body—a taut stomach with a deep six-pack from his dedicated workout routine, a sprinkling of hair disappearing beneath the band of his sweatpants, and the clear indentation of thick masculinity.

I pop my eyes up from where they inadvertently drifted south. His T-shirt falls back into place as he tosses his sweatshirt on the couch and takes a seat next to me.

I put my glass on the table, stand up, and open a window.

"Hot?" he asks, and my eyes widen.

"Chardonnay," I say as an answer and then settle back on the chenille couch.

Christian has been over at my apartment many times, but this is an out-of-the-ordinary occasion, especially on a weeknight. I think back on what I said earlier on the phone and wonder if I said anything worrisome.

"I'm fine," I state. "You rushing over here is nice but unnecessary. I'm not really drinking away my sorrows."

"I know. I just thought you could use the company." He grabs my computer that's resting on the coffee table with the screen lit up on the webpage I was looking at—the New York CryoBank. "Worse than Tinder, huh?"

"Yeah," I sit up and scrunch my mouth a little. "There are a few viable candidates."

The laptop is now on Christian's thighs. I settle myself up against his side, so I can look at the screen with him.

"So, you're going with embryo freezing?" He looks at me, concerned.

"Just keeping my options open. Besides, it's kinda neat to pick out the future father of my children."

His brows are curved, and his cheekbones are accentuated so severely that it's almost lethal. He blows out a sharp breath. "All right, what are your criteria?"

There's a drop-down box on the side where you can filter down the donors. The first is height. "Five foot ten and up."

He clicks the selection for over six foot tall. "You want a tall mate. Next, eye color."

"Blue," I answer assertively.

He grimaces. "What's wrong with green?"

I blink back at the seriousness of his tone and wonder if he's actually kidding. From his stone-cold look, I know he is not.

"It's the odds of genetics. I have brown eyes, so that gives a fifty-fifty shot of blue or brown. Green eyes aren't as genetically dominant."

"But you could meet someone like me with a recessive gene and have a green- or a blue-eyed child. Our moms have blue eyes, so it could definitely happen."

I scratch my temple and squint at him. "When you choose embryo donation for yourself, you can pick whatever eye color you want. I choose blue."

He grunts and selects green anyway. "Hair color? Brown," he answers for me, and I let him have it. "You really get to choose hair texture?" He runs a hand through his thick mane of dark hair and selects, "Wavy. Education level? Post-graduate." He chooses for me again.

I just sit here and sink into the corner of my deep-set sofa as I let him take over, as he clearly has his own perfect man in mind. When he hits Find, it produces zero search results.

I laugh. "Looks like your perfect man doesn't exist."

"Not surprising." He goes into the search and deselects postgraduate and changes the eye color to also include blue. The screen pops up with thirteen options.

The first is a man named Ace. I assume these are code names as I listen to him read, " _Ace_ _is a creative and talented man with a career as a successful audio engineer. In addition to music, he enjoys stand-up comedy_ —nope." Christian exits out of Ace's bio page and selects another potential donor.

" _Ram considers himself an introvert who prefers to take long walks to think by himself_ ," I read.

Christian closes the window before I can read another word. He goes back to the sections page to choose another candidate.

" _Brooks plans to spend approximately six more years on his education. After he finishes his undergraduate degree, he intends to enroll in medical school with a focus on orthopedic surgery. He has volunteered at a nonprofit primate retreat, working with the animals_." I lean back and sigh. "He's probably donating sperm to pay for school. Click on the extended profile," I say with a pointed finger, directing him to show me more.

Christian clicks on the link. "German, Irish, and French. Played high school football and has visited over thirty countries."

I'm leaning over Christian now, looking at the profile further. "If this were a dating site, this guy would be my next boyfriend. There's a picture. Click on it!"

Christian opens the photo album to baby pictures of a blond-haired boy with deep dimples and the sweetest blue eyes I've ever seen. My ovaries might have just exploded.

He closes the laptop and puts it on the coffee table. He twists his body toward me and doesn't bother sparing me a look of consternation. "That's not what you want."

"It's not?" I question, blinking a few times before coming to my senses and shaking my head at myself. "You're right. I know. It's just... I know this seems like a new concept for you, but I've been silent about my desires to be a mother."

He places a hand on my knee. His touch is tender and warm. "How long have you been thinking about this?"

"Forever," I say honestly. "But it's been on my mind a lot the last three years. When I turned thirty, I started having this longing. Beth said it was my biological clock ticking. It suddenly felt like a reality—the next chapter in the story of my life. I didn't talk about it because I didn't want my mom pressuring me. Then, I got divorced, and I didn't want anyone feeling sorry for me. I already felt like a failure—"

"Marrying an asshole who doesn't know how to treat a woman right isn't your fault." His fingers dig lightly into my skin.

There are so many things I want to say in response to that, but that's a whole other discussion to be had. "I'm not old, but I'm not young. We're both medical professionals, so let's stop playing the game that I have all the time in the world. I have two years to make a serious decision, and I want to be as educated as possible on what my options are."

"That's plenty of time to meet someone—"

"And, if I don't, I will have just wasted two more years."

He lets go of my knee and runs his fingers through his hair. "Meadow, you're gorgeous and smart and sexy as fuck. You're funny and kind, and by God, if you're not married by thirty-five, I might snatch you up myself because any man would be a fucking asshole not to take you as his own."

I grab my untouched whiskey and take a large gulp. As the burn travels into my belly, I try not to act affected by how he just called me funny and kind and smart—oh, and _sexy as fuck_.

"Thank you. That is really kind of you, but there's also the factor of me not wanting to get snatched up just because my ovaries have a sell-by date. That's the point of this. I still want to fall in love." I take another swig of whiskey and make a face at the burn that creeps down my throat and settles in my chest. I loudly place the glass on the coffee table. "It's so frustrating. As a woman, I can do everything on my own. Except get pregnant. I think it's God's way of making sure we don't kill off your species."

"Glad we have a purpose."

I blow out a large breath. "Brooks is looking kinda good right now."

His eyebrows furrow as his teeth graze his lower lip. That chiseled jaw sharpens. His intense eyes darken as they stare into space and then shoot back at me with a sudden burst of internal knowledge, like whatever he was just thinking about brought on the greatest idea in history.

"Have a baby with me," he declares.

I stutter, "What?"

"Let's have a baby." It's not a question. It's a proclamation.

I try to blink away my shock, cataloging his very serious face. For a man who is the smartest person I've ever met, his ludicrous idea has me questioning his sanity.

My head tilts to the side as my eyes narrow. "Me and you?"

"Yes."

I lean back to gain some space from him. And some oxygen. My lungs suddenly feel heavy, and the air in the room is thick.

"Christian, I want a baby, but I'm not gonna have one with just anyone."

He motions toward the laptop. "Yeah, you kinda are."

My jaw drops as I try not to be hurt by the greatest insult he's ever thrown at me.

He holds up his hands and shakes his head. "I'm saying that wrong. What I mean is, you're considering using a sperm donor, which is someone you don't know. Hell, earlier, you joked about just walking into a bar and getting knocked up. I know you weren't serious—well, I _think_ you weren't serious—but the fact is, I'd rather be the father of your child than you choosing a stranger you know nothing about."

I point toward Brooks's profile. "I know he likes to paddleboard and enjoys spicy Mexican food." It's a joke made for a very uncomfortable conversation. Christian doesn't seem to think I'm funny. "Okay, fine. Yes, if I'm thirty-five and still single, then I will let you knock me up."

"Good," he says. His shoulders relax as he leans forward, resting an elbow on his knee.

I want to throw my hands up and scream at him. I wasn't being serious. "No, Christian, that won't work."

His head swivels toward me, a look of utter confusion on his face.

"You'll be thirty-five, too. You'd be a father. You don't want to have kids until you're at least forty."

"That's not entirely true."

I stare and wait for him to explain. He looks like he's working something out in his head as he takes a moment to answer.

"I want kids. I just don't want to settle down. I always thought the two were mutually exclusive." He grabs my hands, holding on to them as he explains, "Meadow, sitting in Dr. Abbot's office made me realize all the things I don't want. I don't want you to go through the shots and hormones and to have surgery. I don't want you to pick some random guy to father your child. I don't want you to spend an astronomical amount of money to have a baby. I don't want you to have to go through IVF on the off chance your pregnancy might be successful. And, most of all, I don't want you to have a baby on your own. I know you're strong, and if anyone can do it, you can. But you shouldn't have to because you have me."

Thicker. The air is even thicker, and I'm having a hard time breathing. "Christian—"

"I know what I said about starting a family, but part of me hates putting my life on hold. At this rate, I'll be fifty by the time my kid is old enough to toss a ball with me in the backyard. If we do this, we can have everything we've ever wanted. The baby can live here with you, and I'll be available every free moment I have. If you want a weekend away, I'm here, and if you need anything, I'm here."

His face is laced with excitement and fear. I don't know if he realizes what he's saying.

I try to bring him back down to reality. "You'd be a father."

"I know. And I'll help financially."

"I don't want your money."

He grabs my chin and pulls it toward him. His hard stare looks into mine with absolute conviction. "Do you honestly think I wouldn't provide for my flesh and blood? It might not be ideal or the picture-perfect life you have in mind, but haven't you already learned that life doesn't go exactly as planned? Meadow, you're the best friend I've ever had. If I were to choose anyone to be the mother of my child, it would be you."

My heart is beating a million beats per minute. My stomach is doing flips. His words are exciting and unconventional and making me seriously consider his proposal. _Can I really have a baby with my best friend?_

"This is a lot. Today has been a lot." I try to distance myself from him, but he's still holding on to my face and my hand, and part of me likes it.

"You're right." His breathing comes out harsh yet controlled.

He lowers his hands from me, and I instantly feel the loss of their searing heat.

There's an odd energy in the air. It's still sizzling, yet the silence we're giving each other is stifling.

Christian rubs his thighs a few times before getting up and grabbing his sweatshirt. "I'm gonna head home."

I look at his full glass on the table. "You didn't touch your drink."

He glances at it, sober. "I know." He unhooks the chain from the door and unlocks the dead bolt. He opens the door and then turns around. "Did I scare you?"

I laugh. My hand flies to my mouth as I nod my head and stand up. "A little. Having a baby together is a crazy idea. Are you now realizing that it's insane?"

I'm laughing. He's not.

"It's crazy, but I want it. With you." He puffs out his chest with an inhale he doesn't seem to let go. "Just promise me you'll think about it."

He closes the door, and I'm left standing in my living room, wondering what the hell just happened. I take his drink and down it, feeling the simmer shoot through my entire body.

Facing the window, I look out into my park and at the lights from the section of Bethesda Terrace and the fountain in which I've laid my hopes and dreams.

And I'm wondering why the idea of having Christian's baby doesn't scare me in the least. The only thing I'm scared of is him regretting it.

# Chapter Six

It's been a week since Christian made his proclamation in my living room. _His insemination proclamation._ Since then, I've had a follow-up with Dr. Abbot for a physical, sonogram, and to go over my blood work. We've discussed the options, but I haven't made any decisions.

While I haven't seen or heard from Christian, as he's been in the hospital all week with back-to-back surgeries—not that I'm keeping tabs—I wonder if he's been avoiding me. It's understandable. I knew that, once he got a good night's sleep, he'd realize he'd made a colossal mistake, and now, he's most certainly praying that I didn't take him seriously.

"Good news!" Angela chimes from the front desk. Her black scrubs are as dark as her almond-shaped eyes. "I slept over at Denny's house last night, and he didn't send my toothbrush packing."

"One small step for man, one giant leap for your relationship." I hand her a small stack of folders.

"I'm going to up the ante. Should I go with deodorant or shampoo?" She taps a pen to her lips.

"I'd slow down at the toothbrush for a minute. You don't want to push your luck."

"True." Her shoulders sag as she falls back into her swivel chair. "Plus, I'd probably have to switch to a hemp body wash, and my skin is just not ready for the oil."

Her words catch me off guard. "Hemp?"

"Yeah, Denny only believes in cannabidiol products."

"Interesting," I say slowly.

The front door opens, and Christian walks through. His navy-blue suit makes him look leaner, and those greens are covered by sunglasses. A slow smile builds on his face as he walks straight to the back where his office is.

_Okay, that wasn't so bad._

The next few hours pass in a whirlwind. I manage to assist Thomas and keep him from running too far off schedule, which he does easily since he likes to talk with his patients. I usually grab a coffee at two o'clock, but today, I sneak into the kitchen at one thirty. While I like to eat my lunch at the break table, I run out and grab a quick bite from the deli on the corner. And, when the last patient leaves, I change into my spin gear, grab my bag, and make my way outside.

Bethesda Fountain is packed, as it's a seasonably high-eighty-degree day. Kids on skateboards are doing tricks around the promenade. Lovers are canoodling on benches. Families are looking at the ducks in the lake. Commuters, like me, are just passing through.

With the sun setting on my back, I look at the angel atop the statue dipping her toe into the water, just enough to connect her to the earth, and follow the water as it falls to where four cherubs play at the center level. They represent temperance, purity, health, and peace. For me, they bring tranquility.

"They say, if you sit here long enough, you can see the entire world pass by," I hear Christian's baritone behind me.

I turn around to the devil in a blue suit. He's no longer wearing his sunglasses, so his look of accusation is clear.

"You're avoiding me," he says coolly.

"I was swamped today."

"You left without saying good-bye."

I point to my leggings. "I'm on my way to spin class."

He lifts a brow. "You seem like you're in a rush."

I try to think of a witty comeback. When nothing comes to mind, I close my eyes and lower my head in surrender.

He laughs. It's deep and smooth, like warm honey. He takes a seat on the edge of the fountain and looks up at me with a smirk.

Conceding, I follow and sit beside him. Digging into my purse, I clutch on to a shiny penny and toss it over my shoulder.

He holds out his hand. "You have another one of those?"

I rummage through my purse and find a nickel.

"Ah, five times more powerful," he says, taking it from my hand. He holds it up to his forehead, closes his eyes, and looks to be praying. With a kiss to the coin, he tosses it into the water.

"What did you wish for?" I ask, assuming he won't answer.

"That my favorite girl will stop running away from me."

I look the other way. There's a group of children playing with bubbles that a street performer has set up. The bubbles are coming from a machine that is running on a continuous loop, making it rain soap. Christian touches a finger to my shoulder. I turn to see the residue of the bubble he popped.

I look up into his emerald-green eyes, so honest and understanding. The guards I didn't realize I had up fall. "I'm not avoiding you."

He doesn't look convinced.

I roll my eyes and smile despite myself. "It's not like you've been ringing my phone or beating down my door either."

"I was giving you space to think. I assumed you'd at least share a coffee with me today. Maybe even let me treat you to sushi on your break."

"I had a busy day," I defend because, now, I'm feeling shitty after purposefully being everywhere he was not today.

His knees spread open, as his hands are folded in between, and he looks out into the crowd. "There's a gala at The Plaza. It's a fundraiser for St. Xavier Children's Cancer and Blood Center."

An image of Christian in a tux appears in my mind. It's possibly my most favorite look on him, all chic and sophisticated. It makes him look like James Bond. Mix that with the venue of the nineteenth-century landmark hotel, and it sounds like an amazing night.

"That'll be fun. Natasha will look killer," I say, laying my elbows onto the ledge of the fountain behind me and leaning back.

"I'm not taking Natasha."

My attention is fixed on my sneakers. "Who's the lucky lady?"

"I'm asking you. Thought you'd enjoy it since you love _Eloise at The Plaza_ so much. I'll even reserve the pink, pink, pink hotel room for you."

I had an Eloise book in my bag when we first met and was a fan until I was too old to admit. "That's really sweet of you to think of me."

"So, you'll go?" His brows rise hopefully.

"Probably not." I look back down at my feet. "You should ask one of your girls. That's a night for romance. You should take a girl you want to dance with and drink champagne and eat caviar. At the end of the night, you can take her back to your room and peel the designer gown off her body and make love while you're still drunk on bubbly. I'll be a backup, but ask someone else first."

I turn my attention back toward him, and he's peculiarly looking at me.

"That is quite the night you have outlined in your head. I like the... what did you say?" His dimple rises with the quirk of his mouth. " _Peeling off the dress_ part."

I dip my fingers in the water and lightly splash him.

He holds his hands up and laughs as he says, "Fine. I'll ask someone else, though I'd feel creepy, doing all that in a little girl's pink hotel suite. And who said I needed a backup?"

I grin. "I forgot. You have some many women; you have backups for your backups."

"How did our conversation veer this way?"

"You stalked me," I say pointedly and with humor in my voice.

"That's right. Because you were avoiding me."

Again, I lie, "I wasn't avoiding you!"

The sound of a wailing child interrupts our conversation. It's not that a child crying should cause any reason for us to stop what we're doing, but this cry differs from the usual. It's sharp and loud and sent out like a siren.

There's a little girl lying on the ground on the edge of the crowd of children playing with the bubbles. Her body is on its side as she holds her head up off the pavement. The angelic face of the girl is bright red, and as my eyes travel down her body, I can see her tiny arm is bent into an unnatural position. Her mother rushes to her side.

I stand up and jog over to the mother and child. I lay my hand on the mother's shoulder, and then my eyes take in the break. "It looks like a fracture."

The little girl is screaming. The pain is evident as the tears stream down her face.

The mother appears frantic. Her hands shake as her head spins around the crowded plaza. "I need an ambulance!"

Christian kneels and assesses the injury. His gaze meets mine, and we both know it's a bad break that needs immediate treatment. He places a hand under the little girl's head and helps her sit up.

"What are you doing?" the woman shrieks in concern.

"He's a doctor," I say to the woman. "And I'm a nurse."

The little girl's sobs are loud as snot bubbles appear in her nose. I reach into my bag and offer her mom a tissue to clean her daughter's face.

The mother's tone has now switched from concern at the two strangers who appeared out of nowhere to total focus on her child. "It's okay, Annabelle. We're gonna get you to the hospital." She pulls out her cell phone.

Christian looks down at Annabelle. Her tight blonde ringlets stick to her face from a mixture of sweat and tears.

"It's faster if we walk," he says. His hand travels down Annabelle's back and under her knees.

"Walk?" the mother asks, mortified.

His stern gaze hits the woman and morphs into a serious one. "If you call an ambulance, I can't guarantee it'll take you to St. Xavier where I can get her seen by the best orthopedics. If you go somewhere else, there's no telling how long you'll sit in the ER."

The mother's eyes are roaming back and forth between Christian and Annabelle, probably wondering if she should let this strange man walk with her child in his arms. "I'll get a Lyft."

"Terrace Drive is closed to traffic, so we're gonna have to walk her out of the park anyway. St. Xavier is under a half-mile away. I'll carry her."

"Are you sure?" Her face is laced with confusion, and right now, I think she's mostly confused as to why this strange man is being so kind.

Christian smiles at her, calmly and assuredly, and then looks down at the little girl. "Annabelle, I'm Dr. Christian Gallagher, and I'm going to pick you up and carry you to the hospital."

The daughter's words are muffled. "It's gonna hurt."

"Only a little, but then it will feel like magic. Do you believe in magic?"

Annabelle nods as she inhales shakily. "Like Elsa in _Frozen_?"

He nods down at her. "Do you see that big building over there?" He nudges his shoulder toward a skyscraper that is a few blocks away from St. Xavier but in the general direction. "I happen to be friends with Elsa, and she has all of her ice magic up in that tower with her. I'm going to walk you over there, where her magical doctors will make you feel better. But we can't do that without me carrying you."

"What about a sled?" she asks with staggered breaths from trying not to cry. "Kristoff has a sled."

"A sled?" He grimaces and looks at me, baffled. I'm about to tell the little girl that there are no sleds in the park when I see Christian's face illuminate. His brows rise as if he's come up with the most amazing idea. "I have a sled, but I still have to carry you to it. Are you ready?"

Her little eyes close, and she bites down. He looks up at the mother, silently asking permission. When she nods her approval, he lifts the little girl into his arms, and I secure her broken arm into a comfortable yet stable position on her stomach.

In his tailored suit of designer threads and Ferragamo shoes, Dr. Christian Gallagher carries a little girl he's never met toward Terrace Drive. The mother and I are walking behind him while his steps are quick and determined.

A horse is clopping down the road when Christian whistles the buggy over. The driver seems perplexed but stops anyway. There's a couple in the carriage, tourists enjoying a scenic tour of the park.

"We need a ride to St. Xavier," Christian shouts to the driver.

"I have a fare." The driver points to the couple seated on the velvet bench of his carriage.

"I'll pay you a hundred dollars," Christian calls out.

The driver looks surprised. Happy but surprised. "What about them?" He thumbs to the couple.

"Same," Christian offers the couple.

The man of the couple looks down at Christian, insulted by his offer. "This ride cost a hundred and twenty bucks."

Christian's head sways side to side. "So, you lose twenty bucks and know you did the right thing by helping an injured little girl get to the hospital." I know him enough to know how hard it was to hold back the profanity he wanted to lace through that sentence.

The man and woman look at each other and shrug their shoulders before climbing down. I dip my hand in Christian's pocket, take out his wallet, and pay the couple.

Annabelle's mother protests about the money he is handing over, but he insists she get in the carriage. Behind her, Christian climbs in with Annabelle. I step back onto the blacktop after making sure Annabelle's injury is still in a stable position.

"Call ahead and have them page the pediatric orthopedist and put in an order for full scans," Christian says as he's wrapping Annabelle in an afghan despite it being a warm day. "Tell them she's my niece."

"Is this Kristoff's sleigh?" Annabelle peeks up from the orange-and-olive blanket.

Christian looks down at her. "Even better. This is Dr. Gallagher's superhero sleigh of adventure."

I watch as the horse and buggy clip-clops down the road, followed by a swarm of bikers and joggers. Then, I take out my cell phone and make the call to the hospital.

It's so Christian to distract me when I need it most. Not that he was planning on a little girl breaking her arm, but it got me away from pondering his proposition. Although he never did say if he still wanted to go through with it.

He was right; I was avoiding him and for good reason. Deep down, I want to do this with him. I'm just scared. I don't know how to tell him how I feel, so I do what I do best. I ignore my feelings.

I make myself dinner and then take a hot bath. It's nearly nine o'clock by the time my phone rings, Christian's face illuminating my screen.

"How's Dr. Superhero doing?"

He laughs, not expecting my joke as a greeting. "Just hung up my cape about twenty minutes ago. I got a page, so I went up to the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit. A pre-op isn't going so well."

"Everything okay?" I curl my legs up to my chest and lay the book I was reading facedown on my kneecaps.

"The patient is rapidly filling up with fluid. We had to tap the lung and move the surgery date. I went back to the ER on my way out. Annabelle is sporting a light-green cast. She had me sign it," he says with a rather proud tone.

"Look at you. A superhero and a celebrity in one day." I play with the edges of the pages, picking at the corners. "You cashing in for the night?"

"I'm reading about transcatheter mitral-valve replacement in a patient with myelofibrosis. You?"

I lift my book and scan the cover of a half-naked man with abs like speed bumps. "Same."

His laugh radiates through the phone like a bedtime story. "Reading one of your tawdry novels, aren't you? Make sure you take notes. The love scenes in those are pretty racy."

"Like you've ever read one of my romances."

"Remember when I spent a week on your couch? I might have flipped open a page or two while you locked yourself in your room."

I smile to myself as my head falls back on the headboard. That's Christian. The man who came here and nursed me back to sanity after my marriage fell apart. Just like the man who carried a little girl and paid an absurd amount of money to get her to the hospital in the magical fashion she desired.

He's a caregiver. A provider. A man who makes magic with his hands, healing you from the inside out, and ensures your safe recovery. It's why he became a heart surgeon—to heal. Christian Gallagher can take a life on the brink of destruction and make it whole again.

He made _me_ whole again.

"You're awfully quiet," he whispers. "What are you thinking about?"

"That was a great thing you did today," I sweetly tell him. "You even went back to check on her."

"Would it make me a total sap if I said I went to the gift shop and got her a bubble wand and a candy bar?"

I laugh out loud and smash my lips together with a grin. "No. It makes you, _you_."

The line goes silent again. I want to ask him a million things. I want to explain a hundred more. What exactly, I'm not sure, so I say nothing. The pages of my book are bending permanently.

He eventually fills the silence. "Have you thought about it?"

"Thought about what?" I grip my book and close my eyes, half-praying he says what I want him to say and half-dreading it.

"You and me?"

I gasp in relief. "A little."

"I gave you time to think this week because I also needed time to think. I made a promise that night I wasn't sure I could keep. And do you know what happened?"

"What?" I ask, my heart stalling in my chest, the air not wanting to escape.

"I couldn't stop thinking about it. Playing around every scenario. Do you want to hear them?"

"Sure."

"You and I have the baby, but I have this fellowship at the hospital, and we're on a breakthrough on a new procedure. I'm traveling a lot—sometimes to learn new techniques and test out equipment, other times to teach. I can't be there for you like I promised, and I become one of those dads who's in the kid's life, but he doesn't really know who I am because my work always comes first," he declares, and I can picture him running his hand through his hair. "Or you meet someone in a year from now, and he's perfect for you, but he hates the fact that you have a baby with some other guy, so you cut me out of your life to make him happy."

I've played many scenarios out in my head, but I didn't think of that one because it's ridiculous. "Christian, I'd never let a man cut you out of my life. Baby or no baby. I never have and never will."

"You kind of did. I wasn't in your life the way I should have been when you were with Brock."

"You were in San Francisco."

"He was jealous of me," he states, and he's right. "And we were just friends. Now, we'd have a child. Men fall in love with women with children every day. But having a best friend who also fathered your kid? It would intimidate most men."

Most men are already intimidated by Christian. I mean, he's a gorgeous, successful heart surgeon with an awesome personality. He's hard to compete with.

He continues, "You could resent me because, even though you were content to do this on your own, you did it with me, and I'm not around like you need me. I won't be your husband or your boyfriend. Hell, I'm a second-rate dad who gets the kid every other weekend and gives you money for school. I'll be like a bad ex-husband you can't stand."

I'm taken aback by these terrible scenarios he's declaring. "I might have thought about the negatives, but the demise of our friendship because I'm pushing you away wasn't one," I say.

"What is the worst thing you can think of? If you and I had a baby?" he asks, his voice riddled with interest.

"The worst?" I pull at a thread on the comforter. "That you wake up one day and realize too late that this was a bad idea. If you were to regret me, I could probably recover. To regret our child..."

He laughs lightly. I don't know why he's laughing, but he is, so I let it go. "Can I tell you something else?"

"We're being all kinds of honest tonight, so why not add one more?"

"With all the bad scenarios that came into my head, there is one I can't shake." He takes a brief pause, and the air ignites in anticipation as I listen for him to speak. When he does, he whispers, "We have a baby, and it's amazing. You want to be a mother, Meadow, and I want to give that to you. I know it won't be easy. We'll get a nanny for the first year. I was talking to the nurses in the heart center, and they said the daycare at the hospital is superb and that we could visit him during our breaks. Our moms will be over the moon. We can even do joint holidays since we're practically family already. Vacations, too. And this person we create will be fucking awesome because he's ours. You'll teach him how to play tennis and listen to cheesy pop music, and I'll have a little Yankees fan and show him how to drive. I know, someday, you'll meet someone, but we'll worry about that down the road. I know this is really fucking crazy, but let's do it. I want to do this with you."

A tear runs down my cheek. It's hot from the burning desire of everything he's offering. I grip my stomach and quell the nerves radiating through my entire body. "I'm confused. So damn confused. How do you throw down every reason we shouldn't do something and then follow it up with that?"

"Because life isn't perfect, and neither are we."

"Our baby might not be. Have you thought of that? What if we have a child who you can't throw a ball with in the yard or groom to be a doctor just like you?" I feel terrible mentioning it, but it's the truth. Not all babies are born healthy.

He doesn't take more than a second to answer. "That doesn't make a difference. No matter who my son or daughter is, I'd love him or her more than anything else in this world."

And, just like that, I shatter.

The air explodes.

That stifling heaviness I've been feeling for a week dissipates, and in its place is the purest oxygen I've ever inhaled. I take a deep, shaky breath and let my chest rise and fall as it fills up with the idea.

It's a bad idea. _A terrible idea_. There are so many things that could go wrong, but there is one I can't deny that would be right. Christian will be an amazing father. No matter who this child grows to be, he or she will be perfect because it's a part of him.

"If we do this now, our kid will be six by the time you make director. Do you think you'll still have time to throw that ball around?" I ask.

He laughs. It's bright and beautiful, just like the man it's coming out of. "I can fit in a few curveballs after work."

I smash my lips as I bury my head into my knees and then declare, "Let's do this."

"Really? Say it again."

I lift my head up from where it was buried in my book and say, "Let's do this!"

"You mean it?" His tone radiates surprise and elation.

"Yes? Yes! Oh my God, this is crazy, but yes. Let's do this." I run my hand over my ponytail and pause in realization. "Wait, how are we doing this?"

He chuckles. "Do I need to explain how babies are made?"

"Kinda. I mean, are we doing this with Dr. Abbot, or do you want to..." I'm so lame; I can't just come out and ask.

"Let's save the ten grand and have fun while we try to make a baby."

Heart? Racing like a freight train.

Brain? Swizzled like a Twizzler.

Nerves? Running rampant, straight down to my core.

"Seriously?" I know I shouldn't sound so surprised, but, "So, we should just have sex?"

"Yes."

I try to ignore how my body tingles with anticipation of being naked... with Christian. _I need wine. The cheap kind._

"It could take a while. Getting pregnant, I mean. Not the sex. I'm sure you will take an ample amount of time. I mean... never mind."

That soft chuckle pours through the phone again, and it does nothing to soothe my nerves. "Then, it takes a few tries. How about this? We give it a go the old-fashioned way for six months, and if it doesn't work, then it wasn't meant to be."

I rub my eyes and then bury my head in my hand. "This won't be awkward at all." My sarcastic tone is used with amusement. "Okay, so when and where shall we meet?"

"Come again?"

"To have sex. Where are we doing this?"

"Excuse me, Miss Duvane, but I am not some cheap slut you can just schedule sex with," he states, half-joking, half-serious. "I have rules."

My head pops up. "Rules?"

"One, no planning sex around your ovulation calendar. That causes stress, and stress can lead to infertility."

I nod my head like a soldier. "Yes, sir. I'll leave the thermometer at home. What else?"

"No sex with anyone else while we do this. We don't want a Maury Povich situation."

"Same goes for you. No sex with other women while we're creating a life. You might want to clear that social calendar."

"Already clear. That brings me to my final rule." He takes a beat before speaking his last amendment. It's probably only a second, but it feels like an eternity as I wait for the final stipulation to our baby-making plan. "Three dates."

I curve a brow and drop my knees. My book falls to the floor. "Huh?"

"I won't hop into bed with you until you go on three dates with me." He's dead serious.

"Christian, that's ridiculous. We've known each other for twenty-three years."

"That eager to get in my pants?" he teases.

I'm thankful he can't see me blush because he would have a field day with my reaction.

"No!" I shout and reel it back in. "It seems like a waste of time and money to go out on formal dates."

"I want to do it right. Usually, I take a woman out before becoming intimate. You're no different. In fact, you're even more special, so, please, do me the honor and have dinner with me tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow?" I blanch at how soon he wants to start on these dates, which will ultimately lead to sex.

_Sex. With Christian._

"Yes. A meal with just you and me," he explains. "I'll pick you up at eight."

"I can meet you—"

"It's a date. I'll pick you up," he states forcefully.

I look down at the floor and my book that has landed cover side up. The hunky hero with a sexy torso is looking back at me. It's reminiscent of Christian's abs, which I snuck a peek at the other night. Ones I will surely touch when we... _oh, wow._ I haven't touched another man since Brock. Maybe three dates is a good segue into getting my anxious mind used to the fact that this is really happening.

"Okay. Tomorrow at eight. What should I wear?"

"What do you usually wear on a date?"

"I don't know. I haven't been on a first date in nine years."

I can hear his breath against the phone as he smiles on the other end. "Wear the black dress you wore to your parents' anniversary party."

That dress is form-fitted with spaghetti straps and a low hemline. It's also pretty fancy, so I assume we're going somewhere nice.

"Okay. I will be waiting at eight. Have a good night." I'm suddenly eager to end this phone call.

"Meadow," he calls out before I can hang up. "Sweet dreams."

"Good night, Christian."

I drop the phone on my duvet and let out the largest breath I didn't realize I had been holding. I guess there's one upside to this. I'm now so frazzled over the expectation of having sex with Christian that I'm not stressing over having his baby.

# Chapter Seven

If you think knowing what to wear on a date would make getting ready easier, you are wrong.

Staring at my underwear drawer, I'm looking at the selection before me. I have G-strings, thongs, boy shorts, classic briefs, high waist with tummy control, and Spanx.

In the past, I wasn't a sex-on-the-first-date kinda girl, yet I always wore a little something sexy just in case.

This is... different.

While Christian said he wants three dates, it's unnerving to know that, without question, there will be sex.

_Oh dear._

"Tonight is only date one. That means, tonight calls for these," I say to myself as I select the practical panties with the high waist for tummy control. They're not the ugliest, but they aren't my sexy-time lingerie. I grab my best strapless bra and secure it on.

My indecisiveness didn't start here. It began in the shower where I hemmed and hawed to myself, deciding how much personal grooming to do. I settled on doing the works.

In the bathroom, I grab my deodorant and then apply perfume to my neck. Looking inside my panties, I give it a whirl and apply a little spritz _down there_.

"Holy mother of—" I scream at the burning that is taking place over my freshly shaven hoo-ha. I'm dancing around my bathroom, airing out the sting of fragrance that is now making my skin turn red. "Well, that settles any concern about letting things go too far tonight." One funky-looking razor burn is enough to keep the legs closed.

When the pain has simmered down, I take a breath and look in the mirror over the sink. I tie my hair in a towel atop my head, and my skin is dewy from the bath. I have dark circles under my eyes from not sleeping well last night. How could I?

Christian will be here in forty-five minutes, and I'm a ball of nerves. We've been friends for years, but we've never dined alone like this.

With friends? Yes.

With family? Countless times.

Alone over a romantic dinner for two? Never.

I'm not counting a sushi roll over lunch or eating it in the office break room or even sharing a blanket at a family picnic as having an intimate meal together. We always have coworkers or family around to join us. Tonight will be the first time we'll be on a date.

I try to block my mind from running rampant by curling my hair, using my big-barrel brush to form loose curls because I know that's how he likes it. And, when I do my makeup, I keep it subtle, except for dramatic lashes because that's how _I_ like it.

I slide my dress on and step into a pair of heels, taking one last look at myself in the mirror.

"What are you so nervous about? It's just Christian."

_Just Christian._ I feel like I'm lying.

The man is beautiful. He gives me butterflies just with his damn grin. There, I admit it. I've always found him impossibly sexy, but it's never been like that for us. We've never stepped out of the friend zone.

Actually, we're still in the friend zone. We're not stepping into anything. We're just—

_Buzz. Buzz._

The telltale buzzing sound of Salvatore calling from the lobby has me answering my intercom. "Hello?"

"Good evening, Miss Duvane. Dr. Christian Gallagher is in the lobby," Salvatore announces.

I scrunch my face in confusion. "You can send him up like you usually do."

He clears his throat. "He's requested I announce him, as I would any of your dates."

I lean toward the wall with my hand still on the intercom. "I don't have dates, Salvatore."

He speaks low into the intercom, "A lady never tells a man her personal business. Best to keep him guessing, is what my wife always says."

I smile. "I'll be right down."

The elevator ride feels like it's slower than usual as I descend from the fourteenth floor. My clutch is snug in my hands as I tap my fingers on the gold jewels on the front.

Looking at my reflection in the steel doors, I see an attractive woman with curls running over her nearly bare shoulders and a heart-shaped face with a straight nose that's accented with big brown eyes. I push my shoulders back into a confident stance, taking a deep breath in and holding my chin high. My lightly glossed lips are set in a pout. I look like a duck, and it makes me giggle at myself. If there's one thing I've learned, it's to never take myself too seriously. A good laugh is enough to make me realize that everything will work out.

The doors open, and I step out into the lobby and straight toward the man waiting. As he stands in the middle of the room, his head is down as he adjusts his watch.

He's wearing dark jeans with a navy-blue V-neck sweater over a button-down with the collar open at the top. A gray blazer and black shoes complete his ensemble, making him look like he came straight out of a _GQ_ catalog. But it's not the clothes. No, it's not the clothes that have me walking toward him with a staggered step.

It's the eyes.

He looks up in slow motion, and those piercing emerald-green eyes are gazing at me hard, taking in every inch of me. From my toes peeking out of my jewel-encrusted heels to up my legs, up to my knees where the silk of my dress rests against my skin. His eyes rake over my hips and up the curve of my waist and my full breasts, stopping at my clavicle for just a second before settling on my mouth.

It makes me stare at his lips and how they're parted, looking soft on that hard jaw that is squared out like granite.

"I've always loved you in that dress," he says as he pulls me in for a hug. His lips graze my cheek and give a second kiss to my jaw.

I shiver. "You look handsome yourself."

He places a hand on my arm and runs it over the gooseflesh that's appeared on my skin. "You're freezing."

"I forgot my jacket," I say despite how warm I feel. I turn toward the elevator.

"Here, take mine." He slides his off and wraps it around my shoulders.

I revel in the soft fabric and woodsy scent of him.

"Is that better?"

"Much," I breathe.

Christian places a knuckle under my chin and lowers his eyes to mine. I hesitate as I move my own from the marble floor of the lobby and up into the swirl of his eyes.

"There's no reason to be nervous," he whispers. "It's just me. Your Christian."

I let out a shaky laugh. "You're right. We're just two friends having a simple dinner."

He pulls my chin closer, his lips close to my own. "I hate to break it to you, but we've passed simple. Tonight, I'm not here as a friend. I'm here as a man taking a beautiful woman out to dinner."

If I were another type of woman, I'd believe this was more than a means to an end. But I'm me, and he's him. The fairy tale will be fun for a few dates, but I'll keep myself checked into reality. Lord knows, I've lost myself to whimsy before.

"Come on, Casanova. Take me and this dress out to dinner." I grab his hand and pull him out of the lobby where he has a driver waiting.

I slide into the SUV and look out the window as it travels down Central Park West, not asking questions until we get to the Brooklyn Bridge, and then I look over at Christian in confusion. His elbow is resting on the door with a finger tracing his lips. He doesn't respond to my curiosity.

The SUV exits toward the waterfront. Nestled under the stone pillars of the Brooklyn Bridge is a restaurant, The River Café, seated on an old barge. From here, the city across the East River looks as magnificent as it does on television—all darkly silhouetted skyscrapers illuminated with golden lights, enhanced by the reddish pink of the setting sun. Forget wine and dine. The view is enough to make you want to go home and make love.

"Breaking out the big guns," I mutter, taking his hand as he escorts me outside of the car and into the landmark restaurant I've always wanted to dine at.

The maître d' escorts us to a table by the window, and I look out at the Manhattan skyline mirrored in the harbor, reflecting in its still wake as the moon casts a glow from the cloudless evening.

I take in the candles flickering against the crisp white tablecloth, basking a warm light on my dinner companion. "Is this where you take all your women?"

"My parents' wedding was here thirty-nine years ago. We've come as a family a few times."

The Gallaghers were married in September, a month that is the perfect mix of warm and cool here in New York. I can picture the windows open as the wedding guests laughed and danced. The restaurant is high class yet casual at the same time.

"You should take more dates here. It makes an impression."

He grins. "Taking a woman to the place my parents were married could leave her with the wrong impression."

"Good thing you're not worried about giving me the wrong impression." My voice deepens with my joke.

"I couldn't imagine taking you anywhere else for our first date."

I'm blushing. You can't feel yourself blushing, but there's a warming on my skin, and if that isn't radiating a blush, then I don't what is. I clear my throat and straighten my posture, attempting to seem cool.

"Okay, lay it on me. What's next on the Christian Gallagher plan of woo?"

"Woo?" He raises a brow. "I don't woo."

"You should woo. You're fantastic without even trying."

"It's good to know that, if I were trying, you'd have no idea."

"Oh, I know there's a plan. Dr. Gallagher has too methodical of a mind not to plan his entire date down to the final walk to the door. So, tell me, what's your move?"

He shakes his head and looks up at me through dark lashes. I'm drumming my fingers on the table, waiting for an answer.

His grin lets me know I've won. "If you must know, I have the waiter come over with the finest cabernet and two glasses."

"That is so cliché."

"I know," he admits, just as the waiter walks over to the table with a bottle in his hand. This bottle, however, is not a cabernet or a wine of any type. It's a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. "That's why I've upped my game for you."

The waiter places two glasses filled with ice on the table and pours the scotch into each. When he's gone, Christian lifts a glass to cheers. I can't help my own lopsided smile as I clink.

Instead of ordering entrees, we settle on eating every appetizer on the menu, having them served three dishes at a time so that we can savor each one and talk. A pianist plays in the background, yet I can't hear the lyrics to the song, only the laughter coming out of Christian's mouth as he entertains me with stories I've never heard about his time in San Francisco and how he loved to eat at this pub in the Noe Valley because it reminded him of his grandmother's cooking.

"There was this woman named Nora who would come and sit with me and bring a basket of potato-and-cheddar biscuits. I swear, sometimes, I wake up from dreaming about them; they were so good."

"Dreaming about another woman's biscuits?"

"If you had them, you would, too. She was the chef there and taught me how to make her beef brisket and sweet potato stew. I'll make it for you sometime."

I squint an eye and scrunch my mouth. "I didn't know you cooked."

"I don't, but it doesn't mean I can't. I just have no one to cook for."

We talk about travel—where we've been and where we want to go. Me, Fiji. Him, to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. Two wildly different locations but equally desirable.

We talk work but not the mundane. I fill him in on some of my interesting cases, and he tells me about his most recent time in the operating room. It's hard to miss how his eyes light up when he's talking about the human heart and repairing it from the inside out.

We order dessert—a tiramisu to share. When it's served, Christian slides his hand onto the table, palm up. I wonder if this is part of his dating repertoire. If I take his hand, then the relationship will be entering the next phase—the more intimate phase.

I stare at his palm. It looks warm and inviting. How easy it would be to slide mine onto his and let his thumb run along the inside—

"Meadow, is that you?"

My thoughts are interrupted by Frank Romano, otherwise known as Bachelor Number One from my birthday ambush. He walks up to the edge of our table, looking shocked at the sight of us here.

"Christian Gallagher! What are the odds of seeing you two here tonight?"

"Slim," Christian answers with a genuine smile.

Standing behind Frank is a little redhead wearing a fifties-style dress with cherries on it.

Frank pulls her into his side. "We were just about to sit down, and I looked over here and couldn't believe my eyes. Vicki, these are my friends from high school."

"Nice to meet you," the girl nestled into the crook of his arm says with no evidence of her being offended by his cologne, which is making my nose tickle.

"Vicki and I have been talkin' online for a few weeks and finally met. Romantic place here, ya know. What's up with you two? Are you..." Frank motions with his head back and forth between me and Christian. His mouth is turned down in that way Italians do when they're asking you a question that is rather personal.

"We're just enjoying dinner," I answer matter-of-factly.

I don't miss the way Christian pulls his hand back toward him.

"That's too bad," Frank says and then turns to Vicki. "These two beautiful people are the only ones on the planet who don't think they should be together. In high school, we were waiting for them to date, but they were always with other people."

"You seem like a lovely couple," Vicki drawls.

"We're not a couple," I answer, pushing the air in between me and Christian away, as if distancing myself from him. "Just two friends enjoying some fine Italian cuisine. We like to share food. And scotch. And look at pretty views. But definitely not a couple." I nod for good measure and then swallow down how much I feel like a fool right now. Not for being with Christian. For pretending I'm _not_ with Christian.

Frank and Vicki are looking at me with blank stares and wrinkly foreheads.

"You two though make a great couple," I add. "We're taking up too much of your time. Enjoy your first date. May it be the first of many." I raise my glass in salute and then take a swig. It's a big swig because I'm now coughing.

"It's nice seeing you." Christian nods to them. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Vicki."

Frank is petting his stomach as he looks at me with a furrowed brow. Vicki gives a closed-mouth smile as she steps out of Frank's arm and wraps her elbow with his. They walk away toward the opposite side of the room.

As soon as they are clear of our table, I lean back and feel the relief of having them far away. When I look at Christian, his gaze is focused on the waiter as he calls him over.

"The couple who was just here—the gentleman with dark hair and the woman with cherries on her dress—send a bottle of champagne to their table and add it to my bill."

The waiter nods at the request and scurries off, leaving just me and Christian—and his very serious stare. The stare isn't accompanied by words. No, it's more powerful than that. It's like laser beams being tossed like daggers into my chest as he sits in silence, patient and pining.

I have the undeniable feeling that I hurt his feelings. It's confirmed when he finally speaks.

"We've been friends for a long time, and that's the first time I've ever felt like it embarrasses you to be with me."

"I panicked. It was childish." I let out an apologetic breath. "I'm sorry."

He tightens his jaw, the muscle protruding through the skin. "If we're gonna do this, everyone will know we have been more than friends—at least for a night."

"It's just that this—what's happening between us—is big. I don't want the entire world to know. Not yet."

"You haven't told anyone?" he asks with a raised brow.

"No," I answer.

He nods in understanding.

"You?"

With a shake of his head, he replies, "Not yet." He's looking down at his hands. They're intertwined with his thumbs running circles around the other. It's an odd pose for the usual confident man.

I lay my fingers against the back of his hand and rub gently. His hands turn toward mine. Sliding my palms against his, I feel the smooth skin of a man who saves people for a living. They're strong hands, large and holding my tiny ones like I'm the most precious thing in the world. I massage lazy circles along the lifeline, my heart beating through the vein in my thumb, pulsating into his.

He looks up at me, his golden skin looking ethereal in the candlelight. I bite my lip and inhale shakily. His smile is one of understanding, as are the soft features of his gaze.

"You ready to go?" he asks.

I look down at the uneaten dessert. "Yeah."

He pays the bill, and I wave to Frank and his date as we exit. We get into the SUV, and I'm surprised when it drives less than a mile away and pulls over onto the side of the road. The driver opens Christian's door and hands him a bag as he steps out. He holds his hand out, and I take it, wondering why we are now standing at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge.

"Care to go for a walk?" he asks.

I look back at the bridge and the cars driving in and out of Manhattan. Then, I look down at my shoes. "I didn't dress for a walk."

Christian reaches into the bag and pulls out a pair of sneakers, a perfect size nine.

"How did you get those?"

"I have my ways." He kneels down on the ground and lifts my foot, gliding my shoe off, placing my toes into one sneaker, and lacing it up. He does the same with the second. My heels are placed in the bag and handed to the driver, who brings them back in the car. When Christian rises, he takes his gray sports coat and drapes it over my shoulders, as he did earlier.

We walk.

The pedestrian path is in the center of the bridge with the inbound and outbound traffic lanes on both sides of us. I've never walked the Brooklyn Bridge, and now that I'm doing it, I find it equally exhilarating and frightening.

"Is it strange for me to say, this is not what I expected?" I say, looking down to the roadway beside us.

"Are you scared?" he asks, not surprised by the reaction.

"No. Yes. There's just a lot going on. And I'm not a huge fan of heights." I'm walking in the center of the wooden pathway. One plank squeaks when my foot puts weight on it. I react with my own squeak and a body jolt into Christian's side. "Okay, I am terrified of heights."

It's hard to relax up here. On television, the walk is peaceful, romantic even. In real life, it's loud. Between the wind and the quick-moving cars below, I can barely hear myself think, let alone temper my erratic heart.

He laughs and puts a hand around my shoulders, pulling me in. "You're missing the whole experience."

"Well, we're high. Really high. If I look down, I can see the traffic lanes, and the river is..." My hand clenches on to his sweater.

"Don't look down."

I look up at the top of the one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old bridge and instantly regret it. "Do you think those cables will snap and send us flying to our deaths?"

He laughs and kisses my head. Not my forehead, but my actual head, like I'm a child. Releasing me, he walks over to a bench and steps up onto it. He holds out his hand, asking me to join him.

I step back and curl my arms around my body. "Hell no."

The bench is propped up against the rail that looks down to the lanes of cars driving out of Manhattan.

"Do you trust me?" he asks, his eyes wide and tempting.

I feel my feet move slightly, and I wonder if the bridge actually swayed.

He lets out an exasperated breath. "Meadow, get yourself up here."

Like an insolent child, I follow his order, taking his hand in mine as I climb up onto the bench. He wraps his hands on my waist as I wobble, getting my footing.

Our bodies are facing one another as my hands grip on to his elbows. He places his forehead against mine, and my breathing comes out in shallow pants.

"It's all about focus. Look down, and you reveal your fears. Look up, and you overthink your obstacles. The trick is to look forward," he says, spinning me in his arms so that my back is to his and I'm facing the city.

I gasp at the sight. Downtown Manhattan is lit up in bright white lights against the black sky. The tall buildings look to be emerging out of the Hudson River, bold against its glass-like quality in the night. From this vantage point, so much closer than we were at the restaurant, the buildings are large, overpowering, and breathtaking—a postcard of the city most wait their entire lives to visit once. And here I am, living in it. Basking in it.

"It's beautiful," I breathe.

"Sometimes, you need to look out of your comfort zone to find your peace."

Now that my eyes are open to the gorgeous view, I don't notice the cars below me, as I did before. I couldn't care less about the height, and I'm eager to walk on those wooden planks to get closer to the city.

Christian wraps his arms around my waist, and I still. We've danced. He's held my hand. He's even held me before while I cried. But _this_? This feels more intimate than anything we've shared.

_What do I do now? Lay my head on his shoulder? Grab on to his hands and hold them there?_

Instead, I laugh. My stomach rolls in as I toss into a giggle fit.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

"I don't know what to do with my hands." I turn around and face him.

His arms loosen on my waist as the line between his brows deepens. "Place them around my neck."

I do just that, and it feels like we're dancing.

I look back up into his eyes, glassy from the night air and tower lights. "I don't know how to be intimate with you," I confess.

He lowers his chin. "Why do you think I want three dates?"

"So, it's not just me?"

"We've always been attracted to each other. You can't pretend that's not true. And we've done flirty well over the years. We've just never crossed this threshold."

"It feels natural, and yet—"

"This is all new to me, too," he says, and I let out a breath as he rests his forehead against mine.

As awkward and even scary as this situation might seem at times, it's nice to know I'm going through it with someone I trust immensely. Just being in his arms calms me in a way no one else can.

Especially when he speaks in his soothing hum, "I don't know what happens next, but I'm not ashamed. You shouldn't care what everyone else thinks. I don't. All I care about is you. Don't look down toward your fears or up into your own worst enemy."

I frown, wondering who he's talking about.

He taps my temple. "You get lost in your own thoughts. Stop listening to that little voice up there. All your answers, your dreams, your desires can be seen if you look straight."

I'm looking straight. Straight into him. Into his soul, into his heart, and into the very person I'm giving my dreams to.

I close my eyes for a moment to gather my wits. It's here, in the dark, with the breeze in my hair and the smell of the harbor and Christian's warm hands holding me tight, that I inhale the greatest breath I've taken in weeks and let out the stifling fear I've been holding on to.

"I was thirteen and had a massive crush on you," I say. I'm not sure why I'm telling him this. It just feels like something I need to get off my chest. "It was the year we all went to Six Flags on a class trip. You were dating Sally Romano, and I knew that you would kiss her on the Great American Scream Machine, so I told you—"

"That she had herpes," he finishes my sentence.

I squeeze my eyes tighter, embarrassment coating my cheeks. "You didn't kiss her because of that, and I followed you around, hoping that you would want to kiss me."

"You went on every roller coaster with me that day."

"I did." I nod. "And, if I'm being totally honest, I absolutely, positively hate roller coasters."

"No, you don't," he says with a tinge of humor in his voice.

With my eyes closed, I lift my chin in confirmation. "That day was the first and last time I ever went to an amusement park. I never told you because then you'd know that, when I was thirteen, I wanted nothing more than for you to kiss me."

"You wanted to kiss me? When we were in middle school?"

"Desperately," I admit.

"Meadow," he breathes, but I don't answer.

I raise my brows at him, waiting for him to continue. He doesn't say a word. He does something better.

He leans down and kisses my cheek.

It's chaste, except for the way his lips linger longer than usual and then glide down to the space just below my ear, making me shiver.

His hands grip me tighter, pulling me into him, his hard body up against mine. My breasts tingle with need as they brush up against his chest, and my core rages like wildfire.

That kiss is followed by a series of light, open-mouthed kisses down the side of my neck, making me mold into him in a pile of goo, and back up to that sweet spot of my jaw.

My eyes are closed, and my lips are parted as he releases me. He didn't even touch my lips, and that was, without a doubt, the best first kiss to end all first kisses.

When I open them, it's to a satisfied Christian.

"I'm not ashamed, Meadow. I don't care if you scream it from the rooftops that we're going to have a baby." He brushes my hair that is being blown about by the wind and pins it to the sides of my head with his hands. "I don't think it'll feel real for you unless you tell someone, so here's what I propose. We each tell one person. Are you okay with that?"

I nod. It's hard not to when he makes everything sound like the best idea in the world. "You're incredible, you know that?"

"No. That would be you." He takes my hands and holds them in between us.

I chuckle into the wind. "Smooth."

"Tonight has been the best date I have ever been on. And I once took a woman to Aspen."

"On a date?" I ask, my eyes wide in disbelief. "How did I not know this?"

He steps down from the bench, his hands still holding on to mine. "You don't know _everything_ about me. She was a masseuse from Greenwich, and I had a forum to attend. It made for a relaxing weekend."

I step down and fall against his chest. "Looks like you have stories to tell."

He laughs as he brings my hands to his lips and kisses the inside of my palms. While the action is intimate, it feels right. "It now feels wrong to tell my tales of past relationships with you."

I stop and pull him back toward me, making sure he understands fully. "Christian, I don't ever want you to stop telling me your stories. I love knowing everything about you."

He grins. "Then, I'll never stop."

We continue our walk. When we reach the end of the span, I turn around to walk back toward Brooklyn where we were dropped off, but he pulls me back and points toward our SUV idling on a far corner of Park Row in front of City Hall.

"You think of everything, don't you?" I tease as we cross the street.

"You have no idea." He holds the door open for me, and I sit inside, moving over so that he can climb in and not have to get in from the street side.

When he takes his seat, he reaches again for my hand. I lay my head on the seat back and look at our conjoined hands, tracing small circles on the skin with the other. He looks back at me with those emerald eyes, and I find myself mesmerized. Not only has he promised to fulfill my ultimate dream, but he's also taking care to do it in the most loving way. Tonight, although unnecessary, was perfect.

We pull up to my building, and he's instantly out his door and around to mine. I step out and feel those butterflies from earlier dance as he walks me up to my building's door. He said he wanted three dates until we slept with each other, but he's said nothing about kissing, and after what he did earlier with my neck, I can only imagine what his French kisses will be like.

My heart speeds up, and my body sings with desire. I try to stifle its song, but I can't. The melody is simmering low in my belly.

I stop at my front door and look up into his handsome face. "Would you like to come up?"

"No, I have to be at the hospital in the morning." He leans forward and I gasp, my breath halting as he lays a hand on my hip and leans in ever so slowly. "Is it crazy to say, I can't wait for our second date?"

"What happens on the second date?" I say with a swallow.

"Our first kiss," he breathes.

My body is a mix of anticipation and disappointment as he places the sweetest peck on the corner of my mouth. It's barely a whisper. A soft, hot whisper that makes my body scream in anticipation.

My lashes flutter as he steps away and backs up toward the car. "You surprise me, Christian Gallagher."

He smiles. "Is that a good thing?"

"Oh, yeah. It's definitely a good thing."

He opens the back door of the car and stands there as Salvatore welcomes me into the lobby, and he waits as I call the elevator and eventually get in. Even as I enter and the doors close, Christian is still standing there, waiting and watching.

Now, in the safe space of the elevator, I place my hand to the spot where his lips just kissed me. It wasn't even a real kiss, yet it did more to ignite my body than any kiss I'd ever had in my life.

# Chapter Eight

"That is a really bad idea."

I pick up a pair of topaz heels and grimace at the price tag. I place them back on the shelf. "You're right. Nine hundred dollars is ridiculous for a pair of shoes."

Beth and I are shopping at Bloomingdale's on my lunch break. According to her, blue is the _in_ color this year, and she is on a mission for a hot summer sandal.

"I'm not talking about the shoes. I'm talking about you and Christian having a baby together." She points a Vince Camuto wedge at me, waving it in the air.

I grab the shoe from her and give it an appreciative once-over. "These are gorgeous!" One look at the price tag on the bottom has me handing it back to her and turning to continue my perusal of the luxury shoe section.

Beth is quick on my heel—pun intended. "Meadow, you and Christian having a baby together is a recipe for disaster."

I do a one-eighty and look her dead in the pale blue eye. "Do you think we'd be bad parents?"

"Bad parents?" she mutters. Then, she closes her eyes and shakes her head a few times, her blonde tresses whipping her in the cheeks. "No. You'd make great parents."

When Christian and I agreed to each tell one person about our plans, I immediately thought of Beth. Now, I'm wondering if she was the right person to tell.

"Then, what's so wrong with it?"

She drops her shoe-filled hands with an exasperated sigh. "Nothing. Everything. Have you even discussed how complicated this will be?"

"We've discussed it, and we've both decided that the time is right," I explain, watching her perfectly lined eyes roll.

"That's it? You decide you want to have a baby, and _poof_ , you have one with the first man who says he'll give it to you?"

I can feel my jaw hitting the marble floor. "I'm going to try to not be wildly insulted by that comment."

When Beth texted that she would be in the city and asked to meet up, I jumped at the invitation. While I take my breaks in the office, I was looking forward to talking to her in person.

I've been keeping this colossal secret to myself for over a week, pondering every outcome and biting my thumbnail as I scour the internet and medical journals on anything that discusses the psychology of two friends having a baby of convenience. Turns out, there's not much out there.

I was hoping Beth could give sage motherly/sisterly/best-friendly input, and knowing she'd have concerns, I tried being nonchalant in my delivery of the news. I'm now realizing she must think I'm being a two-bit ditz.

"That's not what I meant... entirely." She puts the shoes on the shelf and walks up to where I'm standing. Her features soften as she sets a hand on my shoulder and speaks in a low tone, "Listen, I'm all for doing what you want with your body, but admit this is crazy."

I fall back with an exaggerated sigh and hit the back of my head against the shelf. "It is. It's insane. I've talked myself out of it and then back into it a hundred times already. I know it worries you for all the right reasons, but I promise we have thought this through. It's happening."

"How exactly is this happening?"

"The conventional way," I say.

Her pale blue eyes bug out of her head. "You don't understand how this is going to get complicated?" she says in a whisper-yell.

"It's foolish to go through a medical procedure when we can just... you know..."

"You probably won't get pregnant on the first try." She crosses her arms in front of her cashmere-clad body.

"I'm a nurse. I'm well aware," I deadpan.

"So, it could be months. Years."

There's a line forming on her porcelain forehead. I would bring it up, but she's already upset, and I decide not to aggravate her more.

"We're giving it a six-month trial." I push off the shelf and walk through the shoe section again.

"A six-month trial?" Beth scurries up behind me as I approach a display table of Badgley Mischka.

I lift a wedge sandal to distract her. Her pupils dilate the way they do when she sees something extra pretty. She's staring at the crystals lining the T-strap on the front of the shoe when her focus narrows and shifts back to me.

"You're having sex for six months and then what? If you're not pregnant, you just go back to how things were before?"

I squint my eyes at her, hating how her question is laced with insinuation. For the record, I don't hate her. Just her question. Because I can't answer it.

"It's not like we're bored and we want to spice things up. Christian and I have five degrees between the two of us. We've weighed the pros and cons, and yes, the list of cons is long, but we're doing it."

Beth's lip quirks to the side. " _Doing it_."

"Beth," I warn.

She places the shoe back on the table and tucks a stray hair behind her ear. Her eyes fall from ceiling to floor as she inquires, "Have you?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but no, we haven't." I point at her.

She points a finger back. "Since you're letting me in on this big secret of yours, it kind of is my business." She drops her finger and walks past me, running a hand along a very sexy black stiletto. "When are you planning to try?"

"He wants to go on some dates first before we hop in bed."

She raises a brow. "Dates?"

"Yes."

Her casual demeanor drops, and her eyes are back to doing that bugged-out thing. If it wasn't for her Botox, I'd think she'd form a wrinkle.

"And you don't see how this will get complicated? What happens if one of you falls for the other, and your heart gets broken? Things can get messy. This is a child you're talking about."

"No one is falling in love," I assure her, although I'm not entirely sure if I'm assuring her or myself. "Yes, we will be bound in a more emotional way, but that's part of creating a life. One we have agreed to bring into this world. I don't even know why I'm getting ahead of myself. I might not be able to get pregnant at all."

"You have to go into this as if you will."

I hold my attention on a pair of baby-blue stilettos, but my mind wanders somewhere else—to a place where walls are lined in that exact shade of blue, and there's a whitewashed crib on the far wall. Inside it is a baby who smells of powder and coos when I peer at him.

I drop the aloof facade and get real with my sister. "I want it, Beth. There are some women who are destined to be mothers, and I'm one of them. It's not because I think it's what I should do. I know, without a doubt, it's what I was meant for."

"Oh, Meadow, I want you to be a mom, too. It's the most fulfilling thing in the entire world. It's also the most nerve-racking, gray-hair-inducing, need-a-glass-of-wine-at-the-end-of-the-day experience, but it's awesome. You'll be a fantastic mom. I just want to make sure you're not rushing into this."

"Rushing? I feel like I've been waiting forever. As for me and Christian, don't worry. We're not rushing into anything. There are still two more dates."

She pauses by the loafers and skims the leather of one with her pointer finger. "About these dates," she pries with a sly grin and an inquisitive gleam in her eye.

"The first was dinner. Nothing crazy. I don't know where the next will be. And, no, we haven't even kissed, so don't ask."

"But there will be sex?" she asks.

"Yes. That's kind of the point."

She's quiet. Her eyes roam the display, but they don't focus on anything as she lets out a hum, letting me know she has something she wants to discuss but doesn't know how to ask it.

I cross my arms and tilt my head with a smile. "What?"

Her cheeks pink. "You have to admit, you've always wondered what he's like in bed."

"Not once."

"Liar! Remember that cookout I had a few years ago when he was doing P90X?"

I bite my lip, and hold back a groan.

Christian was over for a visit to Beth and Brian's house, and we were all rewarded with him in his shirtless glory. Those abs I love to admire were at their most prime with an accompanied V—the glorious indentations on men that run along their outer abdominal muscles and disappear into their bathing suit.

"You have to tell me if he still has those speed bumps," she demands.

"He does," I say too quickly and then wave off her slack-jawed expression with a dismissive hand. "The Gallaghers had a pool party last summer. You missed it because of Dylan's baseball game."

"Fucking baseball. Makes me miss all the abs." She pouts, and I make a face.

"Don't fantasize about Christian. It's weird."

"I can't now that he's your baby daddy."

I make another face. "Don't call him that either."

"What do you want me to call him? The sperm donor?" She's being pithy, but I get it. This is the type of thing people will say when they find out.

"Just call him Christian." I hold up the blue sandals she had her eyes on since we first walked in here. "And buy these?"

She nods, and we walk toward the register.

We're in line for a hot minute before she asks her next inappropriate question. "Are you going to play naughty nurse and doctor in bed?"

"For the love of—"

She waves a hand, as if fanning herself. "Doctor! Oh, doctor! I'm burning up. I think I'm coming down with something. Shall I take my pants off because I need a physical?"

I push my hand into her face that has now gotten ridiculously close to my ear and shake my head. "I don't even want to know what you do behind closed doors."

"Let me tell you about this swing—"

"You told me," I cut that conversation short.

Without a few drinks, I'm even more disinterested in hearing about the bedroom swing my straitlaced brother bought for them. It's quite comical because, looking at Beth with her short-sleeved sweater and capri pants, she's the picture of prim and proper. She's silly with me, but most people don't get a true read on her inner workings. She's like a vault—keeping everything secret from the outside world, only showing what she wants to be seen. It's why she's always been my sounding board. And, for this life event, my one __ person. I'm glad I told her my secret. Christian was right. I feel better.

Beth pays for her shoes, and we're walking out of the store when I stop before heading in our respective directions.

"Hey, listen," I start, and she turns, sensing the seriousness of what I'm about to say.

Her eyes soften as she looks at me with her full attention, letting me know she will hear me out.

"I told you about this because I'm nervous, and I wanted to tell my sister. Don't tell anyone. Brian will hate the idea, and my parents will ask a million questions. I already know they're going to try to make us get married before the baby comes. _If_ there's a baby. It's just easier if you keep this a secret."

She smiles as she pulls me into a hug. "Absolutely. I'm here for you. Whatever you decide, I support you. It's your body and your life. I'd never try to stand in the way of that."

"Thanks." I step back.

"If I ask questions, it's because I care about you. I'm kind of excited you and Christian are doing this. Like I said before, your babies will be gorgeous." She waggles her brows and swings an arm around my shoulders. "Can I offer a piece of advice?"

"Can I stop you?"

She shakes her head and talks as we walk out of the store, "Even if you get pregnant on the first try, I'd lie and ride it out to the six months."

"Beth!" I scold.

"No-strings sex with Christian Gallagher for six months? Girl, it's the least he can do for the lifetime of hard work you will endure, raising his child."

"I have to get back to work."

We're on the curb as she hails a cab. "I'm gonna hit up Chelsea and see what I can find down there. I'm on the hunt for a ballet flat for all hems."

"When you find it, let me know." I wave her good-bye before making my way back to the office.

Now that I've told Beth about my and Christian's plan, it feels a little more real. It's no longer this idea but a reality. The other night, I told myself I would be so frazzled over the idea of me and Christian _creating_ a baby that I wouldn't stress over actually having a baby. I must have been doing it as a defense mechanism because, now, a warmth rushes through my belly at the possibility.

_I'm going to be a mom._

_If you get pregnant, Meadow._

_Yes, I know. It might not happen, but at the same time... it could._

I pause at the children's boutique. The store is lined with soft pinks and blues. The mannequins are dressed in layettes and bonnets. A swell of tears fills my eyes as I think of what it will be like to hold my baby for the first time.

_Will it be a boy? Maybe a girl. Will it be as Angela and Beth predicted at my birthday dinner—green eyes and full lips with hair so dark that it's almost black? Or perhaps it'll have blue eyes, as Christian said. A tall child with wavy hair and his dimples._

Next door is a frozen yogurt shop. A group of preteens comes out with their school uniforms rolled up to show too much thigh for their age, and their faces are painted with more makeup than I was allowed to wear as a kid. One gives me a snarl, and I laugh, remembering myself at that age. I was kind of a dork and totally into books and theater, but I'm sure I gave my parents attitude for merely existing. We all think we know everything when we're the most lost than we will be for the rest of our lives.

An overwhelming feeling takes over me.

I want that, too. I want the snarky teenager who thinks they're better than me. A determined soul who I will butt heads with, only to allow them to come into their own. I want the sweet and the sour, the tantrums and the tears. I know it will be hard, but I'm ready.

I need to rein in my daydreams until it happens. So many things might change. Christian could change his mind. I might, which I highly doubt. And, like I've been saying to myself as a mantra, it might not happen because I can't.

"Hey, Angela," I say as I walk into Park Avenue Cardiology.

"Your mom's in Dr. G's office," she states hurriedly as I walk past her desk.

"I didn't know she was coming in today."

"She wasn't on the calendar. Apparently, she called him on his cell phone, and he told her to come in immediately."

Nothing about that sentence sits right with me. "What happened?"

"I don't know, but your next two patients are here early, and we're backed up."

"Get them into exam rooms six and nine. I'll be there in a few to triage." My feet are speeding down the hallway toward the exam rooms.

My mom is exiting one with Christian's father behind her. He has her chart in his hand.

"What happened?" I ask, doing my own Gail Duvane–like evaluation of my mother, using my eyes and intuition.

Upon initial observation, she looks fine. Her skin color is good, as are the whites of her eyes. She doesn't appear to be losing weight or look faint. Her hair is sprayed in a perfect style, and she's wearing a maroon pantsuit with shoulder pads.

"Meadow, darling, what's wrong?" she asks as if her being here for an emergency visit is nothing to be alarmed about.

"Angela said you came in for an emergency appointment."

She dismissively waves me off with a smile. "It's nothing. I was feeling flutters, so Thomas said to come in."

I raise a brow and then move my know-it-all stare to Thomas. "From New Jersey?"

He's standing behind my mother, looking like the spitting image of his son, only thirty years older and shy of about three inches. He knows he can't keep my mother's medical records a secret from me, no matter how many HIPAA laws there are in this world.

"Your mother is in atrial fibrillation."

She already had open-heart surgery ten years ago to replace her leaking mitral valve. Knowing my mother has an aging replacement valve with a now-chaotic and irregularly beating heart does not sit well with me. Heart palpitations and shortness of breath when you have a replacement valve could be signs of its deterioration.

My mom fiddles with the strap of her bag. "Look at her. Her mind is thinking of all the things that could be going wrong," she says, playing off the visit as if it were nothing more than a checkup.

I take the file from Thomas and scan it. "Your valve is leaking again. Your heart can't stand to skip beats. It's working overtime already. Have you two discussed cardioversion?"

Thomas gives a reassuring nod. "We scheduled one for next week to see if we can shock the heart back into rhythm."

"Great. We can do it at St. Xavier," I say, hugging the file to my chest.

"What are we doing at St. Xavier?" Christian appears behind me and places a hand on my shoulder as his chest presses up against my back. "Hello, Mrs. Duvane."

"Hello, honey." She leans forward to give him a kiss on the cheek. Both cheeks. Sometimes, she takes her French heritage a little too far. She's only been to Paris once. "How are you?"

"Doing great. Are you here for an appointment?" Christian asks, seeming just as confused to see my mother standing in the hallway as I am.

"Gail is in AFib. We're doing a cardioversion next week," Thomas explains to his son.

Christian takes the stethoscope from around his neck and places it on his ears. He raises his brows to ask my mother permission to listen to her heart. Begrudgingly, she unbuttons the top button of her blouse to let Christian have a listen.

"Have you gotten a look at the valve?" he asks his dad as he focuses on the beats coming through the stethoscope.

"I'll get a better look when we do the procedure," he replies, raising his white brows at my mom.

Clearly, they 're passing judgment between the two of them about their overly concerned children.

"I want the visuals from the procedure." Christian's words are determined. He takes the stethoscope off his ears and snakes it back around his neck.

"How lucky am I to have the Gallagher men looking after this old heart of mine?" she says charmingly. "Oh, how I wish you two were attracted to each other. Meadow, why don't you meet a nice man like Christian to settle down with?" She turns toward Thomas and speaks to him like I'm not even here, "Athletes make terrible husbands."

That is my cue to leave. "I have patients to see. I love you, and I'll make sure I'm there for your procedure."

"Love you, too," she says as she gives me a kiss good-bye and then lightly slaps Christian's cheek. "You are so handsome. Will you think about settling down, too? I know for a fact that your mother would like grandchildren."

Thomas chimes in, "He's too busy, trying to best his old man around here."

"Saving lives one day at a time." Christian smirks at his old man.

"A God complex." Thomas nudges my mother in the arm. "Sometimes, I have to pull him down from the pedestal he climbed up on."

Christian digs in with the challenge. "You sure you can reach that high, old man?"

My mother thinks this is all hysterical. She leans forward with a laugh and claps her hands. "You two are too much."

I laugh. "Enjoy them. I have to get to work." I turn the corner and stand outside exam room nine, taking a peek at the patient's chart before I go in.

"Meadow," Christian calls just as I'm about to step inside.

I back up and lean against the wall. I haven't seen him in days, and I'd be lying to say I kind of missed him.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," I say back. "I had a nice time the other night."

"Me, too." He rubs his lips together and lets those dimples escape. "Date two."

"Two." I nod. I was wondering when he would ask me on date two. "What shall we do?"

He sways his head to the side with a matching grin. "I thought I would show you how I woo on date two."

I repeat his sentence in my head and then ask, "Is the rhyming part of the woo for date two?"

"Only for you."

"What do you have in mind?" I ask.

He leans his shoulder into the wall and crosses his arms. "I've thought this through."

"And ideas?" I prod, waiting for him to tell me.

He smiles. "I've come up with a few."

"Are you going to keep rhyming?"

"On cue."

"Christian," I scold.

"We won't break curfew." He's being cheeky.

I drop my shoulders. "You're just being ridiculous now."

"Let's go to the zoo."

With the step of my foot, I say, "Seriously—"

"I am being serious. Let's go to the zoo. You free on Sunday?" His question is casually asked, but he's serious. Christian is asking me on a date to the zoo.

I straighten my shoulders and consider his proposal. "I am."

He pushes off the wall and taps me on the nose. "Great. It's a date."

"A date." I nod.

He takes a step forward, his chest close enough that I can feel the heat searing off him. There's something unspoken in his eyes, but his voice is loud and clear when he says, "Do you remember what I said happens on date two?"

I swallow. My memory is sharp when it comes to all things Christian Gallagher. "I do."

He leans forward, his mouth close to my ear as he whispers, "Date two."

I let out a gasp and utter, "With you."

His hand snakes along my waist as he adds, "When we're through—"

"Good-bye, Dr. Gallagher." I spin around and head into room nine before he can finish his ridiculous rhyme. I close the door just in time to hear his deep chuckle behind the door.

# Chapter Nine

My entire body is vibrating as it rolls over the bumpy pavers that line the Mall of Bethesda Terrace. We pass through the elegant archways and staircases as I pray I don't fall on my ass.

When Christian arrived at my apartment this morning for date number two, I wasn't expecting to see a shopping bag in his hand. Especially since it was holding in-line skates.

"Rollerblading?" I asked with a raised brow, my coffee not consumed to the maximum it would need to be going on a rollerblading adventure.

"You loved it when we were kids." He smirked, pushing through my front door, his hair covered by a navy-blue Yankees cap.

"I was twelve," I said, closing the door behind him as he makes himself comfortable on my green chenille sofa.

He grabbed my romance novel off the coffee table, and his brows rose when he read a few lines of the page it was open to.

"I thought we were going to the zoo?"

"We are. Grab a pair of comfortable socks."

Looking down at my white knee-length skirt and cap-sleeve T-shirt, I said, "I can't skate in this. I need to change first."

He rose from the couch and grabbed my hand before I could make it to my bedroom. "Don't change. You look beautiful just as you are."

And that's how I wound up on in-line skates in Central Park, wearing a flowing skirt and large wool socks. At least the skates are cute—light gray with pink blades and buckles. He even bought me a helmet, but I put my wheel-lined foot down on that one.

"Just like riding a bike," he says, zipping past me and wrapping around the fountain, dodging tourists and dog-walkers. He looks good in cargo shorts and a V-neck T-shirt that shows off toned, tanned arms and legs.

"Come on, I'll race you," I call out and take a lead, heading back under the terrace and through the enclave lined with bronzed tiles on the ceiling, coming out on the other end and onto the Mall, a walkway leading from Bethesda Terrace through the park. The pathway is lined with benches and American elm trees on both sides.

I have a decent lead despite trying to keep myself from running over people, but then he comes up from behind and pinches my ass as he passes. My cheeks rise to my eyes as I squint with determination and power forward to catch up.

Christian reaches out for my hand, pulling my pace down to where we're now skating together. We stop to watch a set of street performers breakdancing, doing tricks and flips. He tosses a ten into the bucket a guy is carrying around to the crowd.

We skate on, stopping again so that I can peer over the shoulder of an artist who is drawing a caricature of a little girl and then listen at the end of the path to a band of musicians playing hip-hop music on classical instruments. I give them ten dollars of my own.

At the southern end of the pathway, we play tag around the statues of well-known literary figures. Behind William Shakespeare, I grab the baseball cap off his head, watching his dark hair fall messily onto his head, and he tackles me to the ground in front of Sir Walter Scott, ripping the cap from my hands and securing it back on his head with a smile.

When we reach the zoo, I'm relieved to take off the skates and slide on my shoes that Christian placed in his duffel bag before we left my apartment. He puts our skates in the bag and then secures it across his body. Then, we walk into the Central Park Zoo.

I lean on the railing of the sea lion pool and watch as one swims by. Lifting a fin above the water, it waves at us. I wave back with a laugh until a warm body presses up behind me.

"Is this okay?" Christian asks, placing his hands on the railing on each side of me, enclosing me in.

I lean my head back to his shoulder and nod as another sea lion appears on the rock above the pool.

"He's jumping in," he says into my ear, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

We watch the sea lion jump into the water and stay for the noon feeding as the trainers show off what the beautiful mammals can do.

"What is your favorite animal?" he asks as we walk around the octagon-shaped pool, hand in hand, down the paved walkway.

"Chickens."

"Chickens?"

His response makes me shake with laughter.

"Yeah. I've always wanted a chicken coop. Maybe even property to grow my own vegetables."

He grimaces. "That's not something you can do in Manhattan."

"That's why I'll never have one. I love it here. I can't imagine ever moving."

It's true. I grew up across the Hudson, but once I settled in Manhattan, I fell in love with its scents and sounds, the way old and new collided to form a bond of history and futuristic expectations. The museums and Broadway shows are incomparable, and the health care is top notch. There's a coffee shop on every corner, and you always have a place to sit for a while when you don't want to be alone.

"You could get a vacation house. Maybe a cabin Upstate," he suggests.

"Who would watch the chickens?" I counter.

"We could hire someone to tend to them when we're not there."

I lean back and blink at his use of the word _we._

He shrugs. "It would be nice to have a place for our kid to run around and experience life outside of the city. Some chickens, maybe a goat. It would teach him some responsibility."

"It would be impractical. She'll already be carted between two homes. Adding a vacation cabin would give her whiplash."

"He'll think it's normal because it will be our normal." He squeezes my hand. "I notice you used the pronoun she."

"Because you assume it will be a boy."

He laughs as he raises his other arm up in surrender. "A man can dream."

A thought crosses my mind, causing me to bite the corner of my lip.

When Christian made his grand proposal to have a baby together, he mentioned throwing a ball in the backyard with his son. He never mentioned the possibility of having a daughter.

That makes me wonder, _Will it disappoint him if we have a girl?_

I must walk away, not realizing he has stopped until he's tugging on my arm, pulling me back toward him and wrapping his arm around my waist. The other hand rises to my mouth. His thumb glides over my lower lip, pulling it out from between my teeth.

"Whether we have a boy or girl, I will love him or her, no matter what," he says, easing my concerns.

I nod in his hand as it caresses my cheek, gently holding me as he leans forward and places the softest kiss on my mouth. My eyes close as his mouth stays there for a moment before moving away.

That kiss, that simple tease of a kiss, has just rendered me speechless.

When I lift my lids, I see his vibrant eyes looking back at me. His face is serious despite the tiniest quirk of his lips. I can't help but kiss that spot, making his smile take over his whole face.

"Let's go see the grizzlies," he says, tugging on my arm and pulling me toward the big animals.

"So, when you say Ed Sheeran is sexy, do you mean physically or just the way he sings?" Christian asks for the third time since I told him I thought the English singer was the hottest thing on two legs.

I croon. "It's everything. His personality, the way he sings, the way he talks about the love of his life..."

"What happened to your love of Justin Timberlake?" He knows too well I have a thing for the _Man of the Woods_.

"I still love him, too. I mean, he brought sexy back. Trust me when I say, I wouldn't kick that man out of my bed."

He lets out a groan, and I skip away toward the snow monkeys. We try to make them emulate our actions, which doesn't work at all, and then walk over to the leopards when we see a familiar face walking toward us.

Garret Kent—aka Bachelor Number Two—is headed our way. He looks as handsome as he did at my mother's house as he wears a yellow polo and jeans. His eyes flicker between me and Christian with a knowing grin on his face. Behind Garret, a little boy with dusty-blond hair and freckled cheeks trails, standing about six feet away, like an afterthought.

"Looking stunning as always," Garret says, coming right up to my personal space and placing a kiss on my cheek, close to my mouth.

"Garret." Christian's greeting is clipped.

Garret doesn't seem to notice or care as his eyes settle on the V-neck of my top. "This is a pleasant surprise. If I had known you liked the zoo, I would have brought you myself."

I step away from him and into Christian's side. "I'm in good company." I don't miss the way Christian's dimple appears as he puts his hand on my waist, liking how I'm not behaving as poorly as I did when we ran into Frank Romano at dinner.

Garret's eyes jump up to my face and over to Christian's with a furrowed brow. "I see."

"Besides, it looks like you have your own little date today. You must be Jordan," I say to his son. "Pleasure to meet you. I've seen your pictures on Facebook."

The little boy swings around his father's side and comes up to his hip. "Hi."

Garret places a hand on his son's shoulder. "It's our boys' weekend."

"You must enjoy them tremendously," Christian states with a closed-mouth smile.

As cordial as he is, I get the feeling he doesn't like Garret at all, which is interesting because Christian likes everyone.

Garret ruffles Jordan's hair, making the boy laugh with the action. "We were on our way to grab a hot dog."

"Ew, I don't eat hot dogs," Jordan says like they're the most disgusting things in the world.

Garret looks taken aback by his son's aversion to hot dogs. "All kids eat dirty-water dogs."

"No, Dad. They make me gag." He mock sticks his finger in his mouth.

Garret's brows pucker as he places a hand back on his son's shoulder. "Well then, we'll just head over to Luke's Lobster and grab lobster rolls." His eyes meet mine in invitation. "They are the best in the city. Do you want one?"

Jordan leans his weight on one leg and rolls his head to the side, pulling his dad's attention down to him. "Dad! I'm allergic to shellfish."

It's hard to miss Garret's surprised grimace. "Since when?"

"Since forever." Jordan kicks the pavement with the shake of his head.

Garret looks confused.

I offer some advice. "Maybe you should just stick to chicken fingers and fries at the zoo's café. They're my favorite," I say to Jordan.

Garret nods in approval at the idea as he tilts his head at me. "Jordan and I are going to the movies tonight. We'd love for you to join us. Looks like I could use a woman's touch." His phrase sounds dirty, and I really hope it's not intended to be.

"No, thank you," I reply pleasantly. "You two enjoy your boys' day."

Garret sneers, annoyed, as he casts a glance toward Jordan. His mouth twists to the side. "I could get a sitter. Make it an adults-only night. Gallagher, you around to hang out at my place for a few hours while Meadow and I go out on the town?"

"My night's already booked." Christian's possessive hand pulls me further into him.

Instead of being annoyed by such cavemanish behavior, I settle into him, finding I quite like being nestled into the crook of his arm.

Garret's eyes flick toward Christian where they have a visual standoff as I bow down to speak to Jordan, who glances up with a shy smile as sweet as pie.

"It was very nice meeting you, Jordan. I hope you enjoy the rest of your weekend with your dad."

"Here." Garret slides a hand into his back pocket and takes out a business card. "Call me. We should catch up when you're not"—he gives a side-eye glance to Christian—"occupied."

I have many things I'd like to say, but Jordan is staring at the three of us with the wide eyes of a child, waiting for his father to take him to lunch. So, I say nothing at all.

I take the card, and as they walk away, I toss it in the nearby trash can.

"Can you believe that guy?" I ask as I turn to face Christian, who is no longer standing beside me. Upon further inspection, he's not anywhere in eyeshot. I look around, down the path of trees, and through the throngs of tourists and guides. I don't see him.

There's a bird squawking in the distance, shouting, "Pretty bird," over and over.

I know he didn't go in that direction because he's not a huge fan of birds, and I head toward a nearby enclave that has a picture window looking out to the snow leopards.

I step inside and have to adjust my eyes. It's like a cave in here, cool and dark. Christian is standing by the glass, looking out at the leopards, one of which is licking a tiny cub. I take a spot next to him and watch at the animal licking the fur neck of the cub whose little eyes are closed as he enjoys his bath.

I giggle, and the sound echoes. It's quiet in here. Too quiet.

I gaze up at Christian, who is standing strong with his arms crossed. There's a tic to his jaw as he works over whatever he's thinking about. I give him the silence he needs and wait for him to speak.

"When I was seventeen, I almost asked you on a date."

My head swivels toward him. "Really?"

His eyes are trained forward. "I wanted to ask you to the winter formal."

"Why didn't you?" I ask.

"Garret Kent. Apparently, you had a thing for the douchebag lacrosse player."

His observation is a bit skewed. I was a late bloomer in high school and was beside myself with excitement when Garret asked me to the dance. Then, he tried to steal a few bases without permission, and I hurled on his shoes.

"He tried to show me his stick." My joke falls flat.

"I hate that guy," he declares.

"You couldn't have been too upset about it. You lost your virginity to Simone Cagney after that dance."

_Man, he must hate that I know so much about him._

"True." His body turns, and he gives me his full attention. "It could have been you."

I have to pause and try to think if there was ever a time I thought Christian liked me in the slightest sense. For all the years I've known him, especially back then, I've never known him to be attracted to me.

"You would have waited a long time. I didn't give it up until I was almost twenty."

"I should have waited," he states.

I let out a sharp laugh. "I knew you junior year, and there was no way you would have waited another four years to have sex. Hormone-laden Christian Gallagher was impossible to keep up with. I tried. I kept a tally in my diary. Wow, that sounds creepy. I wasn't a stalker. Just curious—"

"I should have waited." He's serious.

I had a huge crush on him in grade school, and from what he's saying, it sounds like he liked me in high school. Somewhere along the line, that attraction morphed into a friendship that triumphed over a relationship.

"Where's all this coming from?" I ask, looking up into his face.

His jaw is pronounced as he pushes back his broad shoulders and inhales. "I don't want to be like him."

I tilt my head in confusion.

"He doesn't even know his son is allergic to shellfish," he explains.

Seeing the truth in someone is an extraordinary experience. Christian is a confident man, proud of himself, and doesn't hide who he is. For as long as I've known him, he's always been self-assured, nearly to borderline cockiness. But this, here, is the second time he's brought up this concern, so it's deep and valid.

"The fact that you're worried you will be that kind of father speaks volumes. It means, you'll never let yourself be that way."

"I live selfishly." His voice rises. "I know I'm a good guy, but my life has been about what I want to do and when. I'm always going to be a doctor first. My career will always be my priority."

There's a tinge of anger in his eyes, widening and glassy. His fear is deep-seated and not something to brush aside. I grab his face and pull his attention toward me.

"Look down, and you reveal your fears. Look up, and you overthink your obstacles. The trick is to look forward," I repeat his words from the bridge, bringing his focus right into my eyes. I hold his gaze and try to seek with every bit of conviction in my body that place in his soul that's telling him he's not good enough. "Even if our child only sees you one day a month, they will be the luckiest kid in the world because a smart, giving man is their father. You are out there, saving lives. You are building a career, so your future family will have everything they've ever dreamed of. And, because you want to do this with me now so that you'll be able to have more years, more opportunity to love your child, it means you are going to be an amazing father."

His eyes fall to the side. "You don't know that."

"Did you tell anyone about us?"

He squints his eyes in question and hesitates for a moment. "I told my dad."

"You only got to choose one person to tell, and you chose your dad?" I feign surprise even though it makes perfect sense that he turned to his father.

His answer is effortless and exactly what I knew he'd say. "He's my best friend."

I smile big and raise my brows in realization for him. How he can't see it at this moment is beyond me. "That right there is why you're gonna make an amazing father, Christian. Family has always come first for you. This baby will be no different."

His hand glides over to my cheek, and his thumb gently rubs a circle on my skin. "How did I get so lucky to have you in my life?"

I lift my eyes to heaven. "You just happened to choose a lunatic for a best friend."

My sarcasm is met with a smoldering expression. His all-consuming stare is making my heart race. I have to close my eyes to escape it.

"For the record, I really wish you had waited," I whisper.

I let out a long breath and open my eyes. It's so dark in here, but it only takes me a moment to adjust and see his piercing eyes looking deep into mine.

That breath I just let out? I lose it again.

Christian snakes a hand around my waist. The other rests on the side of my face, his fingers weaving into the fine threads of my hair as his thumb draws tiny circles on my lips.

I place my hands against his torso, feeling the lean ridges beneath his T-shirt and the heat pouring through.

He pulls me closer. With my soft body up against his hard one, I let out a quivering breath. His head bends down, and he kisses me.

First, it's soft and warm. Our lips wrap around each other once, twice, three times before his tongue darts out and brushes against mine, eliciting a moan from me. Oh God, do I moan as chills run down my spine and right into my core.

I let my fingers explore his chest, feeling the hardened muscle, appreciating it with every swipe of his tongue, each kiss of his lips, and the rumble of pleasure coming from his mouth.

I lace my hands around his neck and pull him until our bodies are so connected that there's no telling where one begins and the other ends. His hands are now around my waist and the back of my head, holding me as he claims me.

We kiss for a moment; we kiss for eternity. We kiss until we're breathless, and a park attendant comes over and tells us we need to stop or leave the premises.

I burst into a fit of laughter and cling to Christian's chest as he wraps me up in a hug and kisses the top of my head.

"Let's get out of here."

He doesn't have to ask twice.

With our hands conjoined, he guides me out of the cave and out of the zoo where we run down a park path and stop under an elm to kiss some more.

My back is against a tree as he rests one hand on the bark, and the other is on my cheek, in my hair, on my waist. I've always wondered what it would be like to kiss him, and it's better than I imagined.

Soft yet strong.

Warm yet insanely hot.

There's no awkward dance as we get to know each other. It's as if we'd been kissing for years.

I have nowhere to go, so I take the weight of him as he leans into me, captivating me. He's bowing down, so I rise up to my tiptoes, and our bodies align perfectly. I gasp at the feel of his very aroused body pulsing against my core.

It drives me into a frenzy. He must sense it because he pulls back, breaking our kiss, and rests his forehead against mine as we catch our breaths.

"Your lips are red and swollen," he says.

I run a hand along his jaw. "You should shave if you're gonna kiss a girl like that."

"Like what?" he teases. "How do I kiss?"

"You devoured me," I say and watch as his tongue skims his lower lip, causing me to bite my own.

"Years of pent-up curiosity."

I raise a brow at him. He steps back and grabs my hand, pulling me off the tree. Then, he turns around.

He shrugs off his duffel bag and takes a seat on the closest bench. "Race you to the fountain?"

My head is fuzzy from kisses and an afternoon of way too much honesty. He's taking his skates out of the bag, followed by mine, and he puts them on the ground.

Taking a seat next to him, I put on my skates and grin as he brushes my hands away, so he can secure the buckles on them himself.

"Loser buys ice cream?" I suggest, and he nods, working on his own buckles. "Start!" I shout and get my head start down the lane that leads back toward Bethesda Fountain.

I'm not surprised when, a minute later, he's zooming past me, powerful and giving me a fantastic view of his backside until we reach the end of the lane.

He buys me ice cream at a vendor in the park, and we enjoy it while sitting on the edge of the fountain, laughing and retelling stories of our youth.

We take the long way home, getting an extra mile in on our skates. The sun is still bright in the sky as we roll up to the front awning of my building. Salvatore is outside and opens the door at our approach.

"I've got it, Sal," Christian says, letting the doorman know he can go inside.

We step out of our skates and put our shoes on. I have mine wrapped in my arms, feeling short and unsteady now that I'm back on solid ground.

"Thank you for these," I say, gesturing toward my skates.

His dimples make an appearance with his smile. "I'm glad you had a great date."

"So far, you're two for two."

He takes a step forward. "That reminds me. What are you doing next weekend?"

I look in my mental calendar and see I have nothing going on. "This is where I should say I have plans to make it seem like I'm an in-demand kinda girl, but it's just you, so I'll be honest and say, I have nothing."

"Then, this is where I should say, I'll call you and then wait two days before I ask you out again, but since it's _just you_ , __ I'm going to come out and ask you to go to the gala for the Heart Institute next weekend."

"You still want me to go to the gala?"

He sways his head from side to side, his eyes looking around, as if trying to understand my comment. "We can go as friends."

"Friends," I state.

He takes a step forward, his hands firmly in his pockets. "Meadow, no matter what happens, we're friends first and always. I won't let that change."

"Oh." I don't know why, but my heart deflates a little. "Yes, we'll go as friends." I step back, grab the door handle, and open the door.

"Meadow." His word causes me to a halt.

I turn around.

"What do you think would have happened if I'd asked you to the winter formal in high school?"

"You would have broken my heart, and we wouldn't be friends," I say honestly.

He nods solemnly. "Promise you'll tell me if I'm breaking your heart. If I'm taking this too far."

The thump in my chest scares me into thinking it's too late. I shake my head and realize how silly that thought is. One make-out session doesn't warrant a broken heart.

"My heart has already been broken by a giant hockey player with a scantily clad woman in a hotel room. Trust me when I say, I can handle it."

My answer seems to appease him because he leans in close and gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

He waits on the sidewalk as I walk into my lobby. I glimpse him turning around as Salvatore comes over and holds out a box.

I thank him and look down at the gift box with a red bow. I take it with me into the elevator and up into my apartment. I place it on the kitchen counter and untie the ribbon, lifting up the box to see a white card on top of tissue paper.

I open it and read the simple note, " _Love, Christian_."

Inside the tissue paper is a sapphire silk evening gown. It's form-fitted and elegant. I hold the fabric up to my chest and look at the length. It's perfect.

_How does a man who just declared our steadfast friendship sweep me off my feet with his chivalry and woo?_

The line between fantasy and reality blurred today. I have to remember, this is only an experiment, a game... a means to an end. We're creating a child out of love, not because we're in love.

# Chapter Ten

"Do you want the paper?" I offer my dad as he sits in the leather chair in the waiting room.

They took my mother into her procedure on time, so Dad, Brian, and I have been sitting here, waiting for over an hour.

I've been incessantly talking to my dad about today's op-eds as he bounces his knee. Brian ignores us as he sits in the corner on his iPhone.

Dad takes the _New York Times_ from me and skims over the front page, his eyes unfocused. I try to put him at ease.

"It's a routine ablation. Thomas does them all the time."

He folds the paper in half and rolls it up in a tube. "I know. I worry."

Seeing my typically calm father look at the clock has me a little anxious myself.

"I wish he'd let me in to observe."

"Thomas thinks you'll be too bossy and tell him what to do."

"I would never." I blanch as Dad tilts his head down with graying eyebrows. "Okay, fine. I'd ask him a few questions. But I'd never tell him what to do. Thomas is brilliant. Mom's in the best hands."

He nods. "She wouldn't dream of being seen by anyone else." The paper in his hand is now being tapped into his other palm. With a deep sigh, he looks up at the television that's playing _Live with Kelly and Ryan_ and notions toward the screen. "She looks like a mom, don't you think?"

I glance at the pixie of a talk show host. She has a wide smile and vibrant blue eyes, just like my mother. Her hair is also a similar style with Mom's being a touch shorter.

"Mom could have been a TV host. She loves to tell stories."

"People gravitate to her. Makes it easy to go places. She holds court, and I sit back to enjoy the food and drink."

"Has she always been this charismatic?"

"Always." He leans back and crosses his arms in front of his body, looking down toward the floor, as if recalling a memory. "On our first date, she spent the entire time telling stories about her coworkers. She was a coat model back then and has some colorful tales from the Garment District." He laughs to himself. "I was enamored, but I wasn't the only one. By the time dessert came, the hostess was in the seat next to me, the waiter was hovering over my shoulder, and the owner was bringing over cups of espresso because he wanted us to stay all night. Well, not me. She was the magnetic one."

"That never bothered you? Being with someone who requires so much attention?"

A slow smile builds on his face as he looks back with a sheen to his eyes. "I'm honored just to be sitting in her presence."

"That's sweet. A little lame, too," I say honestly.

"Love makes you lame."

I let out a sigh and rest my head on his shoulder. "You set the bar high, Dad. It's probably your fault why she's so determined to marry me off again."

Brian makes a grunting sound from his throat. Dad and I look over to him as he thumbs through his phone, not looking at us as he answers e-mails, I presume.

"My fault, huh?" Dad asks. "Maybe I should be a jerk every once in a while."

I nod against his shoulder. "That would be helpful. Maybe cool it down with the love notes on your anniversary. When she wants to play cards with her friends, tell her she can't because a woman's place is in the house. Oh, and say her cooking sucks."

He laughs. "I could cancel movie night. She looks forward to our popcorn dates on the couch."

I shake my head. "Dad, everyone knows you're the romance junkie. You cried during _The Notebook_."

"Everyone cries during _The Notebook_."

" _Something's Gotta Give_?"

"He had sex three days after having a heart attack! It's beautiful," he jokes.

I hit him in the arm just before he raises it and wraps it around me, pulling me into his side. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you, too, Meadowlark."

Brian rises from his chair as he shakes his head with a grimace. "How much longer will she be in there? I thought he said it was a quick procedure."

I sit up straight. "The procedure itself is quick, but the pre- and post-op procedures take time."

He shoves his phone in his khakis. "I'm getting coffee. You want one, Dad?"

Our dad shakes his head, so Brian saunters to the far side of the waiting room where there's a row of vending machines.

"Does he seem extra on edge to you?" I ask my dad, who shrugs.

"He was fine yesterday. We played eighteen holes on the golf course and had drinks in the clubhouse."

"Great. So, he's a total ass just around me."

"You know your brother. He doesn't express his feelings well."

I nod, agreeing with my dad. "I need caffeine, too."

Brian is standing at the vending machine with his hands in his pockets as he waits for his drink to be made. I sidle up next to him and listen to the screeching sound of the coffee brewing down.

"Everything good at the office?" I ask.

"Yeah. I'm missing a meeting, so I've been getting briefed."

Brian is the senior vice president of strategy and finance at a major brokerage firm. He's all numbers and analytics.

"I'm sure the team is on top of things." I look at my watch. "You'll be in the office before lunch."

"I'm not concerned. Mom is more important." His words are kind, but the delivery is abrupt. "If you have somewhere more important to be, then go."

"I'm going to chalk that up to the fact that you're upset about Mom and taking it out on me."

"You want one?" He grabs his coffee and then puts money in for me. A gentlemanly courtesy.

"Thanks." I step up and look up the number-letter code for a latte.

"So, have you frozen your eggs yet?"

My finger halts on the button. "I took an appointment."

"You're really going to do this?" He's incredulous.

I look behind us to where our father is still watching the TV and too far away to hear this conversation. "Please don't tell Mom and Dad."

"I would if I thought they'd talk sense into you."

I half-laugh and punch in my code for a latte. "Mom will probably hold my hand for my insemination. She'll pick a random man off the street and ask for his sperm."

"It's so impersonal," he states.

"It is."

"Who will help you raise this baby?"

His words cause my head to pop up, and my eyes widen. "Why do I need anyone's help?"

"You think this will be easy?"

"No. I—"

"Thomas!" Dad's voice interrupts our conversation.

Our attention is diverted to Dr. Gallagher Sr., who is walking up to Dad with his hand out for a handshake. Dad stands up, and Brian and I walk over to them, neglecting the coffee that is being poured in the machine.

"Procedure went well," Thomas starts. "We have the arrhythmia under control. It'll take a few days to see if it holds. I got a look at the mitral valve, and there's a significant leak. We'll set up an appointment for her to meet with Christian."

"How much longer do you think the valve can stay, leaking like that?" Brian asks.

"Six months. Maybe a year. Meadow will tell you, a leaking valve can sustain itself for quite some time. The good news is, she's doing great. You can see her now."

Dad, Brian, and Thomas exchange good-byes and manly pats on the back. I let him know I'll see him in the office. First, I have to say hello to my mother.

We walk to the recovery room, a large room with a nurses' station and where patients lie in their beds, some behind curtains. Mom is in the farthest bed, toward the back of the room. A nurse is blocking our view of her as she takes Mom's blood pressure.

We take slow steps up to her, not knowing what condition we'll find her in. To our surprise, she's smiling.

"There's my beautiful family!" Mom raises her right arm toward us as a nurse unwraps the blood pressure cuff. She tells the nurse, "This is my husband, George, and these are my babies, Brian and Meadow."

Brian huffs at the fact that our mother is still referring to her thirty-six and thirty-three-year-old children as her babies. "You look great, Mom."

"That's what everyone says! They look at my chart in shock. It's like they expect me to appear like I'm dying. If I had a dollar for every person who told me how good I looked, I'd be a millionaire!" She laughs loudly as the nurse enters the information into the computer.

"Looks like the procedure went well," I say with my hand on her leg, grazing it over the sheet.

"I'm just excited I woke up. I get so nervous when they put me under. Meadow, honey, there was a dreamboat of an anesthesiologist in the operating room. Ronald. He's Korean and single. I gave him your number."

The nurse looks at me with an awkward glance.

I turn to Mom and explain, "That's sweet, Mom, but I'm one hundred percent sure Ronald would be more interested in Brian."

"How so?" No sooner does she ask than her mouth forms an O as she comprehends what I mean. "Oh. Well, it doesn't matter. If he calls, go out with him. Gay men make the best husbands."

"Mother!" I admonish.

She closes her eyes with a flick of her hand. "Your sex life dies down after twenty years, so it shouldn't matter if you're gay or straight. All that matters is, he has good teeth."

"And doesn't look like a yeti," Brian adds.

I squint my eyes at him even though he's right. Brock was scruffy during the mid-season.

"I'm starving. Am I free to go now?" she asks the nurse, who gives her the okay. "Who wants Chinese food?"

"Careful getting up." Dad grabs her arm as she sits up on the bed.

She swings her legs around and makes it to the edge. Then, she pauses. Her hand goes to the top of her head as she lets out a groan.

I rush to the bed and brace her in case she falls back. "As excited as you are to get out of here, you need to take it easy today," I say, rubbing her back as she gains her bearings. "Go straight home and order takeout. I don't want to see you back in the hospital 'cause you overdid it."

She grabs my hand and rubs it between both of hers. "You're right. I'll spend the day in bed, eating egg rolls."

"Good plan." I grin.

"And watching a Meryl Streep movie. Daddy has such a crush on her." Her comment makes him blush as she kisses his cheek. "We can watch that one with Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin. Where they get divorced and have an affair with each other."

Dad lights up. " _It's Complicated_."

"What's complicated about watching a movie?" Brian asks.

"Dad's chick flick," I explain.

Brian still looks confused. I offer to explain while we let Mom change out of her hospital gown.

We wait for Mom to sign her discharge papers and walk her and Dad downstairs to the car service they arranged to bring them here and back. Brian heads toward the subway to go to his office downtown, and I head into work.

As I head through the doors of Park Avenue Cardiology, I recognize many of our regular patients waiting on the plush sofas for their upcoming appointments. I say hello to a few, including one who has brought her granddaughter with her. The little girl with curls in her hair is throwing the magazines on the floor as her grandmother tells her she can't make a mess of the waiting room. I walk to the reception desk and open the drawer where I keep a stack of activity books and crayons I get at the dollar store. Then, I set the girl up at the coffee table with an Elena of Avalor __ coloring book. Her grandmother thanks me, and I head back to the break room where I put my stuff away in my locker.

I'm putting my hair in a ponytail when the door swings open, and Angela comes in, holding a large display of sunflowers that are obstructing her face.

"Heard everything went well this morning!" she chimes as she puts the flowers on the table. This room is so sterile-looking, and flowers brighten it up.

"So far, so good." I motion toward the glass vase filled with vibrant golden flowers. "Looks like someone is getting romanced. Denny is upping his game."

Angela scrunches her face. "Those are not for me."

It's a rather expressive bouquet. Whoever they're for is a very lucky individual.

"They're for you," she says matter-of-factly.

"Me?"

"There's a card in there," she says.

I walk over and look through the petals for the small card that comes with such an arrangement, but I stop when Angela adds, "They're from Christian."

"Snoop much?" I reprimand.

She shrugs. "I had to see who they were for."

With my hands on my hips, I tap a foot.

She doesn't seem fazed as she twirls her silky hair and sings, "Looks like someone is getting romanced."

_Romanced._ What a word. I used it before when I thought they were for Angela. Now, the word makes my stomach go wild with butterflies.

I turn back to my locker. "My mom had her procedure today. He sent them as a friendly gesture."

"Yeah, I get sent large displays of flowers from my friends all the time." She's being sarcastic.

"They're sunflowers. They're the epitome of friendship. In fact, they're the least romantic plant on the entire planet," I defend.

"That's not true. Gladiolas remind me of funerals. And carnations are cheap."

"I'll make sure Denny never buys you carnations."

"Oh, he'd never buy me flowers, period. Something about paying money for a thing that's ripped from the ground, guaranteeing its impending death, is bad for his soul."

I tilt my head. "Isn't he an avid cannabis user? Is the pot plant not a living, breathing thing?"

The question seems to stump Angela. "You're getting off topic. You. Christian. Flowers."

"I told him I'd go to the gala with him." I feign nonchalance.

She squeals with a jump to her step. "What are you going to wear? We should go shopping! Tomorrow, during lunch, let's go out—"

"I already have a dress," I state as I take out my white coat. "Christian bought me a dress."

I adjust my hair from under the collar and lace a stethoscope around my neck. When I close the door and turn around, Angela is standing there with a raised brow and a devilish grin.

"What?" I ask.

She moves her shoulders in a shimmy. "You two are so going to get it on!"

"Will you lower your voice?" I whisper-shout to her. These walls are thin.

She skips to her locker, opens it, and leans in. When she closes the door, she holds up a string of condoms.

I look toward the door to make sure no one is coming in. "You're out of your mind."

She puts them in my hand and grins. "Woman, listen. You have a gorgeous doctor who bought you a dress and is taking you to a gala at a Manhattan hotel. If he invites you up to his room and wants to ravage your body, you let him."

I open my mouth to speak, to tell Angela she's crazy and inappropriate, and that, if I were to have sex with a man, I would be more than prepared for the occasion. But I say nothing. The truth is, she might be wildly inappropriate, but she's not crazy in the least. I blink at Angela, wondering if she has any idea just how close she is to the actual truth of what might happen after the gala.

And the other truth is, I'm nowhere near ready for a sexual encounter with a man. Let alone Christian.

The door to the break room opens, and Thomas comes in, giving us a friendly smile as he walks to the sink to wash his hands. Angela takes this as her cue to leave and get back to her desk.

It's at this moment I realize that I'm holding a stack of condoms. _Shit._ I put my arm behind my back to hide the prophylactics. I don't think he's noticed them.

He has on his doctor's coat and a gray tie. His hair is combed back, not looking like he spent the morning operating on patients and saving lives.

"Your mom looked good," he states.

My shoulders relax at his statement. "She's a force to be reckoned with."

He laughs as he dries his hands. "You know what your mother said before we put her under?"

I tilt my head and wait.

"She told me that, if she dies, make sure George waits a mandatory five years before meeting someone else, and if he remarries, I'm to give them a twenty-four-by-thirty-six-inch oil canvas of her that must be hung over the mantel, above her ashes, so his new wife will have to look at me every time she walks out the front door."

"That sounds like my mom."

Thomas nods toward the flowers. "Those are pretty. Are they yours?"

"Christian sent them."

He grins proudly as he just stands there, looking at me. I smile back at him. He looks away and then back, as if he wants to say something. He doesn't.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"You've got a look about you. Kind of like... oh." It dawns on me. We could only tell one person. I told Beth, and Christian told his dad. I clench the plastic package in my hand and point at him with the other. "You know."

"I know."

"We didn't... you know. We haven't—"

His hands rise in defense—or to shut me up. One or the other. "I don't need details!"

I let out an exasperated sigh. "Good. Because I have none to give you. Even if I did, I wouldn't... oh, this is awkward."

With a hand on my forehead, I try to find the right words to let this man know that Christian and I have this under control. I can only imagine what this might look like to him—a family man who devoted his life to his wife and child. He must have opinions, criticisms—

"I think it's a beautiful thing."

His words shock me straight.

"You do?"

Thomas laughs, making his cleft chin, the one he gave to his son, dance with the smile. "I only have one son who is far more ambitious than I ever was. He's all work and no future. The past few years, I've been trying to get him to settle down."

"We're not settling down."

"I want Christian to experience fatherhood, and I want to be a grandpa in the worst way."

_Wow. This is optimistic._ Far easier than I thought it would be.

No wonder Christian has such a carefree attitude about us having a baby together. His dad is incredibly supportive.

The elated look on his face morphs into sadness. I know there's a heavier thought on his mind, something he wants to say yet knows it could be devastating.

"You have concerns," I state.

He folds his arms and looks down for a moment. It's the same look he has when he's letting our patients know the risks before surgery. "Two friends having a baby is unconventional. Even the strongest couples who are in love fall apart when it comes to the pressures of raising a child."

"We could fall apart," I sigh.

He places his hands on my shoulders. I look up into his wisdom-filled gaze. "No matter what happens between the two of you, I can guarantee you this. You'll never regret it. One look at that child, and you'll be so in love, so fulfilled, that you'll know it was the right thing to do."

A cry-like breath escapes my lips. That is a scary and beautiful thing to hear.

"Thank you."

"For everyone's sake, I'm going to go on as if I know nothing about this. If Lucille finds out I knew and didn't tell her, I'll be sleeping on the couch for a year."

He walks out of the break room, leaving me alone. It's not even noon, and I've already had the craziest day. I look down at the packets in my hand and find myself overwhelmed with another sensation.

Expectation.

We won't need these at all.

# Chapter Eleven

"The silver peep-toe or gold strapless?" I'm standing in the middle of my bedroom, holding up the bottom of my sapphire dress as I show my shoe options to Beth over FaceTime.

"Gold," she says. She's sitting at her kitchen island, sipping a cup of tea. "And what about a clutch? What are you using?"

I walk over to my dresser and hold up the three evening bags I own.

She leans back with her mouth twisted. "That's all you have?" I lower my shoulders and make a face. "The one with the snap on top will do, which means you have to wear the silver shoes."

"The gown is so long. No one will notice if my shoes don't match my clutch."

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Fine." I toss the bags back on my dresser and sit on the bed to slide the silver shoes on my feet. When I rise, I straighten my dress, adjust my cleavage, and pose for her. "Silver shoes. Snappy clutch. How's the hair?"

"Killer. I like the old Hollywood thing you have going on. The tumbling waves make your hair extra golden and shiny."

"Thanks." I glance in the mirror and push on the comb that is holding the hair back on one side of my head, making sure it's as tight as can be. My lashes are long, and I gloss my lips. I appear posh, poised, and put together. _Appear_ being the operative word because, inside, I'm a pile of mush.

"Final verdict?"

"Gorgeous. Let me see the back," she says, and I do a turn, listening as Beth whistles in approval. "Damn. Your waist looks extra tiny, and your ass is like Jessica Rabbit in that thing. He really picked it out on his own?"

"I assumed you had a hand in it."

"Me? No. I would have put you in red and maybe a drop waist, but that dress fits you like a glove, and the color is vibrant. He chose well."

I run a hand over the silky material of the dress and clutch my belly. "I'm nervous."

"You should be."

"Do I bring anything? Like an overnight bag? I mean, will we be going back to a hotel room after? He mentioned a room. Or maybe I mentioned a room. We could end up here. Shoot. I should straighten up." I turn to fix the duvet on my bed.

Beth calls out, "You're panicking."

I continue to fix the bed. "I don't want to look like a slob or too presumptuous."

"In this scenario, you are absolutely allowed to. Look presumptuous, I mean. Sex is a given."

"He said nothing has to happen."

"And if it does?" she asks with a raised brow.

I fluff the pillows.

"Toothbrush," she states. "And a clean pair of panties. Do you have those little pack-away ballet flats I gave you for Christmas? The kind that roll up and fit in your purse?"

_Ballet flats? Let me see..._

I rifle through my drawer for the gift she gave me months ago. They were the slip-on flats, rolled up in a beige package. I dig through the nighties and undergarments and find the package.

I hold it up. "These?"

"Glad to see you liked them." She's commenting on the fact that it hasn't been opened.

I lift the top flap. "I have had nowhere to use them. I'm not entirely sure what they're for."

"They're for your ho bag."

"Ho what?" I pull them out and unravel the shoes. They have a thin bottom. I wouldn't walk more than a block in them, but a quick skip to catch a cab in these will be fine.

"Toothbrush, panties, flats. That's all you need if you spend the night with a man."

"You bought me morning-after shoes for Christmas?"

" _And heaven and nature sing_." Her ponytail sways with the words.

"That seems blasphemous."

"I remember sneaking out of Brian's dorm room back in the day." She gives a wistful stare to the sky and then snaps back to attention. "Now, mascara and lipstick."

I prance around my bathroom and put all the items into my clutch. When I come back into her view, I announce, "Got it."

"What kind of bra are you wearing?"

"None of your business!"

"It'd better be pretty. Hold on. Aiden wants to say hi."

I grab my phone off the dresser and hold it up close. "Has he been listening in on this entire conversation?"

"Of course not. He just came up from the basement. Hold, please."

She passes the iPad to my nephew. He's wearing his pajamas already and sipping on a juice box of Honest Kids. "Hi, Aunt Meadow. Wow, you're a princess!"

The six-year-old's compliment makes my heart sing. "Thanks, bud."

"Where are you going?"

"A fancy party." I walk down the hallway with my phone and clutch in hand.

"Cool. Can I come? I have a lot of fancy clothes. Mom makes us dress up for everything." The last word comes out with disdain. "I went to a birthday party at a trampoline park, wearing dress pants and a button-down. She tried to make me wear a tie!"

I laugh. "At least you were the handsomest guy at the party. I can't take you with me tonight, but how about I come over next weekend for a Wii challenge?"

"Heck yeah!" he says, followed by the distinct yell of Beth scolding for him using a "bad" word. "Heck is not a bad word. Grandpa uses it all the time," he says to his mother and then turns back. "It's a date, Aunt Meadow. Dylan has been kicking my butt at Mario Kart, so I need you to show him who's boss."

I laugh as I put my wallet and keys in my bag. "Good. I'll kick his butt next."

"I love you."

I smile. "I love you, too, buddy."

Beth's porcelain face reappears. "He drives me nuts, but he's so damn sweet sometimes that I want to eat him."

"You said a bad word!" Aiden shouts off camera.

Beth ignores him and focuses on me.

"You ready?" she asks me, and I nod my head. "Good. Because you're late."

"Shit." The neon light of my clock puts a pep in my step.

"You said a bad word, too, Aunt Meadow!" Aiden chimes.

"Time to end this call. I told Christian I'd meet him there at eight," I state. "Wish me luck."

Beth grins. "You don't need luck. Just have fun."

The drive to The Plaza passes by quickly. I play with the gem design on my clutch and open and close the snaps the entire trip. When the marquee for the iconic hotel comes into view, I get butterflies in my stomach. As we pull up to the red-carpeted outdoor steps, it only heightens my anticipation.

Heightened because of a man.

Christian is standing on the staircase, leaning against the gold railing. He's wearing a black tuxedo with a traditional bow tie. It's a look I don't care for on most men, as it sometimes comes off as dorky. Not on Christian. He looks debonair. Sinful even.

With his broad shoulders and a tapered waist, the tuxedo shows off his athletic physique, and the tailored pants make him appear even taller, larger. His hair is combed back, and his lips are pursed as he adjusts his cuff links. I take a beat before exiting the car.

He is a beautiful man. I know you're not supposed to say that about men. They're roguish or brawny, bullish and even herculean. He is those things but so much more.

Maybe it's the way his dark brows accentuate his emerald-green eyes, the sun-kissed skin he has year-round, or even the perfect bow of his mouth, but he is just beautiful to look at. He's manly for sure with his thick build and square jaw. Yet he has a kindness to his face. I don't quite know what it is, but lately, when I look at him, I find I don't want to stop.

When I open my car door and step out, he stands up straight and comes jogging down the stairs toward me.

Taking his hand, I follow him off the curb and to the base of the stairs. I adjust my dress to make sure the bottom is smooth.

"You're gorgeous." His eyes are steady as his hand rises to his chest.

"You have good taste in women's apparel."

He leans forward and speaks softly, "I have good taste in women."

I laugh. All the worry I had when thinking about tonight eases with the way his lips curve up to one side.

He motions toward the gold doors. "Shall we?"

As we walk inside, my neck cranes, so I can admire the crystal chandeliers. I went to the tearoom once when I was fourteen and was too young to appreciate the regality of the gold trim work, marble pillars, and artwork that speaks to its history.

We're followed into the elevator by a larger group of people, all dressed elegantly. Christian steps to the back of the car. I take a spot in front of him. As the doors are about to close, another couple appears, and someone puts their hand in the doors' path to make it reopen. They're laughing and breathless, expressing thanks.

As we all take another step back to allow the couple to enter, my body collides with Christian's. He laces a hand on my hip, and I inhale deeply. The heat of his hand burns through the silk of my dress. It electrifies my body.

The doors open, and we exit. He doesn't offer me his hand as we walk through the foyer toward the Grand Ballroom where New York opulence is at its finest. Grandeur chandeliers adorn the gold-filigree-laced ceilings. The woodwork and carvings on each column cascading down the walls is exquisite in its detail. There's a nine-piece band at the far end of the room with round tables around a large dance floor. Tall centerpieces of white roses overflowing from the vases beautify every table with lit candlesticks illuminating the room.

There has to be upwards of five hundred people here. Everyone is dressed to the nines, sipping champagne delivered by servers. I recognize none of the faces, as I'm not a hospital employee, but Christian shakes hands with quite a few as we enter.

The band is playing, but no one is dancing, as it's still early in the evening.

"I'm going to see what table we're seated at," he says.

A server passes, and I grab a glass of champagne. "I'll wait here." I raise my flute in salute to Christian as he walks off, and I enjoy the crisp taste of Dom Pérignon. The band strums the standard "Mack the Knife," __ and I sway my shoulders to the melody.

"The lady has moves," a familiar voice says beside me.

To my surprise, Aaron Vaducci, Bachelor Number Three from my mother's house, is standing beside me.

"Of all the faces to see tonight, I was not expecting you." I embrace him with a hug. He looks good with his curls gelled and those round hazels that crinkle on the sides. "What are you doing here?"

He releases me and grins that oh-so-kind smile of his. "I'm a guest of the head of pediatric oncology. I volunteer dental services to many of the patients."

"How noble."

"I do what I can to give back," he states and then looks around the room. "Who are you here with?"

"Christian Gallagher. He's a cardiothoracic surgeon at St. Xavier."

Aaron nods. "He's a great guy. I know him from the good old soccer days. Our high schools competed. I didn't have time to talk to him at your mother's house."

"He had to leave early. You two should catch up tonight," I offer.

"I'd also like to pick up where we left off. That was a great day," he says with a twinkle in his eye.

A gentleman at the bar holds up his arm to get Aaron's attention. He nods toward him. "That's my cue to go mingle with the masses. Save a spot on your dance card for me?"

I nod with a laugh. "Absolutely."

He walks backward with a smile. "So great, seeing you here," he says, looking at me like I'm a mirage before turning on his heel toward the bar.

I'm still looking in Aaron's direction when Christian comes up.

"You found a friend."

"Aaron was just asking about you. I didn't know you knew each other. I only know him through my parents."

"We were high school rivals."

I raise a brow, not believing him. Aaron wouldn't call Christian a great guy for anything. With a tilt to my head, I wait to see if there's more to the story.

Christian lets out a huff. "Junior year, he was getting the snot kicked out of him outside the Movie Theatre. I jumped in, in his defense."

My jaw drops. "How did I not know about this?"

He takes my glass from my hand. "My teammates were assholes. All the guys we went to high school with were assholes."

I nudge him with my shoulder. "Well, maybe not all."

He shrugs in agreement as he takes a sip of my champagne.

"Well, Aaron's looking forward to seeing you. He didn't get to chat much with you last time."

He makes a deep humming sound. "Because he was too busy, talking to you," he says before finishing the rest.

"If I recall, you were the one who told me to go over to him."

"He's fit, his parents are part of the same country club as yours, and he summers in Boca. A handsome dentist from the Upper East Side. Your mother would be beside herself."

"Wait until she finds out, I plan to get knocked up by a surgeon. She'll faint."

Christian laughs as he places the now-empty glass on the tray of a passing server. "Come on, crazy. We have a party to attend."

We head toward our table that is set right on the dance floor. I take a seat in one of the gold Chiavari chairs and marvel at the fine china on the table. We're seated with surgeons from Christian's department. He introduces me to everyone, and we exchange pleasantries.

Christian is by far the youngest doctor at the table, yet he's as distinguished and, in some cases, more accomplished. The men and women of the cardiothoracic unit are quick to talk about cases they're working on, and the husbands and wives easily flow into their own conversations away from medical jargon. I find myself enchanted by Christian, listening in as he discusses a new technique he's training to perform that could revolutionize the future of heart valve transplantation. I'm a heart nerd, and he is a damn good professor.

They serve our salads, and the opening ceremony starts, followed by speeches and a toast with a request for all of us to have a damn good time.

My back is to the table with my attention still toward the podium when Christian leans in and asks, "Now that we've done our part and appeared like respectable adults, what do you say we start drinking heavily?"

I giggle. "A man after my own heart. You get the drinks while I use the ladies' room."

"Sounds like a plan."

We walk away from the table and part ways as he goes toward the bar and I walk to the women's restroom where I use the facilities and add lip gloss before tipping the attendant. I'm walking back to the ballroom when I see Natasha, Christian's date from my birthday dinner, walking toward me.

"Natasha." I smile with the greeting.

Last time I saw her, she was not the happiest with my friends, as they said Christian and I should have a baby together. Now, we actually are trying, so it makes it all the more awkward.

So, I say what any normal person would in this situation, "You are stunning."

It's true. She looks more like a model than a nurse in the cardiac care unit. Her hair is smooth as it falls straight to her chin. She's wearing a deep purple chiffon dress that fishtails at the bottom, and her stiletto heels make her look statuesque tonight.

"Thank you. You look good, too."

_Okay, good is not quite the same as stunning, but I'll take it._

"You're here with Christian," she states with that natural pout.

I'm not an idiot. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see she's not thrilled with the fact that I'm Christian's date tonight—and moreover, that she's not. Still, I'm not one to kick someone when they're down.

"We're here as friends."

She laughs with a closed mouth. "A man doesn't introduce a woman as his Meadow without laying claim to his feelings about her."

I don't argue with her. "I'm sorry things didn't work out between the two of you."

"Don't worry about me. I just wanted to pass on advice that I should have listened to when I started seeing him."

"Advice?"

"You two are friends, so you have so much more to lose." Her tone isn't snide. It's actually coming off as... _concerned._

"It was nice to see you, but I don't think—"

"When you go back inside, he'll have two glasses of champagne in hand. You'll sip them, and he'll tell you how beautiful your eyes are. With him, it's always the eyes."

I drop my shoulders and listen because she wants to impart her wisdom on me.

She continues, "He'll ask you to dance, and then he'll excuse himself to talk to the maestro for a special request. Then, the band will play 'The Way You Look Tonight,' __ and you'll be putty in his hands as he tells you how you made him feel the first time he saw you. He'll ask if you want to skip out early, and you'll follow because it's impossible to say no to a man who looks as good as he does in a tuxedo."

With a nod, I swallow and try to digest what she thinks is about to take place. "That is a very specific order of events you think is about to take place."

She gives a sarcastic grin, and I can see a sliver of lipstick on her top teeth. "It's a pattern. There's a lot of chatter around the hospital. There's always something going on in this city... a gala, a benefit, an auction, a reception. He takes you out for an iconic night in Manhattan and sweeps you off your feet with champagne and dancing."

"I'm not here to be romanced."

She lays a hand on her hip and tilts her head. "You seem like a nice girl. Trust me when I say, Dr. Christian Gallagher is the love-'em-and-leave-'em type."

I know Christian has dated over the years, but I'm not a fan of the Casanova persona she is painting him with.

"Well, thank you for this very misplaced desire to be my protector, but I should also remind you, he is my friend. My oldest friend, and I don't appreciate you discussing his personal business. My intentions with Christian are my prerogative, and if I did plan to be another notch on his belt, it wouldn't be because he was using recycled moves and cheesy lines. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date to get back to." I walk past Natasha and then stop to turn around because, even though I'm annoyed, I'm not a mean girl. "You have lipstick on your teeth," I say. She raises a hand to her lips. "You're welcome."

I puff out a large breath through my lips and have to give myself a little shimmy before squaring my shoulders back and walking into the grand ballroom. I march my way to Christian, who is standing with two rocks glasses in his hands. I let out a sigh of relief that it's not champagne.

He hands me a glass, and we clink. As I down mine, a touch unladylike, he questioningly looks at me.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

I lick the residue of Johnnie Walker off my lips. "Thirsty."

He takes a slow drink, his eyes settled on me the entire time. As he lowers the glass, he quirks a lip, and a dimple appears. "Remind me to make your next one a double."

I shake my head with a smile. "Wearing a gown like this, I should be drinking something more feminine. A martini perhaps."

"When I picked out this dress, I told the woman I was looking for something to bring out your eyes."

_Eyes. He had to go and comment on my eyes._

"My eyes are brown. Nothing brings out boring brown."

"That's why I got you something in your favorite color," he says and then adds, "And that's not true, by the way. Your eyes aren't boring. You have flecks of gold in them. They're vibrant and luminous. You laugh with your eyes."

I look up at the ceiling at his comment.

"And, for the record, your mouth is your best feature."

"Do you buy dresses for all of your dates?"

"Never. You're the first," he answers easily as he walks toward a cocktail table and puts his glass down.

"Why did you buy it then?"

"Because I knew you'd feel obligated to come with me," he says with a wink. "I was right. You are the worst gift receiver. Even if you hated it, you'd wear it."

I grimace. "That's probably true."

The band's tempo slows from a quick-footed dance tune to the open chords of a ballad.

Christian hears the change and holds out his hand. "I made a special request while you were in the ladies' room. Care to dance?"

It's in this moment I glance to the side and see Natasha watching us with a raised brow.

"Meadow?" Christian brings my attention back to him.

I stare at his hand and exhale. Placing my hand in his, I let him lead me out to the dance floor.

We reach the center where many people are dancing, enjoying the perfect evening. He pulls me in, so familiar. My face looks toward his shoulder as we place our hands in the required spots and start a box step. We're moving mechanically. No, _I'm_ moving like a robot. He's swaying to the melody, holding me with care, giving his heat and energy to me in every way as he leads me across the dance floor. The opening chords of the melody play repeatedly in succession before the lead singer starts in.

_"You are my fire."_

My head pops up.

_"The one desire."_

I look over to the band. The tune differs from the one I know because it's a live band playing the song, using instruments that aren't used in the radio version, but this is most definitely, "Backstreet Boys?"

A deep rumble of a laugh echoes from his chest. "Surprised?"

"You requested a boy band song at a gala reception at The Plaza?"

"What else did you expect?"

"'The Way You Look Tonight.'"

His mouth is pursed in question until realization dawns on his face. "I saw Natasha standing by the coat check. I guess you ran into her."

I nod. "I know I asked you to show me your woo, to see your moves, but honestly"—I pause, trying to figure out what I'm asking him exactly—"I don't want to be another notch on your bedpost."

His eyes widen at my assumption. "There's no playbook. I might not be original, but trust me when I tell you that there is no other woman in the world I'd request Backstreet Boys for."

I laugh in relief and fall into his chest as he pulls me in close, so close that I am enveloped in the musky scent of him.

He lays his head on mine and squeezes my hand. "Oh, Meadow. I might not have a million moves. There are only so many ways I know to impress a woman, but you are not like anyone else. And, if I have to come up with an entirely new way to woo, then I will with you. You're so much more."

_More._

I gaze up into his eyes, and my heart skips a beat. The deep green has turned black as midnight as he looks at me with such intensity, so much earnest, that I nearly melt into the smolder of his stare. There's a charge, an electric current that flows from that focus down to his heart, and it's beating out of his chest against my own. I feel it in his fingertips, so soft to touch yet rugged in their conviction to hold on to me.

The music continues to play, but our feet slow down to almost a halt. It might be the lighting from the overhead crystals of the chandeliers and scotch that is making me fuzzy, but I swear, at this moment, there's a conversation being spoken with our breaths.

His being taken too deeply.

Mine barely registering against my lips.

_I feel it, too._

"May I cut in?" Aaron taps Christian on the shoulder, and it takes a moment too long for us to realize he's asking to dance with me.

The song—our song—ends, and a generic song plays. Whatever spell we were under has broken, and Christian cordially drops his hands from me and takes a step back. My body instantly feels the loss.

"I heard you were here tonight," Christian says to Aaron as if his approach interrupted nothing of importance. "Great seeing you again."

"Likewise. We must share a drink later. First, I'd like to get in my dance with Meadow before someone else sweeps her off her feet." Aaron extends his hand in asking for me to take it.

Christian gives me that eye motion, the one he made at the barbecue when he told me to go talk to Aaron. I squint my eyes at him because he's incorrigible and so goddamn confusing that I think I'm going insane. He's so good at plastering on the smile. It looks the same whether it's real or fake, but there's one thing he can't hide from me. I can see it in the way his eyes tilt down on the sides.

"I'd love to," I say to Aaron. My words don't match my feelings.

Christian steps away as Aaron takes his place.

We resume the proper dance form, and his hold on me is wrong. Where Christian's body radiates heat, Aaron's is cool to the touch. That zing in my heart is now a tempered beat, slow and steady... the excitement lost.

"Enjoying the evening?" he asks.

"So far, so good. You?"

"Better now." He smiles that perfect extra-white grin. "Did you get the chicken or the fish?"

"I don't know. Christian must have selected for me, so probably the chicken. You?"

"Same."

We sway a bit, and I accidentally step on his toe. "Sorry."

He just smiles. "Did you know your mom called my mom and gave her your number to give me?"

"So embarrassing. I'm sorry. She meddles and—"

"I was going to ask her for it anyway. To ask you on a proper date."

"Oh." I look away.

"I'd like to. Not just call you. I mean, I plan on that, but I'd like to take you out. It's no surprise I think you're beautiful and smart, and you're so easy to talk to. I had the feeling, at your mother's house, that you and I connected."

Aaron Vaducci. With his kind eyes and easy smile, he is the perfect catch.

"You'd better snatch him up before someone else does," my mother said.

She's right. A woman at the ripe age of thirty-three, looking to fall in love with a good man and have his babies and live together with until we're old and gray, well, that kind of girl would be crazy not to give him a chance.

Only there's one problem.

Weeks ago, I made a promise with my best friend, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about what could be.

Days ago, I was kissed by a guy, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about the way his lips felt against my own.

Minutes ago, I was held by a man, and he left a branding on my skin that I can't get rid of.

I look over Aaron's shoulder and see Christian standing on the side of the dance floor. His face is stoic, his attention fixed on us, yet he looks like he's lost in thought. When he sees me looking in his direction, his face morphs into a wide grin as he lifts a glass of champagne, giving a salute.

_No_ , I mouth. _Aaron's not who I want._

He drops his head. _I know._

I raise my shoulders. _Then, why did you hand me off so easily?_

He doesn't have a response.

Aaron twirls me on the dance floor, and I go with the motion, winding back into his arms, only to be spun out again. I laugh because it caught me off guard.

"So, what do you say? Go out with me next weekend," Aaron says, and he puts his hand back around my waist.

I look back to where Christian was standing. He's not there anymore.

The song is still playing as I step out of Aaron's hold.

"I'm seeing someone right now," I say.

Aaron looks genuinely surprised. "If I had known, I wouldn't have been so up-front."

"I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. It's a very new relationship."

"Does that mean I can make you reconsider?" He has a wistful expression.

I shake my head. "No. I'm faithful." _In my vows. In my promises._ "If you'll excuse me, I have someone I have to find."

With a spin, I look around the edge of the dance floor in search of Christian. He's not here, nor is he at our table. I do a quick glance through the crowd of people meandering near their tables and then head over to the bar.

I step toward the exit, into the grand foyer, and find him standing by the elevator bank. His back is to me, his head down. My feet are quick as I waste no time in waltzing up to him and tapping him on the shoulder.

He turns around and looks surprised to see me standing there.

I want to yell at him, tell him he's a confusing bastard who is throwing mixed signals around. Either he wants to have this baby with me or he wants me to meet someone new. He has to know that he can't tell a woman she's more and then walk away. If I'm smart, I'll end this ridiculous plan of ours before it goes too far.

I don't do or say any of those things.

Instead, I do the only thing that feels absolutely right.

I kiss him.

With my hand on the lapel of his jacket, I grip the fabric and pull him toward me, scorching him with a kiss that burns straight to my core.

When his hands grab my face and hip, I don't hold back as I give him every bit of anger and excitement I have in my body. We're lips and tongues and hands, devouring each other, just as we did in the park—except, this time, it's like we're making up with each other for something... everything.

"You have to warn a man if you're going to kiss like that," he says, breathless.

"How do I kiss?"

"You consume me."

He's right. I'm completely ravenous. The elevator ping has me looking at the opening doors. "Where are you going?"

His hooded eyes flit to the elevator as his brows curve in. "My room."

"You were leaving me?"

"I was hoping you'd follow."

My heart is riled as my body zings with a current. "You got a hotel room?"

He nods slowly. "No expectations."

My hand is still gripping his jacket. I watch as his Adam's apple bobs with a hard swallow. I run a hand over the skin and let it travel down his chest.

All our moments have led up to this one. He asked for three dates, and it is the wisest thing he's ever done. I might have known this man for most of my life, but he's shown me in three dates what I always knew but never truly acknowledged.

I want this man. Not just for his body, but also for his mind, his actions, and his words.

He taught me to deny my fears. I'm looking ahead.

He showed me his most vulnerable thoughts. I find him even stronger.

He makes me feel like the most desirable woman in the world. And, tonight, I desire nothing more than him.

"I don't want you to be my friend tonight," I whisper.

His lips part with a sharp inhale. "How do you want me to treat you?"

"Like a lover."

The earth stops.

My words have caused a complete cease of time and space. The only moving thing in this world is Christian's eyes as they dilate black, the promise of my words weighing heavily on the moment.

His chest puffs. His hands grip the silk on my hips tighter, and then he lets go of my dress.

He steps away.

His hand finds the call button, summoning the elevator again. It's here in an instant.

We walk into the elevator. I stand to one side, him on the other. Our backs against the walls.

The doors close.

Game on.

Christian's at my side of the elevator, his hands in my hair, his tongue licking my lips and his kisses electrifying me. His body pushes into me, and I moan at the steel of his erection against me, the silk doing nothing to cushion the hardness of him from rubbing against me.

His mouth is on my neck, his hands up to my rib cage, thumbs running over my breasts. I grip his firm ass and pull him further into me.

The doors open, and he grips my hand, pulling me out of the car and down the hall. Our room is on the right. He swipes the card and opens the door.

The urgency of the moment has slowed down a touch at the sight of the gold headboard of the king-size bed. He closes the door behind us and secures the lock.

As he steps up behind me, his hand skims my waist, and his other palm glides down the front of my body, stopping at the top of my thighs. I fall back into him and turn my head to the side. His lips dance on my skin, kissing me from earlobe to collarbone, leaving a chill in their wake.

I place my hands on top of his and move them from my thighs toward the center of my body. The touch of his large hands, hot and heavy over my core, has me pining in anticipation. I run his hands up and down, the friction building me up, wild and heady. With his hands rubbing me over the silk, his mouth goes back to my neck and up to my jaw, willing my mouth toward him.

I lose myself in his kisses once again.

"Why has it taken me twenty-three years to kiss you?" he asks.

"Good things come to those who wait," I breathe.

"Fuck yes."

He spins me in his arms, and I step back. I want to take a look at him.

He's still as polished and princely as he was earlier, except his lips are swollen and his eyes are glazed with lust. This man—this impossible, gorgeous man, who is looking at me like I could save his life—just might be the death of me.

His hand rises to undo his bow tie. It lies undone as he unbuttons the top three buttons of his shirt.

My own hand rises to my neck and runs a trail down my décolletage and over the curve of my breasts. His eyes watch the way my finger dances over the line where silk meets skin as he undoes his cuff links and places them in his pocket.

I grip the zipper in the back of my dress and slowly pull down.

He licks his lips.

I bite mine as I let my dress fall. A beautiful dress, a mess on a hotel floor. I'm left standing in a black lace bra and matching thong.

"Meadow." His voice is a deep growl as he drinks me in.

"I know you only bought that dress, so you could take it off."

He doesn't deny it. "You're beautiful."

The look he's giving me is so intense; I have to close my eyes.

"I feel like the breath is stolen from my lungs. Telling a woman she's beautiful is too common, but this is the first time I've ever said those words and absolutely meant them." His words cause me to look at him. He takes a step toward me, stopping before touching me. "You've always had this alluring quality, a magnetic vibrancy that attracts everyone to you. I think it's the way you light up when you laugh."

"I'm not laughing right now."

"No. You're a woman ready to be loved, and it is the sexiest thing I've ever seen." His hand rises to the side of my face, and his thumb runs small circles over my cheek. "I want you so bad, Meadow. I think I've always wanted you."

I undo his belt buckle and his pants. "Then, have me."

I glide his zipper and lay my hand over his erection. It's thick and heavy in my hand.

His forehead falls to mine as he groans in pleasure. Then, his hands are on my waist, and he hoists me up and lays me on the bed.

My bra and panties are on the floor in seconds, and his hands and mouth are in their places. His lips suck on a pert nipple as his fingers pinch the other. His body perfectly lines up with mine. My naked body wraps around his clothed one, taking in his weight, his neediness, and seeking relief for my own.

He kisses down my belly, and his tongue dips into my navel. I giggle with the feeling and then stop as his mouth lowers and hovers over my mound. With a swipe of his tongue, he licks the folds, and I let out an audible gasp as I fall back into the pillow. My fingers are laced in his hair, and he licks and swirls and ravages me like a man dying of thirst.

My body runs hot, and my head goes foggy as he enters a finger and then two. I'm shaking from an unexplainable high. He's unrelenting, and he works my body until I'm coming for him, calling out his name and preaching to a god I'm almost certain right now is out there somewhere.

Christian lifts his head and smiles at me, and— _damn_ —I'm breathless. He rises on his knees, and I'm quick to get him on his back and straddle him. My body gyrates on him as I finish unbuttoning his shirt. He sits up and shrugs it off. I take the undershirt he has on beneath and lift it over his head. The washboard abs I've been eyeing for too long are here in the flesh, under my roving hands and just as perfect as I imagined. I push him back down and explore his body, his corded arms, and muscular chest. He does his own touching—first my breasts and then down my belly and hips.

My curiosity runs deep, and I move over to take off his pants. His erection is pitched in his black boxers. I pull them down and toss them on the floor beside my dress. Then, I marvel at the sight before me. Large and firm, it's the definition of a cock. And, tonight, it's all mine.

I pump once, twice, my mouth salivating at the sight of pre-cum glistening on the tip. I lean down and lick it. The hard steel beneath the smooth skin is addicting. I need another taste.

"Oh my God, Meadow. That's... your mouth... heaven."

I giggle. "For a man of the medical profession, you sure are at a loss for coherent sentences." I bob down again and take him deep.

"You have to stop."

"I'm having fun."

He grips my head and pulls me up. Our eyes meet, and his are filled with desire. "I need to be inside you."

Gently, he guides me back down to the bed and settles his body over me. His eyes are firm on mine as he opens my legs and holds himself at my entrance. Slowly at first, he pushes in.

His arms are holding me tight; mine wrap around his neck and over his heart. Our connection never lost. He kisses me as he moves. I arch my hips, and he hits the spot that sends me reeling into the heavens.

He picks up his rhythm.

I grip his chest.

He passionately kisses me.

I raise my hips.

His forehead falls to mine.

I look up into his eyes.

He calls out my name.

I fall apart.

We come undone.

# Chapter Twelve

We kiss for a long time. It seems to be something we've become brilliant at. We roll over onto the sheets that are now crumpled and tossed about. I hold on to him, savoring the moment because, honestly, I'm not ready to leave it.

There's a tingling still simmering through me as his muscular thigh slides between my legs. His powerful body makes me feel dainty as he holds me, caresses me. Even though the sex is over, his desire for intimacy is potent.

_Christian as a lover. I really like this side of him._

He's the first to pull away, his hooded eyes lazy despite the hurriedness of our lovemaking. His eyes dance around my face, and a slow, sexy smile builds on his full mouth.

I lick my lips, unsure of exactly what to say. I don't want to ruin it by making a joke or saying something overly sexy. There's no protocol for this scenario. It feels like I've gone to bed with a man I just started dating, and I don't want to come off too strong.

_A manual would really come in handy right about now. Picture it. "Girls Guide to Dating/Getting Knocked Up By Your Best Friend/Boss's Son." I think it'd be a hit. I can even start a blog..._

"I have to pee," I say and untangle myself from his body. I'm about to get up when I realize I don't want to walk to the bathroom, naked. I pull the sheets toward me and cover up the necessary bits.

"Don't tell me you're embarrassed," he teases from behind me, lying stark naked in all his glory.

"Despite recent events, we're still friends, and I'd prefer if you didn't see my jiggly ass walking away." I lean over and grab his button-down off the edge of the bed. I slide my arms inside and stand up. When I'm properly covered, I face him and do a curtsy.

"Friends." He's looking at the plush carpeting of the hotel room.

I scurry to the bathroom and close the door behind me, leaning my back against the door and taking myself in. My reflection shows the afterglow of a woman who had mind-blowing sex—rumpled hair, smeared eyeliner, swollen lips, and a rosy tint to her entire body.

_Damn._

I cling the shirt closer to my body and inhale his woodsy cologne.

_I had sex with Christian._

My cheeks blush in the mirror as I recall the way his body felt on top of me, inside me. I will have some dangerous fantasies to look back on when this is all over.

_When it's over..._

I run a hand over my chest and take a deep inhale. My heart is skipping. If what we felt was an earthquake, the tingles running over my skin are from the aftershock.

We got caught up in the moment. A planned moment, but we still fell into it—hard.

I stare at myself a moment too long, taking in this new me. For a while, I equated sex with treason. The thought of trusting someone enough to let myself go seemed unachievable. How could one enjoy sex after heartbreak? I often wondered. I'm finding, when you give yourself to someone who helped you pick up the pieces, it's easy.

I freshen up and run my fingers under my eyes to put my makeup back in place. My hair takes a little longer to polish since I don't have a brush. Despite my just-had-sex look, I'm feeling confident as I open the door. That is, until I see Christian standing at the foot of the bed, wearing his slacks and shoes and holding his jacket.

"You're leaving." I try not to sound bewildered.

He runs his fingers over his hair. "I didn't think you'd want to stay. You don't have a bag or anything. The only thing you have to wear is the dress. Unless you want to stay. We could—"

"No. Leaving sounds good." I clear my throat.

Christian booked the room, but clearly, he doesn't have a bag either, so he must have only planned on having sex. _That's good. We don't want to blur any lines here. Right?_

My dress is now lying on the bed with my bra and panties next to it. I take them off the sheets and hurry back into the bathroom.

"Give me a minute," I say as I close the door.

My heart that was at the forefront of my chest before slams into my back. My shoulders roll forward as I let out a huff. _What did I think would happen? We'd go for round two and make out until the sun came up?_

I shouldn't be so hard on myself. I'm a romantic. I believe in sweet moments and happy ever afters. Not that I necessarily thought Christian wanted one with me. I just never had sex with a man in a hotel room and then left. Then again, I have been out of the dating pool a really long time. _Maybe this is what people do in their thirties?_

When my clothes are back on, I push my shoulders back and lift my chin, exiting the bathroom with his collared shirt in my hands. "Here you go," I say with a smile.

His eyes lower as his hand stretches out. "We don't have to leave. I should have told you to bring an overnight bag. I only booked the room this afternoon and didn't say anything because I'd told you I wasn't expecting this. I wasn't. I just wanted to be prepared."

"You always are," I say. "And you're right. We should go."

"I didn't think you'd want to stay and walk out of here in the morning in an evening gown."

"And do the walk of shame? No, thank you." I wave a hand in dismissal. "It's not like I have a ho bag or anything."

He grins with a hitched brow. "A what?"

Grabbing my clutch off the dresser, I tuck it under my arm. "Never mind. You ready?"

His beseeching gaze squints at me as if doing a double take at my nonchalant attitude.

"Almost." His voice sounds unconvinced as he steps into the bathroom.

The door closes, and I flop to the bed, hitting myself in the forehead with my clutch. "What did you think would happen? You'd cuddle all night and pick out baby names?" I pull the brush out of my bag and give my hair a swipe, making it fray on the bottom—opposite of the look I was going for.

The door opens, and Christian comes into view, drying his hands with a white towel. His shirt now on and tuxedo in place, he doesn't look like he just had rampant sex.

"Were you talking to someone?" He tosses the towel onto the sink and steps out.

I pop up off the bed. "Just running through my list of things to do tomorrow."

He nods. "Ready?"

I nod back and then halt. "Do we have to go back to the gala? I don't feel... fresh."

He laughs as he opens the hotel room door. "I'll take you home."

We walk down the hall to the elevator and step inside. We're connected in a far more powerful way than ever before, and yet I feel more distant to him than when he was across the country all those years ago.

We step into the lobby and walk out the gold doors onto the red-carpeted steps of The Plaza. There's a cab dropping people off in front, so he jogs down the steps to claim it and stands by the open back door.

"Share a cab with me?" he asks.

I slide in the backseat. When he takes a seat beside me, he gives the driver my address.

I wrangle my brain, trying to figure out if I want him to come over. _Yes_ , is the first answer that pops into my head. _No_ , is the logical one.

All the pieces fell into place for us tonight, but they're only pieces. They could easily fall apart.

As we drive up Central Park West, I think about my fountain and the many wishes I've made upon it.

I think about the moment Christian and I danced there just a few weeks ago when I told him about my dream. I remember the day he followed me there, waiting for his answer. I gave him one that night. And then there was the kiss we shared in the park. Our first kiss. The fountain was there to celebrate that, too.

Everything that has happened between me and Christian has moved so fast. That's what happens when you're around a man with a magnetic field as strong as Christian's.

When we pull up to my building, he tells the driver to wait and steps out of the car, giving me a hand to help me out. I walk toward the entrance, but he pulls me back. This time, his arms envelop me into a tender embrace. I drop my shoulders and fall into his wide expanse with my head in his chest and my hands gripping his back.

"We did it," he says as he moves my body, so we're face-to-face.

I laugh lightly. "We did."

He places a knuckle under my chin and pulls my gaze to his. "I don't know what to do next."

My heart comes back up to the forefront and flutters. I'm happy to feel those flutters again because I was starting to think I'd gone stone cold. "You and me both."

As he holds on to me with his strong arms, I move my hand to his chest and play with the lapel. He seeks my attention again.

He rests his forehead against mine and confesses, "I've always been flirty with you, but this is intimate."

"You don't regret it, do you?"

His eyes widen as if I insulted and shocked him at the same time. "Never. Not even a thought. Do you?"

"No," I answer quickly. "My only regret is, I didn't plan what comes next."

He laughs and kisses me on the forehead. "We'll just be us," he says with a shrug. Like it's perfectly natural. "If we start overthinking things, we'll risk becoming something we're not, and I don't think either of us wants that."

I take a deep, deep breath and exhale loudly. "Us," I reiterate. "I wouldn't want to be anything else."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

"If I'm around," I say as I step out of his embrace and walk toward the door. "I'm a busy woman."

He places his hand over his heart and appraises me. "Spin class, grocery shopping, catch up on your shows. I'll call when you're a box of Kleenex deep while watching _This Is Us_ and drinking bad wine."

"You're so smug."

"That's why you love me." He winks and walks around the door to get into the cab. "Now, walk inside, so I know you're safe."

"Don't wait until I'm in the elevator. I think you're giving Sal a complex, making him think he's not fit for the job."

"That's a lie, but I'll meet you halfway and drive off once I know you're in the lobby."

I give him a captain's salute and walk inside the doors where Salvatore is standing and walks me to the elevator bank. I look back and see the cab drive away. I feel the smile on my face.

"I take it, you had a lovely evening," Salvatore says as we wait.

"I did. Thank you."

"You are positively beaming." His words give me pause. __ "If I didn't know better, I'd think that doctor of yours is your sweetheart."

I shake my head in dismissal. "That would be wishful thinking on your part."

The elevator doors open, and I step inside.

"Shame. I'd like to see you with someone who puts a smile on your face, Ms. Duvane."

"Me, too, Sal. Have a good night." I hit the button for my floor, all the while thinking about how easily I could fall in love with Christian Gallagher.

Whoever says sex doesn't change things has never gone to bed with their best friend.

"It began with searing chest pain, and then I felt pressure in my sternum," Mrs. Lerry, a patient of ours, explains when she walks into the office.

I pull out my stethoscope and listen to her heart. "And now? Where's the pain?" I ask in a calm voice.

"It's spread to my arms and back."

I look at the woman standing before me. Mid-fifties and fit from being an avid runner. Her color is a bit sallow. She has high cholesterol that we treat with medication.

"Why didn't you go straight to the hospital?" I ask and escort her to a room in the back. As we pass Angela, I instruct her with urgent eyes, "Get Dr. Gallagher Sr. into room two."

I make Mrs. Lerry comfortable on the examination table.

"I thought it was heartburn, but it hasn't stopped. I didn't want to go to the emergency room and waste everyone's time, only to find out it was something minor," she explains as I get the electrocardiogram machine, putting the tabs onto her chest to take a test.

"I'm glad you came in," I say, not showing I'm certain the woman is having a heart attack.

She grabs her lower back and inhales.

"On a scale of one to ten, how's the pain?" I ask as the machine's line jumps, showing me her heart is under stress.

"Six?" she says like it's a question.

"We're calling an ambulance to get you to St. Xavier," I state.

Her eyes widen. "Don't do that. I can walk myself over."

With a shake of my head, I admonish, "You are in our care now and have to follow my orders. You're having a heart attack, but don't worry; you're in great care. The ambulance will ensure you get right up to cardiology without having to wait in the emergency room."

As the words come out of my mouth, the door opens, and Thomas walks in. His eyes go straight to the results of the electrocardiogram. I grab the phone from the wall and call over to the hospital to have them send over an ambulance.

"I eat right, and I exercise. I'm a runner," Mrs. Lerry gasps, astonished, now clutching her side.

"The body works in mysterious ways. We'll get a CT scan at the hospital to rule out artery dissection, and we'll go from there. I'll follow you over and be with you every step of the way," he assures her as he lays a hand on her leg. "You will be okay."

"Did I wait too long? I thought it was heartburn, maybe even an ulcer. I've been sitting like this for hours. I only came in because you were closer than my internist."

"You have a strong heart and the best in the field looking after you," I say.

There's a knock at the door, and then it opens quickly. The two EMS workers are here to take Mrs. Lerry to the hospital.

"I have to call my husband," she says while we unhook her from the EKG.

I hand her, her bag where she takes her cell phone out and scrolls through the screen. She's adamant she walks herself to the ambulance. Thomas gives the okay.

It takes a moment for her to walk hand in hand with the EMS team to the ambulance where they secure her to the gurney, close the doors, and take off down the street.

I'm on the sidewalk, seeing Mrs. Lerry's ambulance drive off, and Thomas comes out with his suit jacket on.

"Good work, Meadow."

"I think it's spontaneous coronary artery dissection. Who's the thoracic surgeon on call today?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm headed over there. I should be back within the hour."

He walks away, and I head back inside, realizing my own chest is pounding. Heart care is boring some days and intense others. It's so intricate; my hands feel tied half the time.

As a nurse practitioner, there's only so much I can do for a patient. Thomas is a cardiologist, and he can't even operate. There's a different surgeon for arteries and valves, and even those specialize in different techniques.

When I chose to study cardiology, it was because the heart was the most important organ in the human body. You can live without a spleen, stomach, a lung. Hell, you can survive with half a brain. The heart is the strongest and most vital.

It's rare we have a patient come in, having a heart attack. To say my nerves are rattled would be an understatement. I feel it down to my toes. I don't know how Christian operates every day. He's literally held on to a beating heart and hooked it up to a heart and lung machine, working on the human body and sewing it back together. Surgeons don't get nearly enough credit for the miracles they perform.

"That was crazy town!" Angela exclaims when I walk to the reception desk and look at the chart for my next patient.

"I can't believe doctors do it all day in the emergency room. All I did was perform an EKG and call an ambulance, and I'm fraught with worry."

"Fooled me. You were as cool as a cucumber."

"On the outside." I rub my chest and shake away the rush going through me.

"Despite the nerves, you did everything right. I didn't even think Ms. Lerry looked sick. You took one look at her in the waiting room and knew something was off. You should be proud."

"Thanks," I say and take the chart for the next patient. I call her name to follow me, leaving Angela as I head to the exam room.

With Thomas out for the next hour, I have to see his patients and hope nothing major develops. One patient has an arrhythmia, so I ask her to sit tight to wait for him. The next three are routine checkups I'm able to handle on my own.

When I bring my stack of files up to the front desk, I notice a large vase of red roses hiding Angela. When she peeks her head around the petals and gives a devilish grin, I don't have to ask who the flowers are for.

"You can argue with me all day that sunflowers mean friendship, but red roses? Girl, you will lose this argument badly."

I hold out my hand because I know she has the card in her possession. She forks it over with a sly smile.

It is just a simple statement— _Love, Christian_. His handwriting, not called in over the phone.

I drop my elbow to the desk and cover my face with my hand. _He's not making this easy._ I don't mind that he is sending me flowers. It's a sweet gesture from the consummate gentleman. I just wish he'd sent them to my apartment.

"He's away this week at the heart valve symposium giving a lecture about the breakthrough technologies in noninvasive heart procedures," I say in explanation.

"And thinking of you."

"Did you know he's one of three surgeons in the world performing a new valve replacement procedure using a transfemerol approach?"

"Did you know he's sending you roses to the office like a love-swept boyfriend?"

"Can we talk about something else?" I plead.

"No. And you're going to tell me all about the gala over lunch."

I shake my head. "I can't leave."

The door to the waiting room opens, and Thomas walks back in. I stand up straight, eager to know the prognosis of Mrs. Lerry.

"You were right. Spontaneous coronary dissection. She's in surgery now," he says.

I'm relieved Mrs. Lerry is getting the right care. I give him the rundown on the patients I saw while he was out and let him know about the one waiting for him in the back. He gives a sturdy head nod and pats me on the back, his way of saying I did a good job.

As he walks away, he glances at the vase and grins, making him look just like his son. "Two-dozen roses? I taught my boy right." He walks away with a proud look on his face.

I cringe at the fact that he knows so much. I lean forward and hit my head against the reception desk.

Angela's laugh echoes the thumps of my head.

"You are so screwed," she says.

_Oh, she has no idea._

"Now, take me to lunch."

We head to Starbucks because all I have time for is a grab-and-go lunch. I eye a few of the cake pops in the glass case but decide against it and get a protein box.

"I saw Sexy Nurse Natasha at the gala," I tell her as we wait to order, hoping no one can hear me over the names being called out and the serene-sounding coffeehouse music on the loudspeakers.

"Give me the dirt! She looked beyond hot, didn't she?" Angela says. Her giant cat-eye sunglasses make her already small face look extra tiny.

"So hot. Like Midtown Barbie." It's my turn to order, so I do so. "Grande, skim caramel latte."

"Venti, dirty chai," Angela pipes in. "Dirty chai for a dirty girl."

I roll my eyes and give the barista our names. Then, I pay for our drinks and boxes. "Anyway, she cornered me and warned me of Christian's _bachelor ways_."

"As if you didn't already know. He's a hot-as-fuck doctor. If he were celibate, I'd be concerned."

A spark of jealousy hits me at her observant yet truthful comment.

We move down the line to the pickup counter and wait for our drinks.

I get bumped in the side as someone grabs a to-go order and continue, "Anyway, I assured her I was not there to be romanced."

"You're so full of shit," she says, and I give her a sneer. "I know; I know. Just friends. Yadda, yadda, yadda."

"She seemed concerned. Told me he would use his tried-and-true moves to get me into bed."

Her shoulder rolls with the question, "So, did he? Use his moves to get you into bed?"

"No."

It's not a lie. He didn't use his moves to get me into bed. He used Backstreet Boys.

"What's so funny?" she asks as I chuckle to myself.

"Nothing. It was an interesting night." I'm still laughing as she looks at me with a puckered mouth. "Oh, relax. I was home before ten." I turn away from her look that tells me she doesn't believe me when I see someone standing by the store's entry, and my stomach drops. "Oh my God."

Angela turns around in the direction I'm looking. "What's the matter?"

"Brock," I state as I stare at my ex-husband, who's in the order line, talking to a petite brunette with perky boobs and a crop top.

"Who's Brock?" Angela asks.

"My ex-husband."

She shoots back at me with a surprised squeal, "You have an ex-husband?"

I nod toward him as he steps up to the register to order. I know from years of living with him that he's asking for a venti iced coffee with milk and three pumps of vanilla.

Angela turns around and lowers her chin to get a good look over the top of her sunglasses. "You mean, the pale Jason Momoa over there is your ex?"

"Yes." I try to turn away, but it's no use.

For all the times I've avoided the television when a game is on or looked away when I saw a sports article, I seem to be making up for lost time with the way I'm taking him in. He's still as large and empowering as ever with his thick neck and wide back. His chestnut-colored beard is long yet trimmed, as it is this time of year. It hides his mouth, which is a shame because he has a really nice smile. Those dark eyes I used to stare at every day are winking at the girl taking his order.

"He looks familiar," Angela says.

"He plays for the Islanders."

"I'm all about basketball, but hockey just might become my next favorite sport. Why did you break up?"

"He cheated on me."

"With her?" Angela's tone of admiration has changed into a girl who looks like she's about to cut a bitch.

I grin at her turn of attitude. "No. I caught him with a ginger-haired Canadian. He gets around. I heard he's dating a Victoria's Secret model."

"She's definitely not a VS girl. I'd know," she says. "Sorry you were married to a scoundrel. I had no idea."

"Meadow. Venti caramel latte," the barista shouts out.

I raise my hand to take my drink. It shouldn't surprise me that, since I have a unique name, paired with the order I've had since I was twenty-five, the call gets Brock's attention.

His eyes jump to me, and the smile he had a moment ago has now fallen. He doesn't look sad or angry. Just shell-shocked, like a man who has seen a ghost.

Angela takes her drink, and I usher her to walk away before Brock can make it to us. There's another entrance that will lead us to the side street, so we make our way for that one.

We're not fast enough.

Brock's hand is on my shoulder, his grip calling me back.

"Meadow," he says.

I turn around. This is what I've been avoiding— _looking_ at Brock. As much as I hate him for being a disgusting pig, I can't help but feel that pang. It's why I keep the albums in my nightstand. The memories of us are etched into the fiber of my being. I can't erase Brock. Not with all the Johnnie in the world.

"How are you?" His interest keen.

"Good," I answer. "You look good."

Believe me when I say, out of all the times I envisioned seeing him again, my first words were not going to be, "You look good."

"I was gonna say the same thing. About you. You look great." His eyes roam over my face, probably taking in my hair that's a little longer and lighter and my cheeks that are a bit thinner. "How are your parents?"

When we were together, family functions were the bane of his existence. Asking about their well-being wasn't one of his good traits.

"They still hate you."

He flinches. "And you?"

_Me? What does one say to their ex-husband who they haven't seen since signing the divorce papers a year ago?_ I still hate what he did. I hate how he took our vows and tore them into the bedsheets. I hate the fact that the life we planned is now not going to happen.

And yet I'm confused. Confused because, for the first time, I'm wondering if it was a blessing in disguise. This notion is so foreign that I don't know how to process it, so I don't. I look toward the brunette waiting for Brock, holding their coffees, and then behind me to Angela, who is glaring at Brock from beneath her sunglasses.

"I have to get back to work," I say as I walk to the door. Because, really, what else is there to say?

# Chapter Thirteen

"It's been a crazy week of late-night office hours. I haven't even gotten my nails done," I say to my mother on the other end of the phone.

She's been talking to me for twenty minutes about the new spa she goes to where they have a five-hour revitalization package.

"Don't let your eyebrows go. They get bushy. I blame your grandmother."

"Why do you always blame my negative attributes on the Duvane side of the family?" I ask. My hands are in a sink of soapy water as I clean up from dinner.

"Because my side of the family is perfect. And hairless. I haven't shaved my legs since 1999."

"That's because you had it lasered off," I deadpan.

"I wasn't that hairy to begin with. I could have been a leg model." She's not even being vain. My mother was a pageant queen and still rocks a bathing suit at the age of fifty-nine.

"You do have perfectly shaped calves." I push my hair off my forehead with the back of my wrist.

"You're welcome. You get those from me," she chides.

I laugh and place a plate in the drying rack. "How are you feeling?"

"Good. Tired. I slept most of the day, which was a total waste. Judith Kent took my place in bridge today. She was so pleased when I called to tell her. The woman's been dying to take my spot at the table. It's fine. I'm feeling better now that I know you're seeing someone."

The glass in my hand slips through my fingers and back into the sink. "Why would you say that?"

"Aaron Vaducci told his mother you'd told him you were seeing someone. She told Judith Kent. Really, Meadow, it's a small circle of friends we have. Nothing you do will ever get past me."

I close my eyes, not prepared to have this conversation. So, I do the next best thing. I fib a little. "I only told him that to ward him off. It was easier than saying I wasn't interested."

"What in the world is wrong with a handsome dentist?"

_Nothing. He's just not a handsome heart surgeon who promised to have a baby with me._

"He's very nice, but we're not a good fit."

"You two were chatting up a storm at my house. Really, Meadow, your criteria for men is worrisome. Now, don't get me wrong; I know modern women are adamant that you don't need a man to be happy. I agree with that." She pauses for a long moment. I think she's taking a dramatic interlude until she lets out a long sigh-like breath. "Sorry, I had to catch my breath for a moment."

"Are you okay? It's not like you to be so tired."

"I'm fine. My point is, your father and I won't be around forever, and I don't want you to be alone."

"You're not even at retirement age, so you can't play that card yet. And don't worry about me. I have Dylan and Aiden to take care of me in my old age."

"Have you given any consideration to freezing your eggs?"

I pause, running the sponge along the inside of a pot. "I read the brochure." I metaphorically pat myself on the back for not lying.

"Consider it."

"I am." I rinse the pot and then dry it with a dish towel. "Just give me a little time."

"You always were my dreamer. Brian is the practical one."

I let out the water, watch it empty down the drain, and sigh. "Maybe I'm still dreaming. There's a guy out there who is going to make all my wishes come true."

"You did meet someone!" Her yelp has me nearly dropping the phone.

"I did not say that." I turn the water back on to rinse the residual suds.

"I heard it in your voice. Who is he?"

"Mom... it's not—shit," I shout as water shoots out from the base of the faucet. Not just shoots out. It's spraying out like a fire hydrant run amok. "I have to call you back. My sink is going haywire."

I hang up the phone and hit the valve to turn the water off. It stops pouring out of the faucet, but it's still pushing up from the base.

I grab a dishrag from the counter and try to plug up the problem with my hand, but it's still shooting up and hitting the ceiling. The rag is soaked. I remove it and get a huge rush of water straight to the face. I let out a squeal at the surge of ice-cold water.

_Knock, knock, knock._

"What?" I yell to see who it is.

"It's Christian," he shouts from the other side.

I wasn't expecting him.

I dash over to the door and open it up. He takes one look at my wet T-shirt and sopping hair and then heads over to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to assess the situation. He crouches down to open the cabinet below the sink and turns a valve. The water stops immediately, and I take in the mess, which is puddles of water... everywhere.

"Aren't you the guy who always comes to my rescue?" I huff, running a hand over my head to push the loose tendrils back.

He stands up and backs out of the puddle he's standing in, not even flinching at how the leather of his shoes will warp. "Looks like I got here just in time."

"What are you doing here?"

"I missed you," he states, his eyes fixed on the kitchen, mainly the counters that have water trickling off the edges like mini waterfalls. "You've made quite a mess."

"Thanks, Captain Obvious. I'll call the super and get this fixed."

"Don't. I'll be right back." His shoes squeak as he walks out of my apartment and closes the door behind him before I even get a chance to ask where he's going.

I grab all my large towels from the linen closet and sop up as much water as I can. Then, I throw them in the washing machine. With the mop, I clean the rest of the floor and then dry the counters with more towels. I sift through the bills and lay them down to air dry. My calendar needs to be replaced. I make a mental note not to use my toaster for a month because the inside is soaked.

I'm getting a chill from walking around in wet clothes, so I change into a 2001 98 Degrees _Revelation_ Tour __ T-shirt and slide on a pair of shorts. I comb my hair and twist it into a high bun.

I'm walking back to the kitchen when the door opens.

This time, he doesn't even knock.

Christian places a brown bag on the counter and takes out his purchases. He has a new faucet, a wrench, and various other things wrapped in hard plastic.

He takes off his suit jacket and tie, placing them on the stool near the counter. Then, he rolls up his sleeves and takes things out of their hard plastic wrappers.

"What can I do?" I ask.

"Hand me some scissors." He holds out his hand.

I place it in his palm as I imagine a nurse hands him a scalpel in the operating room. I even utter the word, "Scissors." Then, I ask him, "Now what?"

"Just relax." He focuses on setting his wrench to the right size. "Smells good in here. What did you make?"

"Lasagna. It's delicious, but it sure makes a mess. Want me to heat you up a plate?"

His right dimple appears with a lopsided smile and a twinkle in his eye. "Yeah. I'd like that."

While he gets down on his knees and empties the cleaning products from the cabinet, I go to the refrigerator and take out the lasagna tray. It might seem like a big meal to make for one, but I love to cook, and this will last me all week.

"When did you learn about plumbing?" I ask as he grabs the wrench and then lies on his back.

"I can lay pipe pretty well."

My eyes go straight to his torso and waist. "Clever."

He gives a deep, haughty laugh. "Get your mind out of the gutter. And you say I'm the crass one."

I cut a piece of lasagna into a perfect square. "How was your symposium? Did you wow the medical community with your brilliance?"

"You've never seen a room of men and women become completely aroused at the words _transcatheter aortic valve implantation_. It was fun though. I like explaining the surgeries and showing video taken from inside the heart. I met a man from Düsseldorf who is working on a new synthetic valve that is supposed to last fifty years."

"I'm glad you enjoyed your trip. You were greatly missed in the office."

He rises from under the sink and doesn't resist sparing me a knowing look. "I knew you wanted to see me."

I suppress a smile as he removes the damaged faucet from my sink.

"Good thing I came because you needed a new fixture. I got you the same as me. All you have to do is swipe your hand underneath, and the water comes out."

"Sounds fancy. I can feel like a doctor, scrubbing in for surgery."

"Makes _me_ happy." He tells the Alexa to play Miles Davis and hums to the jazz music as he works. For someone who made a surprise visit, he sure is making himself at home, playing Mr. Fix-It.

I set the plate in the microwave and walk over to the cabinet above the refrigerator to take out the bottle of Johnnie Walker. I pour myself a glass and watch him. The way his back flexes through the white oxford shirt and how his ass looks in tailored pants—it's a sight to behold. Between his suit jackets or doctor's coat, he's always hiding his backside, and it's a shame. It's such a firm, luscious one. I now know this from experience.

_And, now, it's time to slow down on the Johnnie._

When he's done, he turns the main water valve back on, and my new and improved faucet is in effect. I walk over and test it out. My hand moves over the motion sensor, and it turns on.

"Cool," I commend him.

"I'm happy if you're happy." He kisses my hair.

"If you installed a dishwasher in here, I'd be delirious."

"I can make that happen. What were you doing that the faucet broke anyway?" he asks as he puts all the cleaning products back in the cabinet while I adjust the setting to the perfect temperature.

"I was on the phone with my mother, listening to her plea for grandchildren," I say.

"Was she?" His hand goes to my ankle, the hold tender yet firm.

I swallow, affected, and blow out a raspy breath. His fingers creep up my calf like a spider headed to its web, dancing over my thigh, and land on my lower belly.

His touch is all I've been trying not to think about since he took me to bed. The wonder has been killing me. _Will it happen again? How will it happen?_ We've spoken on the phone and texted a few times, but the conversation has never come up. I haven't seen him in days, and now that he's here, I feel relieved and oh-so damn recharged.

"She might not have to wait that long." Christian rises and places his palms on either side of me, pinning me against the counter.

I lean back to look into his face. It's virile, full of vigor and sexual potency.

My body shakes right down to the core.

"I see you got my flowers." He smirks.

On my counter are the flowers he sent me. I said nothing about the sunflowers, except for a thank you. Now that he's upped to red roses, it's time to address the issue.

"You can't send me flowers at work."

"I wrote nothing scandalous in the card." He leans his weight into me.

I inhale sharply. "People might get the wrong impression."

"I don't give a fuck what anyone thinks." He lays his lips on the skin of my neck. A chill travels down my spine. "All I care about is what you think. What are you thinking about?"

"Right now?" I breathe, and his kisses move up to my mouth. "Not much of anything."

His kisses turn feverish, and I give in way too easily. A fever is a warning system for the body. To suppress it would be catastrophic, so we attack it with a vengeance.

I unbutton his shirt and push it off his chest. He lifts mine over my head. My hands roam over his chest. My brain doesn't know when I'll be able to do so again, so I try to touch him as much as possible.

He seems to be thinking the same thing as he undoes my bra, rubbing over my erect nipples.

"I love your breasts. They're so full and natural. I had a dream about them the other night." His words are muffled as he places his mouth over a nipple. "How they feel in my hands," he says between kisses. "How they taste. The way they swell when you're about to come."

I grab his head and rake my fingers through his hair, pulling his mouth up to kiss him. He pushes my shorts down my hips, and his tongue skims his lower lip at the sight of my bare body.

He drops to his knees. His eyes peer back up with a sinful gleam, and I'm completely unnerved with that one simple look.

He hooks my leg over his shoulder and rubs his thumb over my clit. I grip the counter and lean back, savoring the feel of his delicate fingers over my very sensitive core. When I look back down, I lose myself in the smoldering stare he holds as his lips lean forward and press onto mine.

"I love the way you squirm when I go down on you," he says, his voice is lowered. "The way you arch your back and wiggle your hips into my mouth right before you orgasm, it's gorgeous."

_Holy mother of—_

I can't even keep coherent thoughts as Christian's tongue licks the folds while his finger continues to move in magical circles. I arc my hips into his mouth, begging for more.

He doesn't disappoint as his mouth replaces his fingers, his tongue taking over, licking and flicking, sucking. Not only can this man devour me with his kisses, but he can also devour me with his... _kisses_.

I hiss and cry, panting as my body climbs with the build of electricity running through it. I place a hand over my breast and play with it. The sensations are too much; I want all of them.

"Do you like that?" he asks as he inserts a finger.

I moan out loud. "Yes."

For two people who are supposed to be having sex with the end game of creating a baby, we sure aren't letting pleasure run away from us. At least, Christian isn't.

He works me with his mouth and fingers. My body bends forward, unable to hold my weight as I come on his mouth and hand. And then he works me more.

I'm sated and so incredibly turned on.

I grab him by the hair and pull him up to stand, gripping him by the neck and pulling him into me for a kiss. He's holding my face, caressing my cheeks with his thumbs, as I taste my pleasure on his lips and find it sinfully erotic.

I drop to the floor and make quick work of his belt buckle, undoing his pants and freeing his erection.

"You don't have to reciprocate," he says between clenched teeth as I pump my hand around the thick steel, my thumb roaming over the tip.

"I know. I want to." I put my mouth over his cock and run my tongue wide up and down. I don't know what's gotten over me. I'm a savage woman, hungry for this man and his magic fingers and mouth and oh-so-generous cock.

My hand works in unison with my mouth, pumping him until he grips my shoulders and pulls me up to a standing position.

He hoists me up, and I wrap my legs around him while he walks us down the hall and into my bedroom, laying me on the bed.

When he enters me, it's with a carnal want. My hands grip the sheets, and my hips buck up to meet his. He curls my leg up, getting in deeper, as he rolls his hips and hits every nerve ending in my body.

I bury my head into his chest as the rush of an orgasm crashes against my core, and I feel the waves of pleasure wash over me as he continues to pump and grind, chasing his orgasm before filling me.

He's breathless and spent. His body falls onto mine, and I rub his back as this hot-blooded man comes down from the high we were just riding.

"What happened?" he asks into my shoulder.

"You laid pipe," I say.

His back rumbles with the laughter, and then he bites my shoulder.

"Ouch!" I hit him in the side.

He rolls over. His cock is glistening with the aftermath of our orgasms.

"For the record, I didn't come over for sex," he says. I raise a very suspicious brow. "Well, I was hoping, but I didn't expect it."

"You came at me quite aggressively."

He runs a hand over his mouth. "When you opened the door, you were soaking wet. It took a lot out of me to not get hard."

I play with the hem of my shirt. He's always been a flirt, but this new speak is so foreign to me. I still have to get used to it.

He pulls my hand from my face and kisses the palm. "Don't be embarrassed."

"I'm not. I'm just... I don't know what came over me in the kitchen."

His thumb runs over my lips. "Whatever it was, I loved every second."

As his mouth takes over mine again, I lose myself in his kiss.

The fever has now broken, and what's left is a calmness. A warm fervor awakens as he strokes my hair, and I run my fingers over his jaw. My lashes flutter. He's staring at me, watching me with a quirk to his lips and a crinkle on the sides of his eyes.

He lowers his hand down to the side of my neck and rubs his thumb over my pulse.

I move my hand to his forehead and run my finger over the smooth skin, trailing it down his straight nose and full mouth, past the cleft of his chin, and make a beeline to his chest, laying my hand flat over his skin and feeling the beats pound into my palm.

My gaze holds his as I bite my lip.

"I have to go home. I took a cab straight here from the airport," he says and leans down to kiss my lips.

I don't kiss him back.

"Where's your suitcase?"

"Downstairs with Sal. I told you, I missed you." He walks out of the room, his ass is full view as he saunters out.

"Oh." I rise, too. I grab a T-shirt from my drawer and slide it on.

When he returns, he has his clothes in his hands. He takes a seat on the bed and starts to dress.

I'm adjusting my bun as he buttons his shirt, his back to me. I'm thankful for Christian's willpower. He knows when to call it a day, so we don't take this too far. Still, watching him get dressed makes me feel tawdry.

"Thank you for fixing my sink," I say.

He laughs as he runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair. "It makes me feel good to take care of you."

"My dining chairs are wobbling. Next time you come over, I'll hand you an Allen wrench, and you'll feel fantastic."

He kisses my forehead, his tie dangling from his neck. "I'd love that."

I walk him to the door and open it for him. He grabs his suit jacket off the stool and folds it over his arm.

This angsty rumbling of my gut settles in my chest, and I hate it. It's ridiculous that I can't talk to him about my feelings. Of all the people I should be able to be totally honest with, it's him. I shouldn't be like this with Christian, and I've had enough.

"Here's the thing," I say, closing the door with my back and leaning against it. "You don't have to leave."

His hands halt on his shirt collar as he was adjusting it over his slung tie. He raises his brows. "I don't?"

"No. Unless you have surgery in the morning, then I know how you feel about sleeping out, but, if you want, you can just stay here. If you don't, I'm gonna feel like a one-night stand, and if I'm being totally honest, I really don't want to feel so... dirty."

"Dirty?"

"Yes. I mean, we've always been able to just hang, so maybe you can stay for a few. Plus, you didn't get to eat your lasagna. I have a half-bottle of Johnnie and a full tub of cookie dough ice cream. We could watch some baseball, or we can look through our high school yearbook and make fun of how ridiculous we looked. Anything really. Why are you looking at me like that? Say something."

I watch as his head rises and falls ever so slowly.

A small smirk builds on those thick, kissable lips. "Meadow?"

"Yes?" I bite my lip.

"All you had to do was tell me to stay."

"You don't have to just because I asked. Don't feel obligated."

He puts a finger over my lips. "I got off a plane and came straight here. You're all I've thought about for five days straight. Of course I want to hang out with you. You promised me lasagna. Besides, you said you feel dirty, and I have a great way to remedy that."

I curve my brows, my lips not moving because they're still being shushed by his fingers. With his other hand, he undoes the buttons of his shirt.

"Take a bath with me," he says.

I curve a brow and feel that rumbling in my gut whoosh in a rush of energy, zinging straight to my core.

If I thought I felt tawdry before, I am downright turning into a vixen, and I only have the doctor to blame.

# Chapter Fourteen

"Four stars!" Dylan cheers as he moves his arms to the beat of Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance."

"How are you so good at this?" I huff.

"I got swagger." Dylan drops to the floor, mimicking the avatar on the Just Dance __ game we're playing in their basement. He's still grounded from video games, but I convinced Beth to let him play since his favorite aunt is here.

Aiden is trying to keep up with the rapid arm movements. "Drop it like it's hot, Aunt Meadow."

I do a tiger crawl on the carpet and wait as the music fades. The screen illuminates with the scores. Dylan wins with Aiden and me trailing far behind.

"Rematch?" Dylan asks, but I put my controller down.

"Seven dances was enough for me. Unless you have the '90s boy band edition. In which case, I would school you two with some fly moves."

They look at me like I'm crazy as I do my best moves, including the NSYNC _No Strings Attached_ puppetry dance and morph it into the Backstreet Boys' zombie sway. I might not have been asked on a date until I was seventeen, but I certainly knew how to party. And by party, I mean, watch MTV in my basement and sing into my hairbrush.

"You're so old," Dylan deadpans.

"I might have nightmares when I go to bed tonight," Aiden adds.

With a drop of my shoulders, I tilt my head and surrender. "I lost my cool."

Dylan steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder. "It's okay, Aunt Meadow. You still have a little cool left."

I take the compliment from my nephew and pat his hand. "Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to go play with grown-ups before they yell at me for hiding."

When I arrived for Sunday family day at Beth and Brian's house, I conversed with the adults for a while before going down to the basement to hang with my nephews. My parents were on their iPads, playing Scrabble against one another, so I took the opportunity to hide—I mean, play.

I head upstairs and make a quick detour to the powder room where Beth always keeps the pomegranate-scented soap because it matches the hand towels. She's added some new artwork—framed stills from her and Brian's trip to Corona last year. I wonder if anyone else finds it weird to have Brian staring at you while you pee. It's as if his eyes move with you as you shift around the room. I take a hand towel and put it over the picture.

When I went to see Dr. Abbot a few weeks ago, I had to provide him with information on my cycle. Since then, I've been trying not to track it because that's what Christian and I agreed upon. Still, I've quite known of when I'm ovulating, which is why I'm surprised to see I have my period.

"Damn it."

I know it shouldn't disappoint me since Christian and I only had sex twice, but there was a part of me that was hoping it would happen on the first try.

It's funny; there were years of my life when I prayed to the gods that I wasn't pregnant. Now, I'm disappointed to see I'm not.

I clean up and use the supplies Beth keeps under the sink. I try to find comfort in the scented hand wash I enjoy so much and step out of the bathroom, only to return and remove the towel I put over Brian's photograph.

Beth is in the kitchen, stirring the sauce. "Are the boys kicking your ass in Just Dance?" she asks as I enter the room.

"You should be proud of their twerking skills."

"Don't even joke." She puts the wooden spoon on the counter and wipes her hands with a rag. She faces me and gives me a once-over. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing." I fold my arms and lean my hip against the counter. "I got my period."

Beth's mouth presses into an understanding line as she looks at me with a nod. "That's okay. It hardly ever happens on the first try."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." My shoulder rises to my ear, like it's no big deal.

The basement door bursts open with Aiden and Dylan barreling through the hallway, chasing each other through the kitchen, nearly knocking over one of the barstools.

Beth shouts out to them, "No roughhousing. And wash up for dinner!"

They make their way out of the room, toward the living room.

When she gives her attention back to me, it's with a grimace. "See what you have to look forward to? Anyway, don't worry about it. This is good. Now, you have an exact date to map your cycle with."

"We said we wouldn't plan it."

She leans an arm on the counter and lowers her forehead. "You kinda need to if you want to have a baby."

"So far, it's been fun, letting things happen organically. I'd hate to ruin it."

Her bottom jaw moves to the side as her tongue skim her back teeth. She has a mischievous gleam to her eye. "You're having fun?"

I look up to the ceiling. "You're ridiculous."

She throws the rag at me, and I catch it before it hits my face.

"Spill the beans. I want to know about all this fun you're having."

I toss it back at her. "I don't kiss and tell."

"Fine. Don't tell. Just give me a rating. Scale of one to ten. Five being, _It was good, but I didn't orgasm_. And ten being, _Holy God, I might have triplets from the amount of times the man has made me come_."

I look down with a grin and hold up my hands, showcasing all ten fingers. If I had more hands, I'd put those up, too.

Beth pretends to fan herself with the rag. "This baby is going to be so worth it."

"Who's having a baby?" Mom asks as she walks into the kitchen. She's wearing a gold velour jogging suit, which went out of style about twenty years ago, yet she still pulls it off.

I widen my eyes at Beth for being so damn loud. "Angela Yang, the receptionist, is trying to have a baby. She's mapping her cycle." _I have been getting superb at lying lately. I hate that._

Mom doesn't miss a beat in her willingness to overshare. "Your father and I had to try for months for each of you. Sex every other day for a year to conceive Brian. We started right away for you, and that took two years."

"Wow, that's a lot of intercourse." Beth's eyes widen as she tries to comprehend the amount of sex my parents must have had to get pregnant.

" _You need to fornicate if you want to procreate_ ," Mom sings. "And it helps to know when you ovulate. Most people are on the fourteenth day, so, Beth, if you want to have a third baby, you should try in about twelve days."

She looks horrified, the rag dropping to the floor with a slap. "Why do you know my ovulation schedule?"

"I know Meadow's, too. You're synced!" Mom sways a hand in the air as she comes around the island.

"Oh dear God," Beth says, clutching her chest in mortification.

"You're insane," I say to my mother as Beth and I move to the side when she steps up to the stove.

She grabs the wooden spoon off the counter and gives the sauce a stir. "Don't be so prude, Meadow. You'll be ripe in about two weeks. Maybe that new man you're seeing will slip in the bedroom. In my day, women used to poke a hole in their diaphragm."

"Mother!"

"New man?" Beth turns toward me. Her face has gone from mortified to surprised.

Mom lifts the spoon and has a taste. "Meadow's seeing someone," she explains to Beth. "And you need more garlic."

"Thanks," Beth responds halfheartedly and then looks back at me with a wide smile. "Tell me about this new man you're seeing, _Meadow_."

Mom takes it upon herself to open the cabinet and take out the garlic powder, adding it to the sauce. Beth is looking at her like someone has destroyed her artistic masterpiece.

Mom doesn't seem to notice or care. "Don't ask this one anything about her love life. She's zip-lipped. Just make sure you have on clean underwear, honey, and don't wear the lavender eye shadow. Wear pink. It's softer, and it makes you look romantic."

"I like this eye shadow." I put a hand to my brow, protective of my favorite MAC color.

"You know there's no problem with..." Mom's words trail off for a moment as she takes a deep breath in. Her eyes widen for a moment, as if the wind was knocked out of her. She regains her composure when the episode passes. "Excuse me. As I was saying, there's no problem with trying to look your best for a man. Isn't that right, George?" She motions toward my dad, who is walking into the room with Aiden on his back.

"Whatever your mother says, I agree with her." Dad chuckles. His gray hair stays in place despite how Aiden has his hands wrapped around the top of his head. "You hear that, buddy? Always agree with women, and you'll live a happy life."

"Unless Mom says to eat your spinach." Aiden makes a mock vomit face and shakes his shoulders in disgust. "I will never agree to that!"

"I was just telling Meadow to wear pink eye shadow on her date with her new boyfriend," Mom explains with a hand on the side of her rib cage.

Dad's grin widens. "You have a boyfriend?"

"No. I'm not seeing anyone." I'm adamant and about to continue when I see my mom doing that breathing thing again. "Are you okay?"

She waves me off. "I'm fine. Just been having flutters."

"Heart palpitations for someone with a history of arrhythmia is a serious thing."

Dad lowers Aiden on the floor. "She's been getting them the last three days. Last night, she complained of leg pain but said it passed."

Her breaths are deep, and she appears to be gripping her side like she's trying to push pain away. "It'll pass. It always does."

"Always does?" I'm momentarily flummoxed. "You're in pain. That's more than arrhythmia. Mom, you can't ignore that," I state.

"It's fine. I put on a few pounds from being housebound. I'm out of shape these days." There's a flinch to her eyes as she speaks. Even she knows she's full of shit.

I look at my mom's face. She looks the same as she always has. Her skin is clear, her makeup is flawless, and her hair is as impeccable as expected. I look down at her shirt and realize she looks a little rounder around the middle. Not a lot, but it makes sense why she's wearing sweat clothes. I kneel and pick up her pant leg to look at her ankles.

"How long have you had this swelling?" I ask.

"Please don't make a fuss about my body like that. I ate Chinese food again last night," she says.

I stand up and look at her with a scold. "Mom, you're wearing clogs. You never wear clogs. When were you going to tell someone about this?"

Dad and Beth are staring at her, too, looking accusatory and worried. Aiden sits on the counter-height stool and grabs an apple, looking at us without a care in the world about what we're talking about.

When Dad takes a step forward toward Mom, he gives her a small plea, "Nightingale." That's his nickname for her. He hardly ever uses it in front of us.

She looks up into his softened gaze and gives in. "I called Thomas this morning. I have an appointment to see him tomorrow."

"I work there. Why not just tell me?"

"Because you worry too much," she explains.

"Hi, pot. Meet kettle. And, yes, I worry. You're my mom. I love you. And, if you are going into heart failure, then that's something I need to know."

"Heart failure?" Dad jumps in surprise.

"Grandma's heart is failing?" Aiden drops his apple in devastation. It rolls off the counter and falls to the floor.

"No. That's just a term for when your heart isn't working well. Why don't you and I go set the table?" Beth takes Aiden off the stool and escorts him into the dining room with her comforting hands on his shoulders. She curves her brows inward as she looks back at us.

Mom flinches for a moment. Whatever she's working through in her body right now is not going away.

I keep my voice calm yet firm. "Go to the hospital."

"They will make me stay, and I'm not ready to be poked and prodded." Her tone is obstinate.

She has mentioned that she's tired, and if Dad is saying she's had these episodes a lot, it means I've been lax on monitoring my mother's health. I've been so consumed with Christian and having his baby that I selfishly ignored the signs.

A pang of inner guilt swells inside of me, but I brush it aside. Now is not about me. I have to get my mom to the hospital.

"What's going on?" Brian bellows as he walks into the room, picking the apple off the floor. "Beth just told me to come in here."

I give my mom a stern look. She knows damn well that, if she thinks I'm a pain in the ass, Brian can be an even bigger one.

She closes her eyes and concedes, "Fine. I'll go after dinner. If they're going to keep me in the hospital, I will have a good meal first. Now, get me the salt because Beth's sauce is tasteless."

St. Xavier's emergency room is busy for a Sunday. We check Mom in and sit in triage for an hour while we wait for a bed to open. The only one they have is in a hallway, but it's enough to get her started on an IV.

"Why do you keep saying Mom's in heart failure? She looks fine," Brian asks when we step out of the way as a nurse takes her vitals.

"It doesn't mean her ticker's stopped beating. Because of her valve, her heart can't pump blood as well as it should, so it's working overtime, getting weaker. The kidneys react by causing the body to hold on to water," I explain. "It's common with valve disease."

With his mouth pinched, he takes in the information and doesn't say or ask anything else. I know it's killing him to rely on other people for their expertise. If this were a finance issue, he'd have the facts and figures laid out for the next year. Because he knows little about the human body, he has to just take what information he's given. I bet he spends the rest of the evening on the web, doing research.

"What is taking so long to get her a room?" he asks, looking at his watch with clenched teeth. "Can't Thomas or Christian get her upstairs faster than this?"

I agree; it's frustrating as hell. But I know the criteria for admittance in this hospital. "She's not in immediate distress. They're going to take someone having a heart attack in first, and they won't kick a critical patient out of bed just to get Mom up there. Don't worry. A bed will open, and she'll be more comfortable."

It's two more hours until Thomas arrives, saying he secured Mom a room upstairs in the coronary care unit. Thank God because, with Brian pacing and the lack of oxygen and windows in this place, I was getting motion sickness.

"We'll keep you on an IV of a diuretic called Lasix to get the water out. In the morning, we'll run tests and see what's going on," Thomas says from the foot of Mom's bed.

She just nods as he talks to her about her symptoms over the last few days and explains what she can expect in the ones ahead.

Brian seems annoyed that we went through all this trouble to get Mom up here, only to have her sit and wait. He wants action and answers. I kind of understand and am grateful that he just stands here and grunts instead of saying anything rude to Thomas or the nurses on staff.

When Thomas leaves, Dad unpacks Mom's hospital bag, putting her books and magazines in the top drawer and slipping a bag of candy in the second.

Brian and I are sitting on the heating vent with our backs against the window, being nothing but flies on the wall, watching and worrying. As much as I hate to say it, being a nurse leaves me unprepared for the emotional toll of my mother being in the cardiac care unit of a heart institute.

I'm chewing on my thumbnail when Christian walks in. My nerves vary when he appears—a little more relaxed because I know he'll take care of my mom and heightened as I remember what we did the last time we were together.

_I might never look at my kitchen counter the same way again._

He's in slacks and a button-down. You'd only know he was a doctor from the hospital ID badge he's wearing around his neck.

"I heard we had a new patient up here," he says with a broad smile, not showing a lick of concern.

Mom beams when she sees him. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes? I didn't want to come, but someone"—she thumbs in my direction with a twisted expression—"bullied me here."

He looks my way with a gleam in his eye and laughs with that deep baritone. "Meadow is hard to say no to. She held me hostage the other night, eating lasagna on the couch until midnight."

"Such a heavy meal. That's no good for the waistline." Mom tsks in my direction.

I scowl at my mother as Christian defends, "Meadow has a perfect figure, just like her mother."

Mom soaks up Christian's charm, which makes Brian rub his forehead and look at his watch. Dad doesn't even react. He knows this is Christian's way of making Mom smile. And she is, ear to ear.

Christian takes a seat on the edge of Mom's bed and puts a hand on her calf. "I wanted to pop in and see these legs. I heard you had some fluid." He does a quick assessment and doesn't show a negative reaction at all. "I'll stop in tomorrow afternoon to see if the swelling is down. Just relax and enjoy the vacation."

He kisses Mom on the cheek and bids Dad and Brian farewell. I excuse myself from my family and follow him out.

When we're in the hallway, we step to the side to make room for a nurse coming down the hall with a medicine cart.

"Thanks for coming by," I say to him, clutching the wishbone necklace around my neck.

"I have surgery tomorrow, so I was seeing a patient when Dad texted that your mom was coming up. I couldn't _not_ come to see her even if I wanted to." His words are tender as he puts his hand on my jaw and raises my chin. "You okay?"

I blink back the emotion I've suppressed the last few hours and take a heavy inhale. "I'm angry with myself for dropping the ball. I should have known she was in heart failure. I should have—"

"Don't blame yourself. If it weren't for you, she wouldn't be here, getting the care she needs."

I look up and away, breathing in the emotion that I have been neglecting to feel. "She scares me." My chest collapses in as I exhale. "I complain about her all the time, but I don't know what I'd do without her."

"Hey, hey, hey."

He pulls me in for a hug, and I fall into it, seeking comfort in the warmth of his chest and that woodsy scent I love. My arms cling to his back, and I grip onto him like he's my lifeline.

"Don't worry. I'm gonna do everything I can to make sure she walks out of here, healthy and happy. She'll be prying into your life again in no time."

I laugh into his chest. "Oh, a little heart failure won't stop her. Thank you though." I sigh. "I know you'll take care of her."

He leans back and looks down at me, appraising me as he caresses my cheek with his thumb, brushing my hair away from my face. "Is that all?"

I close my eyes and shake my head. Part of me doesn't want to say anything, but it's silly at this point to keep anything from him. "I'm not pregnant. It's nothing. It just surprised me."

"That just means, we try again," he says easily.

I open my eyes and see he has smile crinkles on the sides of his eyes. I can't ignore the way chills rush through my body at his easy way of saying we'll try again.

"Unless you want to stop?" His brows rise, making a line appear on his forehead.

"No. I still want this," I answer honestly. "You?"

That tender smile widens, showing off gorgeous pearly whites and the cleft of his chin. "Yes."

His attention fixes over my shoulder, and I turn around.

Brian is in the hallway, staring at us. "I'm heading out," he says, walking past us.

"I'll head out with you," Christian says to him and then kisses the top of my head. He places his hands on my shoulders and lowers his eyes to mine. "We'll get her fixed as soon as possible."

"I know." I give a closed-mouth smile in agreement as he backs away.

"Good night." My brother kisses me on the cheek, and I watch as the two men walk away.

Brian has always had respect for Christian's medical opinion, so I'm sure he'll use this opportunity to ask him all the questions that have been eating him away all night.

In Mom's room, Dad is plugging her iPad into the wall as I walk in. Her favorite Sherpa throw is over her hospital blanket, and a picture of Aiden and Dylan is on her tray table next to another of all seven of us taken at my party a few weeks ago. She has a bag of Werther's Originals at her side and a murder-mystery novel lying on her lap.

"You're all set. Looks like someone is ready to have you move in here permanently," I joke, rubbing my dad's shoulders.

"Your father spoils me," she says, and Dad makes a humming sound in agreement. Mom holds out her arm, gesturing for me. "Meadow, come here."

I walk to the other side of her bed and sit in the wooden guest chair by the window. I take her hand. It's cold yet smooth. She gives it a squeeze.

"Thomas is very proud of you, you know."

"When did he say that?"

"Every time I see him. He thinks you're doing a beautiful job. So do I."

"And here I thought, you were annoyed with me for forcing you to come here," I say, knowing she's not mad in the slightest.

She stretches one of her legs. "I knew something was wrong. I just needed someone to tell me what to do. Looks like someone is becoming like her mother."

I groan out loud at the thought. She laughs at my dismay.

"Good thing you pushed me to be a nurse. I wanted to be an actress."

She pats the top of my hand. "And a lovely one you would have made. I wanted more for you. Stability."

"I know, Mom."

And there lies our relationship. She meddles, but it's only because she loves me. I let her because I love her even more.

"Doesn't help that you were right. I enjoy working with Thomas, and, as it turns out, I'm pretty good at what I do."

"You get that from my side of the family." She winks, and I chuckle.

"I've never doubted it." I kiss her goodbye. "See you tomorrow." Turning to my dad, I suggest, "Do you want to come to my place and get some sleep?"

He shakes his head like I'm crazy for even offering. "I'm staying by Mom's side."

"There's nowhere for you to sleep," I state.

He thumps the arm of the reclining chair he's sitting on. "This is enough for me. I didn't leave her when you and Brian were born, I didn't leave her the last time she had heart surgery, and I'm not leaving now."

I give my dad the biggest hug, say good night to my parents, and leave the hospital.

Walking through the park at night isn't always the wisest decision, but it's not even nine, and I need the fresh air. Central Park is lit well, and there are many people out, walking their dogs or taking a stroll.

When I get to Bethesda Fountain, I look up at the bronzed angel gleaming in the moonlight. Her arms are open, asking for my wishes, so I make one.

I make the same wish, but tonight, I hold my coin to my chest and think of my mom.

It's not just a wish; it's a prayer. A plea for the one woman who has cared for me when I was sick, has fought for me on my down days, and loves me when I'm at my worst. No matter how logical I try to be, I can't help but feel frightened at the thought of losing her.

I believe in medicine. I know science, and it's on her side. Still, the thought of my mother dying is one of the few things in this world that scares me the most. She's too young to go through heart complications for the second time in her life. As much as she is the pillar of strength for our family, it's only natural that she's worried. That's why she didn't want to go to the hospital. She's frightened as well.

With a flick on my thumb, I toss my coin in the fountain and continue on home.

Salvatore is there when I get back, and I tell him about my mom. He offers to keep her in his prayers. I appreciate that.

I take a shower and change. Then, I head to my kitchen and open the refrigerator, staring at the contents with no desire to cook. We ate an early dinner, so my tummy is grumbling, and I look for something to stifle the hunger. The lasagna, while delicious, looks like a lead weight in the tray. I close the door and stand here with my chin on my chest.

A knock at the door is the only reason I move my feet. I look through the peephole and see Christian standing in the hallway.

I open the door.

I must have a confused expression on my face because he lifts a plastic bag in his hand and explains, "Thought you could use the company."

He has the bag in one hand and a leather satchel in the other. He walks past me and into the kitchen, and I close the door behind him in wonder. The satchel is now on the floor by the couch, and he's rummaging through the contents of the plastic bag at the kitchen counter.

"I have steak au poivre for you. Chicken saltimbocca for me. I'll steal your carrots, and you can have my potatoes." He opens the cabinets and takes out dishes. Gone is the suit from before. He's wearing jeans and a thin crew neck shirt.

I watch as he sets the dining table for two, right down to the placemats he knows I keep in the side credenza.

When he plates our dinners, I ask, "How do you know I haven't eaten?"

He looks up with a grin, not stopping what he's doing. "Have you?"

"No."

"I know," he says with a smug shrug. "And, since I know you had Sunday sauce at your brother's, I figured you wouldn't want to eat the lasagna. Just don't tell your mother I'm feeding you this late at night." He winks.

I shake my head with a light laugh as I grab a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. Since he has surgery tomorrow, he won't drink alcohol tonight. In fact, I'm astonished he's doing anything tonight.

"I'm surprised you came out of your cave this late when you have surgery in the morning."

He doesn't answer. Instead, he holds out a seat for me. I put the pitcher on the table and take the offered seat, looking down at my plate that's a mishmash of the two dinners he ordered for us.

"You know what I realized I don't know about you?" He takes his seat and grabs his fork. "Your favorite flower."

He pops in a carrot, and I quirk a brow at him.

"Makes sense why you jumped from sunflowers to roses. Quite the juxtaposition." I pour iced tea in our glasses. "Are flowers the only thing you think you don't know about me?"

He finishes chewing and weighs this over for a moment. When he swallows, he looks straight at me and recounts, "You use way too much creamer in your coffee; there's always a jar of peanut butter in your cabinet, and you don't share because it's for your dipping spoon only; you have an affinity for scented hand soap; and you have a unique excitement over filing our forms." There's a short pause as he looks up, thinking, and then adds, "And you're afraid of turtles."

"They're slimy, and the way their heads poke out of the shell is creepy."

"You'll eat anything with bananas, even sushi, and if I were to ask you out for a karaoke night, you'd fight me for the microphone."

"'Shoop' __ is the best song ever," I declare with a pointed fork.

"I also know you keep photos in your nightstand that you refuse to part with because they're part of your history." He's not saying this like it's a bad thing. He's just observing.

I swallow my bite. "I didn't know anyone knew about those."

His eyes look at me, disarming, as a tender, compassionate grin gleams along his face. "I like that you have them. You love hard, and feel deeply. You also hide away. You might not like turtles, but you're just like one. Turtles can't let anyone in."

"So, now, I'm a turtle?"

He looks down and smiles sweetly. Then, he looks up at me through his long lashes and speaks as if he has a secret and is letting me in on it, "Hard on the outside, super soft on the inside. It's okay. Every turtle has to come out of its shell every once in a while. I just wait until you're ready."

There's a truth to his words, and they hit me in the chest with a force that takes my breath away. It's beyond belief when someone can describe you better than you can explain yourself.

"Daisies," I say as I look down and cut my chicken. "My favorite flower is the daisy."

"Good to know." He grins.

"So, there we were, standing on the roof, in nothing but our bathing suits, flippers, and scuba masks, locked out in the dead of March."

"How did you get back inside?" Christian hands me a dish.

After dinner, we popped open the tub of chocolate chip cookie dough and split a mug full of it. He's now washing the dishes with my new faucet while I dry.

"Luckily, it was the second-floor roof, so we could scale down the side of the building." I take a dish from him and wipe it with the dishrag.

"I take it, you had to ditch the flippers."

"And the masks. Problem was, when we got on the ground, it was in front of the picture window of the meeting space where the president was hosting an alumni dinner."

He turns around to assess my face. "You've got to be kidding me. How come I've never heard this story before?"

I guffaw. "Because it was pretty damn embarrassing."

"No. It's pretty damn funny."

"Maybe now. At the time, it mortified me."

"All this to get into a sorority." He raises a brow. "Wait, you weren't in a sorority."

"Hell no. Between the danger of being trapped on the roof and the bikini show we gave to the alumni—which the girls knew was going to happen once we climbed down—I realized it wasn't for me. I joined the Good Samaritans Society instead."

"That's my little do-gooder," he says, so I give him the finger. He retaliates by splashing me with water.

"Real mature," I chide, and he splashes me again.

I grab a cup of iced tea off the counter and dip my fingers in to flick him. He looks down at his shirt and the tea-colored stain on it. A wicked Cheshire cat grin coats his face as he steps away from the sink and lunges toward me.

"You asked for it." His voice is teasing, and in seconds, I'm tackled down to the floor.

It's way past my bedtime and what I would think is Christian's. I thought he would have left an hour ago, but he's still here. I'm happy; don't get me wrong. I'm just... confused.

My bathroom door is closed since he walked in there with his satchel. I'm in the living room, straightening up, as the door opens at the end of the hallway, and he steps out, wearing flannel pajamas and a white T-shirt.

"Meadow," he calls out, and I pop into view. "Where's your toothpaste?"

"In the medicine cabinet." I point even though I only have one cabinet in the bathroom, so it shouldn't be difficult for him to find.

He keeps the door open while he brushes his teeth, and I stare at him as one would a lion in a safari.

_He's a fertile male, distinguishable for his impressive mane, signifying masculinity. The darker the mane, the healthier the lion, as it allows him to appear stronger and appeal to lionesses, which are proven to be more attracted to thick, dark manes._

Christian turns the light off and exits the bathroom with his satchel in hand. He walks it into the living room where he places it on the coffee table and takes out a blue file folder.

"I thought you had surgery tomorrow?" I say as it has become abundantly clear that he is staying over.

"I do." He looks up from the open file that holds scans and hospital records.

"You're staying," I state the obvious.

He looks around, puzzled. "Unless you want me to leave. Although I'd prefer not to go home in my pajamas."

"No. I want you to stay. I just know you like to stay home the night before surgery."

"The surgery isn't until the afternoon, so I thought I'd sleep in a little. I brought my stuff, so I can review here. Is that okay?"

"Yeah. I've just never seen you go out of your routine."

His teeth skim his full lower lip. "You were upset for more than one reason tonight. I thought you could use the company more than I could use the silence."

A rush of emotion swarms up my spine and flocks into my chest, making my heart feel like it's grown ten sizes. Good thing it's protected by my rib cage, or that one line of chivalry would have had it bursting out and into his arms.

I walk up to him, kiss him on the cheek, and then head back to my room to get ready for bed.

I look at myself in my t-shirt and decide I should be an adult tonight. I slide on silk pajamas and then head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I smile at the sight of his toothbrush sitting in the holder.

In the living room, Christian is sitting on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, an iPad in his hand and a medical journal on his lap. He's looking at the scans and flipping through the screen in serious concentration.

I take the romance novel off the bookshelf and take a seat on the opposite end of the couch, stretching out my legs until they're just touching him.

Christian lays a hand on my foot and gently rubs it as he does his work.

I open my book and read.

# Chapter Fifteen

It's been said, the one thing you can't control is the weather. We can control our careers and our diets and, to some degree, our personal relationships. It is an undeniable truth that you can't stop the rain clouds from forming and pouring down buckets of condensation. I whip open my umbrella and run out of the office. You might not be able to control it, but you can prepare for it.

The weather saying is only partly true. While you can't control if it will be rain or shine, you also can't prevent many diseases. Sure, with a healthy lifestyle, there are many you can control. Certain cancers, nerve and spine disease, and heart valve deterioration are not one of them.

My mother has had mitral valve prolapse her entire adult life. It was never a big deal. Taking an antibiotic when she went to the dentist was the extent of her coronary care. As time went by, she felt flutters, got sick, and had to have the valve replaced. We joked at the time that she was part pig because she had a replacement valve made of porcine tissue. She didn't care for the jokes, and we laid off, living life as we had before. It was fine until recently when her seemingly healthy life took a one-eighty.

As I walk from my office to the hospital with my umbrella shielding me from the sideways rain, I'm reminded of just how many things you can't control.

Maybe that's why having a baby is important to me. It's something I can achieve on my own without having to rely on fate. Sure, I might need Dr. Abbot's help, but whether it's natural, in vitro, or adoption, I know I will become a mother. I can seize control in this world that can be as unpredictable as the fact that, by the time I make it to the front entrance of St. Xavier, the rain has subsided, and a small ray of early evening sun is trying to poke through the clouds.

"How's the little patient doing?" I say, chipper although I'm exhausted from a ten-hour shift.

Mom's been in the hospital for four days. I've been up here on my lunch breaks and every night after work. Her charts haven't been looking good, but I've been advised by my boss and his son to keep her spirits high.

"I come bearing gifts from the outside world." I hold out a decaf latte and a white bag with a blueberry scone.

"You are a godsend. Put it on the table." She's lying on her side and taking her time to get up. Her movements are staggered as she pushes her body up the mattress like she weighs a thousand pounds. "I asked your brother to bring me up a sandwich for lunch, and he refused. I tried to explain I'm not here because I have clogged arteries. I want real food."

I chuckle as I shrug off my coat and put my wet belongings in the corner. "A heart-healthy diet is to prepare you for surgery, so I made sure the scone is sugar-free, and the latte is skinny."

"Is the surgery happening? I'm sick of this place. All they do is take blood and portable chest x-rays." She gasps for breath. "And I'm having the damnedest time, catching my breath."

I don't have my stethoscope with me, or I'd listen to her lungs myself. "We'll get it checked out."

Mom takes her latte and peels back the plastic top, taking a sip. She moans at the goodness. "That is delicious. Would you like candy?"

She opens her side table drawer. There's twice as much in it as there was when she came the first night. Dad is keeping his lady well stocked.

I lean over, grab a few Riesens, and plop into the wooden chair. "Where's Dad?"

"He went to get dinner in the cafeteria."

"I wish I had known. I would have joined him."

"He's a funny duck. I wish he'd go home with you and get real sleep. That recliner can't be comfortable."

"I've asked a dozen times," I say with a sigh, unwrapping my caramel. "I'm lucky I got him to visit me at the office today. You'll be happy to know, I brought him a tray of chicken parmigiana, so he had a home-cooked lunch. He left it in the refrigerator at the office. I thought he would go crazy, being away from you for the thirty minutes he was there."

She tries to sit up a little more, so I grab her coffee and give her a hand.

"When the nurse comes in, I'll ask if I can have a listen to your back," I say, noticing the wheezing coming out of her mouth.

"Oh, you'll love her. She's absolutely beautiful and just the sweetest. I think she gets collagen injections in her lips." Mom takes another sip of her latte and then waits a beat before continuing, "When this is over, I'm thinking of getting my own lips done as a reward." She runs a finger over her thinning mouth. "This girl is perfect for Christian."

I chew the chocolate-flavored caramel and swallow. "Mom, he works on this floor. If he hasn't made a love connection, then chances are, they're not interested in each other." I unwrap another candy.

"Natasha and Christian dated already. I'm going to get them back together."

I pop another candy in my mouth. "I should have figured."

"She is just divine. Speak of the devil." Mom looks toward the door as Natasha saunters into the room.

"Good evening, Gail," she says, looking flawless in her pale pink scrubs that highlight her tiny waist.

I bet she has them tailored. She has a plastered smile on her face as she goes up to the whiteboard and erases the day shift nurse's name and replaces it with her own.

"Hi, Natasha." My words come out muffled because my molars are sticking together from a fresh bite into my Riesen.

She does a double take when she sees me sitting in the guest chair in the corner. "Meadow. Nice to see you again."

Mom perks up. "You two know each other?"

I nod. "Christian brought Natasha to dinner at the Boathouse."

"And we saw each other at the Plaza. We had a"—Natasha pauses, choosing her words wisely—"lovely conversation before Christian whisked her off to the dance floor."

"You know what song I never cared for? 'The Way You Look Tonight.' So cliché," I state with a small smile.

Natasha raises her brows in agreement. "Yeah, good thing they didn't play it." If her glare could speak, it would say, _Touché_.

"I love that song," Mom chimes in as Natasha walks to my mom's bedside and looks at her legs. "My husband and I saw Michael Bublé at Madison Square Garden. Bublé sang that song, and I couldn't help but drag my husband into the aisle and dance. The spotlight shone on us, and the entire arena applauded. Can you believe that? Thousands of people cheering for us. Bublé even made a joke, saying he'd have to retire now because we were stealing his thunder. That's not the only joke he told that night. He has a filthy mouth, that one. I loved it!"

Natasha laughs at the story. "I love his music. Maybe I'll get to see him when he comes back to town." She checks the IV line that's going into my mother. "Your mom is the best patient. Her stories kept the staff laughing all night." She puts a hand on her shoulder. "Nice slippers. Are those new?"

I look down and see Mom has a new pair of slippers on her feet.

"My daughter-in-law, Beth, got them. She's a shoe blogger, you know."

I love how my mom talks to people as if they already know her life story. Although, knowing she was holding a captive audience all night, they probably do.

Mom turns and explains, "Beth and the boys came up for a visit after school. She said Aiden was sick with worry, and Dylan has been sullen. They needed to see I was okay."

Natasha checks Mom's chart. "A visit from family is the best medicine. How are you feeling today?"

"Uncomfortable. I feel pressure in my back." Mom takes a labored breath and adjusts her hip on the bed.

Natasha's brows furrow as she takes the stethoscope off her neck and pops it in her ears to listen to my mom's lungs. She doesn't look pleased with what she's hearing.

"Did you get that night cream I recommended? Meadow refuses to take my advice about a proper skin care regimen," Mom says as she takes her deep breaths for Natasha.

"Not yet," she replies with a scowl.

"Can I take a listen?" I ask.

She doesn't hesitate to offer me the stethoscope.

I stand and place the chest piece on Mom's back. The low-pitched wheezing sound is deeper than it was forty-eight hours ago when it seemed to be getting better. That was short-lived progress. This is a significant sign she is in the advanced stage of heart failure.

I look over to Natasha, who gives me a wary glare. She knows the sound is not ideal and that measures need to be taken. Still, we don't alarm my mom.

"I was telling Meadow how I think it would be wonderful if you and Christian gave it a go again." Mom's meddling doesn't seem to refrain, even when it's not her own children.

Natasha gives me an inquisitive albeit accusatory look. "I thought he was dating someone else."

"Is Christian dating anyone?" Mom looks my way.

I give the stethoscope back to Natasha and shrug. "Not that I know of. I went with him to the gala because he's a single man at the moment."

"You know, Meadow is seeing someone, but she won't tell me who it is," Mom's declares as Natasha's eyes widen with interest.

"Because you're a nosy hen. Sometimes, it's nice to keep things from you," I tease as Natasha and I lay her back down and make her as comfortable as possible.

She seems to find ease from lying on her side, says it's easier to breathe, so I prop a pillow behind her back.

Natasha is finishing up her assessment of Mom as Thomas walks in with Christian right behind him.

"Two Dr. Gallaghers in one evening!" Mom beams with a haggard breath. "Thomas and I have been friends for thirty years," Mom tells Natasha. "That's how Christian and Meadow met. They were just two cuties with crushes on each other. They always seemed to never be single at the same time. Then, he went to college, and then she went to college. Then, he moved to San Francisco, and she married that awful hockey player—"

"I don't think Natasha needs to hear the full history," I state.

"I find it fascinating," Natasha says with a forced smile. "Good evening, Dr. Gallagher," she says to the senior Gallagher and then gives a pointed sneer to Christian. "Dr. Gallagher."

If her tone were a hand, it would have just slapped him in the face.

Christian doesn't take offense. He gives her a nod and then looks to Mom, as does his father with his hands folded in front of him, stoic.

"Thomas, I don't feel better on this medicine you're giving me," Mom tells him before he says a word.

"I want to increase the Lasix from sixty micrograms to eighty. If we can get the fluid down, we can try for another cardioversion to get the arrhythmia in check."

I chime in, "She can't breathe. It labors with every word she says. I don't think more edema will work."

Christian's mouth twists as he walks up to my mom and gives a listen to her lungs. Natasha assists him, getting my mom back up to a sitting position.

"When was the last time she had an X-ray?" he asks.

"Yesterday morning," Natasha replies.

"She needs another," he orders and turns to his father. "We're gonna have to drain her lung."

"Oh Lord have mercy." Mom deflates into her bed.

I move close and rub her shoulders. As much as she's tried to be nonchalant about this hospital stay, I know from the way she's clenching her eyes that she's positively frightened. We can all pretend she just needs meds and a simple procedure to make her feel better, but it's all a ruse. Mom needs heart surgery to repair the leaky valve.

"Let's see what the X-ray says first." Thomas sounds adamant, but Christian doesn't seem pleased.

"Can I have a minute with you in the hallway?" he says to his father.

The two men step outside as I continue to rub Mom's back. Natasha steps out as well, and I try to be Mom's strength as she cries into her pillow. When Dad returns, Mom updates him on what the doctors said.

I need to give my parents a minute to talk and get answers for myself, so I walk out to the hallway. I head toward the circular nurses' station and see Thomas and Christian talking on the other side. I walk around it and stand in a doorway nearby, a few feet away.

"Enough is enough," Christian scolds his father. "I'm taking over."

"Let's give it one more day. If I can get her back in rhythm, then she'll have more time. I can shock her heart and get her stable."

"The valve is deteriorating."

"Only because she's in atrial fibrillation," Thomas explains. "Let me do another cardioversion—"

"I'm replacing the valve."

"She won't survive open heart surgery. She's already been opened up in the past. The scar tissue creates an obstacle, and her heart won't last on the bypass machine."

"She has severe mitral valve regurgitation. Her blood is flowing in the wrong direction, and it's leaving a large hole in her heart."

"Replace the valve, and she'll run the risk of sepsis."

With a hand on his face, Christian looks down like he's weighing his options. "I'll perform the transcatheter procedure—the TAVR I've been working on."

"It's too new, and you told me yesterday that she could stroke out. Besides, that procedure is for the aorta. We're talking about a mitral valve here. It's completely different."

Christian places a hand on his hip and points at his father with the other. "We're not waiting anymore. I'm tapping the lung, and tomorrow, I'm getting a good look at that valve with a nuclear cardiology test. If I can find a pathway, I'm performing the surgery."

"Christian." Thomas looks exasperated. "This isn't a chance for you to play mad scientist. This is Gail we're talking about."

Christian doesn't miss a beat. "Exactly."

He doesn't wait for his father as he walks away and back toward Mom's room. Thomas stands at the desk for a long moment, his hand on the Formica as he shakes his head in dismay, and then walks back in the opposite direction Christian went.

I knew there was a reason they were postponing Mom's surgery, but the fact that they're discussing survival rates like this is staggering. When Mom had heart surgery a few years back, it was pretty cut and dry. She wasn't sick like this and checked into surgery that morning, as she would a dental cleaning. She was in recovery a few hours later and home in ten days. We were a wreck with worry, but there wasn't this back and forth, waiting in the hospital for days. That was stressful, to say the least, but this is downright shattering.

I don't go back into Mom's room. Instead, I wait outside the closed door and play with the charm on my necklace, feeling it run up and down along the metal chain.

The door opens, and Christian comes out of the room, not surprised to see me leaning against the wall.

He closes the door behind him and takes a spot next to me. "I'm sorry you had to hear that."

"You knew I was eavesdropping?"

"You're hard to miss. Not very stealthy." He grins at his joke and then inhales, his smile leaving. "Your mom is my patient now. I sat with her, held her hand, and explained what will happen."

"And that is?"

"I am going to fix her heart."

I let out a half-laugh. "With the radical new procedure that has only been performed how many times?"

"In the world? Thirty-six. By me? Eight." His dark eyelashes bow down to mine. "Are you worried?"

"Yes. Less, knowing you're the one who's going to do it. Is it even possible? Do you think she'll stroke out?"

He sways his head to the side. "With her fast and irregular heart rate, she's a high stroke risk whether or not we do the procedure. I'll look at the scans tomorrow and make a plan for surgery. I wanted to see you later tonight, but I have work to do."

"So, you can perform mock procedures to ensure you don't kill my mother while you attempt to heal her?"

"That will be my focus tomorrow. Tonight, I need to study her previous surgery." He runs his hands up my arms, warming me up. "You should go home and sleep."

"Fuck that. I'm staying here."

"Meadow." He uses a tone of authority.

"I'm not leaving. Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to become a psychotic family member who won't let you do your job. I'm being very good, by the way."

"Surprisingly." He raises his hands to my head and taps me on the temples. "Just make sure you talk about what's going on in that head of yours."

"You already know my thoughts."

"Just when I think I do, you go and get a new crazy thought." He kisses my forehead. "I've got this. I _am_ the best."

"Only because there's about three of you doing this procedure in the world."

"Case in point." That cocky attitude of his is back in place. "Sweet dreams."

I watch as my handsome, smart, cocky doctor walks down the hall. Knowing Mom is in his hands has me feeling better because he's right; he _is_ the best. And, even so, I can't help that gnawing feeling in my gut as I wonder what would happen if he failed. Not only do I not know what I would do without my meddling mother, but I also wonder if Christian could forgive himself.

With the shake of my head, I walk back into the hospital room and take a seat by the window. Mom has fallen asleep, and Dad is sitting by her side with her hand in his, watching the news. I sit in the guest chair and take her other hand and hold it. My dad gives me a small smile. His eyes are glassy from the concern he's holding.

"She's been like this for a while. I wasn't allowed to tell you guys. She'd sleep for five hours in the middle of the day. If she knew we had something coming up, she'd stay inactive to save up her energy. She said it was fine, but I knew, and I said nothing," he explains quietly, careful not to wake her.

"Don't blame yourself. There's no way you could have known it would lead to this."

He wearily looks back at me. "Same for you. I know you think you should have had her treated earlier."

I sigh heavily. "I can blame myself. I'm the only one in the family who works with hearts for a living."

"You can only diagnose a willing patient. I love your mother, but forthcoming when it comes to her health she is not." His eyes well up with tears he's holding back.

"I know, Dad. Just hang in there, okay? I don't need you getting stressed out and making yourself sick."

"I won't. I just don't know what to do."

"We sit." I put my free hand out and lay it over Mom's legs. Dad puts his free hand in mine. "We wait."

I stay until Dad kicks me out at eleven. He says he has enough to worry about; he doesn't need to add my sleeping in a wooden chair to the list. I relent and go home, hailing a cab.

Salvatore is at the door when I get to my building.

"How is your mother?" he asks as I walk in.

"Stable but good." I reach inside my bag and take out a box of Good & Plenty.

He accepts it with a grin. "Going through a crazy time as you are, and you still think of an old man. Thank you for this."

"You're welcome. How's Carol?"

"Good. Everyone is good. We're keeping your mother in our prayers. Dr. Gallagher said he's performing the surgery. You're lucky to be friends with a renowned surgeon."

I peculiarly look at him. "When did you talk to Christian?"

Salvatore hit the call button. "When he arrived tonight. He said he has your spare key. I assumed that was okay." His face twists into a grimace as he realizes he might not have been allowed to do that.

I don't let him fret one second. "That's perfect. Thank you, Sal."

The elevator doors open, and I step inside, wondering why Christian is at my apartment when he's supposed to be studying for my mother's surgery.

When I get to my floor, I walk to my door with trepidation, hoping he doesn't have terrible news and wants to tell me in person. The plethora of things he could say run through my mind so fast that I chase them away just as quick. No reason to worry about things that might be said when I'll know in a moment.

I open the front door and look inside. The dining room light is on. Christian is sitting at the head of the table with books opened, a legal pad in front of him, and a laptop screen illuminated with a video of a heart surgery playing.

He hits the space bar to stop the video and rises from the table when he sees me.

I drop my bag on the counter and walk over to him. He's still wearing his slacks, but his button-down and tie are on the chair, leaving him in a white undershirt. His hair is loose and wavy from his hands running through it. With the haphazard way he's dressed and undressed, he looks disarming.

"What are you doing?" I ask with my attention fixed on the table where he's been working.

"Looking at your mom's angiogram to make sure I have the best pathway to her valve. I hope it's okay I'm here."

There's a mug of coffee on the table and a half-eaten carton of grapes next to his files, which are laid out in neat piles on the table. "Looks like you've found your new study spot."

He laughs at the absurdity. "Yeah. I didn't know if you were staying at the hospital all night, but I figured I'd work here in case you came back and needed me."

He runs a hand along the back of his head and bashfully looks up at me. I smash my lips together and try to hide my smile.

My shoulders rise with the rush of endearment I feel toward this man. "You knew I needed you."

Those reserved eyes turn hopeful. "Was I right?"

"You're the only person I want to be with right now."

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Christian has his arms around me, cocooning me in. His hand grips the back of my hair, holding it tight, as I bury myself into his chest and find comfort in the warmth of his embrace. Gripping the back of his shirt, I pull him in until it feels like we are one.

I never want to let go.

Outside my window, the park is pitch-black. The streetlamps from the pathways shine, creating a swivel pattern. It looks like shooting stars coasting through the darkness. I make a silent wish on nonexistent stars.

"I went home, and it didn't feel right," he breathes into the top of my head. "I had no idea if I was making the right decision, coming here, but I'm glad I did."

I look up into his magnetic eyes as they glaze over. "How did I get so lucky to have a best friend like you?"

His chest puffs out, the heat of his body radiating into mine. His mouth parts to speak, but he doesn't say a word. His pupils dilate, and his hands firmly lay against the silk of my blouse. There's an intensity in his stare. It's severe and powerful, and it makes me nod my head ever so slightly, letting him know I'm feeling it, too.

He lowers his hands to the hem of my shirt and lifts it up over my shoulders.

I raise the white cotton tee off his chest and lace my fingers in the splattering of hair, feeling the pounding of his heart pumping against my palms. His fingers rise to my neck and gently press, and my pulse throbs against his skin.

His tongue skims his bottom lip just before he leans down and kisses me.

This kiss is different from all the kisses we've shared before. It's not in desperation or even expectation. It's not done in urgency or playfulness.

This kiss is sensual.

It's sweet.

It's full of longing and desire.

It's a kiss of two people whose hearts are beating together as one, in sync, their rhythm never to be changed again.

Our hands move with the delicate touch of a dance. I sway mine low to undress him; his glide down the sides of my hips as he leaves me bare.

We make our way to the sofa where I guide him down and straddle him, making no attempt to move this forward.

His eyes, looking up into mine, are soulful and searching. His hands grip my head, delicate yet possessive. With an enchanting gaze, he looks like he has so many things to say, yet he says nothing at all.

I give him my words in silence.

_Are we just friends?_ I ask him with the way my hand caresses his face.

He answers by leaning his head into my palm, breathing ever so softly despite his parted lips and longing pants. I try to inhale his words, but they're so loud that I can't understand them.

With a kiss to his cheek, I tell him I love his compassion.

With a kiss to his eyes, I tell him I love his ability to see the good.

With a kiss to his hand, I tell him I love his ability to heal.

With a kiss to his mouth, I tell him I love everything about him.

All the words I'm too afraid to say scream from my soul as I raise my hips and fall onto him.

He inhales sharply, and his arms grip me, holding me, pulling me in. He kisses me with every slow grind of my body against his.

Our foreheads fall against each other.

We inhale the pleasure.

We exhale the pain.

We make love with our eyes open.

We make love with our bodies tight.

We make love, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to do anything but make love to this man for the rest of my life.

# Chapter Sixteen

Christian stayed the night.

He held me, as he knew I needed, and left with the sunrise to get to the hospital. I stopped by the office and worked for a few hours before Thomas told me to head out early and see my mom.

He didn't have to ask twice.

When I get to the hospital, she's lying in bed with a thick tube inserted into her back, draining fluid from her lung into a box-like machine on the floor.

"Exciting day?" I ask, looking at the machine that is already measuring a liter of fluid.

"That was worse than childbirth, and I went through seventeen hours of labor with you," she states, her usual glow gone. Whatever is going on inside her body is taking a toll on the outside.

"Remind me to get an epidural when I give birth."

"You planning on having children anytime soon?" she says with a cocked brow.

"Let's get you through this surgery first." I place my bag on the window ledge and take a seat.

"Okay," she says with a full breath. That is a major improvement from how she's been sounding the last few days. "Get me my lip gloss."

"No one here cares what you look like," I state.

"I do. My hair is disgusting, and I stink because I haven't taken a shower in two days. Now, get my bag and make me look like a human being."

I laugh as I take her makeup bag out of the drawer and sit beside her on the bed. I glide her lip gloss on her mouth, and she rolls her lips. I've never done my mother's makeup before. It almost feels like I'm dressing up a little girl on her way to a tea party. Next, I add mascara and hold up the mirror.

"I need blush," she says, pulling a brush and palette from the bag and adding it herself, ducking her head so that she can see herself in the tiny blush mirror.

She hands me Velcro rollers, and I laugh at the absurdity as I place them on the top of her head.

With two pink rollers sticking to the top of her head, she asks me, "Did you do your father's laundry?"

"Yes. I saw him in the lobby, buying the paper, so he said he's going to my house to shower and change."

"The man needs a decent night's sleep," she huffs, the makeup in her hands falling onto the bed.

I pick it up and place it in the makeup bag.

"Look at my chin. Do I have any whiskers?"

"Seriously?" I ask but don't bother arguing.

Everyone needs control, and I suppose this is her way of controlling the situation. I take a pair of tweezers from the bag, and she lifts her chin up.

"Dad won't relax until you're home. Say what you want, but you wouldn't be able to relax here if he wasn't by your side."

She sighs as I pluck a hair from her chin. "I know. I'm a lucky woman to call George Duvane my husband. Do you know he sang to me last night?"

I smile big as I put the tweezers away. "'Sing Sweet Nightingale,' I'm sure."

"When you were little, you loved to watch _Cinderella_. When he heard that song, he whistled and hasn't stopped for thirty years."

My dad has always been romantic. I think that's where I get my wistfulness from.

"We're his Meadowlark and Nightingale."

"And, to think, the man's afraid of birds," she jokes, and I let out a cackle-like laugh.

Christian knocks on the door and walks in. My breath hitches at the sight of him. His hands stand out more than they ever have before, as do his lips—his full mouth that can be tender and protective. I never paid so much attention to those features before, and now, I can't help but warm at the sight. Whatever transpired between us last night has changed me.

Natasha is at his side. It is so bizarre that the woman who was sleeping with him and then tried to bully me into not sleeping with him is now the one tending to my mother.

Christian might be standing next to a beautiful woman he once dated while he's a few feet away from the woman he stayed with last night, but his focus is on the only woman who matters. With a gentle smile, he gives her a comforting gaze that has me swooning in the corner.

Mom takes the rollers out of her hair and ruffles the top to make it fall with a little volume. She looks as beautiful as ever.

I stand up and move to the window, so Christian can have my mom's undivided attention.

"We booked the operating room for tomorrow morning," he says.

"I don't know if I should be relieved or frightened." Mom blinks a few times, looking like she wants to cry.

"Relieved," Christian assures her. "I have to talk to you first about the procedure I want to do." He pulls a chair up to her bad and takes a seat, so his eyes are level with hers. He grabs her hand, as he knows she likes, and speaks directly to her in a comforting tone, "The valve that is leaking left a hole too large for a standard mitral valve replacement. I want to replace your mitral valve with an aortic valve. You have severe regurgitation, which means the blood is back-flowing into the chamber of the heart. I'm going to enter through your groin, and I'm going to use a mechanical aortic valve."

"That sounds very cutting edge," she says warily.

"You'd be one of the first in the world to have it done," he states. "It's your best chance."

Mom looks my way. "What do you think?"

I think it's a fascinating breakthrough procedure, but I wish it were being performed on anyone but my mom. It's new, and the research is limited. Still, it's her only hope.

"If there's anyone with the finesse and knowledge to perform the procedure, it's Christian," I say as I grip my fingers.

"Is it risky?" She turns back to him.

When he nods his head, I want to cry for my mom, who is doing a great job of keeping her strong attitude up.

"It is. It's also the only solution, and the longer we wait, your heart can become damaged beyond repair or so weakened that surgery will no longer be an option." With a tender yet serious tone, he tells her, "I'm ready. You're strong enough to withstand the surgery. Tomorrow we'll fix you."

My mother turns back to me with a shaky breath. "Don't tell your father until he's back. Let him shower in peace. But I would like you to give your brother a call."

I nod my head at her request.

I'm not moving right away, so she looks at me for a while and then adds, "I need a minute alone with Christian."

"Oh. Okay." I look at the two of them and sense there is something of a personal nature she'd like to discuss.

I head down to the lobby to call Brian. A mixture of relief that she is finally having her surgery is laced with anxiety. It's good my mom gave me a task because it keeps me focused.

I'm standing under the blue-and-white sign for St. Xavier Hospital, pulling up my brother's office number, when a burly man with a beard and close-cropped hair walks through the revolving door, getting my attention.

He struts through the lobby and toward the elevator. I call his name before he gets inside.

"Brock."

He turns at the sound and looks my way. I haven't seen my ex-husband in a year, and surprisingly, this is the second time in two weeks. To say I'm confused is an understatement.

"What are you doing here?" I ask when he approaches.

He scratches his beard, obviously not prepared to see me standing here, in the lobby. "I stopped at the apartment, and Sal told me I'd find you here. He said your mom is sick."

"And you thought you'd see her?"

"I wanted to see you."

With my arms crossed in front of my body, I lean my weight on my hip and give him my best scowl. "How did you think that would play out?"

"I didn't think. I just came here. I needed to see you."

It has been a long time since Brock has needed anything from me other than to sign papers that would free him of our marriage. Actually, that's a lie. He's wanted to talk at various moments—usually when he's drunk after a big loss. I only picked up once and regretted it. His neediness had me wanting to run to his side and save him from himself. After that, I let the calls go to voice mail. He never said much. Just spewed out a memory of ours—some good, some bad—and then hung up. He hasn't called in about six months.

"This is so like you!" I practically spit at him. "You do whatever comes to mind because it's what Brock wants to do. You want to jet to Maine so that you can have lobster for dinner with your teammate, so you book a plane and tell your wife after you've landed. See a nice watch on some guy's wrist, and you decide, _Hell, I'll drop fifty grand_ , depleting our checking account. A hot blonde wants to hop in bed with you, you say, _Screw my vows. I want to get laid tonight_."

Judging by the glares of the people around me and the sight of a mother covering her young child's ears, I know my voice is a little too loud.

I rein it in and resort to a whisper-yell, "Now, I'll add, _I feel like seeing Meadow today. Who cares that she's stressed with her mom dying in a hospital bed? I'm just gonna waltz up there and disrupt her family in their very emotional moment_."

"I'm an asshole," he states matter-of-factly.

"Yeah," I agree with him.

"An insensitive asshole."

I look to the ceiling and let out an exasperated sigh. "It doesn't help when you take the onus of the situation."

"You look good." He's playing with the ring on his hand. It's a thick gold ring his grandfather gave him when he made the pros.

"You already told me that when you saw me at Starbucks." I look to the side in annoyance.

"I was surprised to see you there."

"Seriously?" My tone is accusatory. "It's the one across from my office."

"I wasn't thinking," he says, and I open my mouth, ready to verbally pounce on how much he never thinks, but he holds his hands up in defense. "I know; I know. I never think."

"Stop agreeing with me. It's making it hard for me to maintain this bitchy persona."

He laughs to himself and smiles that roguish grin. I used to love that grin.

"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since that day. Seeing you shook me up. Got me remembering how good my life was."

I take a step back and look away, up into the air, as I widen my eyes to temper the tingling building behind the sockets, just ready to burst with the onslaught of emotions that this week has brought on and which I've done a great job of suppressing. "We are not doing this—"

"I miss our life."

And there goes the teary-eyed feeling, and in its place is rage. I've been suppressing a lot of that, too.

I take a fighting stance, my teeth grinding to the point that I'm going to need orthodontics, and viciously point at him, my cheeks reddening and my brows curving in annoyance. "You're too late for that. Jesus, Brock, do you have any idea what you saying that does to me? It makes me happy and sad at the same time. Happy because I've dreamed about the day you'd regret losing me. And sad because it makes me remember how it felt when you didn't regret hurting me. You can't do this to a person. It's rude and selfish, and I could never, ever take you back."

"I'm not here to get you back. I know I fucked it up," he says calmly.

I throw my hands up and drop them in surrender. "Then, why are you here?"

"I need your advice." He fidgets with his ring again. His eyes look at the floor before rising, and he says in the most unsure way, "I'm going to be a dad."

My hands fly to my mouth in a praying position.

"A woman I met on the road. From Boston. She's pregnant. I don't know what to do."

From emotional to angry to downright defeated, my mind is betraying me at a rapid pace.

_Brock is having a baby with another woman._

The man I planned a life with is having a child with someone else. I knew this would happen. I wasn't prepared for it to come in the form of him telling me he needed my advice.

Little does he know that I am, too. I'm embarking on my own epic journey to motherhood that is bizarre and beautiful, and I have my own insecurities about that. And the only reason I'm in this position is because he broke his promises.

With a few steps backward, I put distance between us. "I am the wrong person to talk to about this."

"I was hoping—"

"Leave." I'm adamant.

"Meadow." His voice is a plea.

"I'm telling you to leave. Now."

And he does. Brock walks away, sauntering out of the hospital with the sullen gait of a teenager. I'm not worried about being callous with him because he's the guy who will fly off to the next person who will do him a favor.

I take a seat and hold my chest, trying to figure out if I want emotional, angry, or defeated me to take control right now.

I push them all to the side.

"Meadow."

My name being called wakes me up from a sound sleep. My hand that's holding up my chin is wobbly as I come to, and I have to blink a few times to get my bearings.

_I'm in my mother's hospital room, sleeping in the wooden guest chair by the window._

With a stretch and a loud yawn, I try to work out the kink in my hip from sleeping in this uncomfortable seat. The room is dark, except for the soft overhead light that stays on all night so nurses can come in and check on patients without disturbing them.

I rub my eyes and sit up straight, now coming to enough to realize my mom said my name.

"Go home, sweetie. There's no good use in you camping out here all night," she says, still lying propped up on her side since she has the tube in her back. Her eyes are weary, and she looks like she wants to sleep. Dad is snoring from the recliner.

I lean forward and rest my hands on my knees, looking up at the clock to see it's past midnight. They scheduled her surgery for eight in the morning.

"It's only a few more hours. I might as well stay."

"You need to change your clothes."

I look down at the black dress pants and button-down I wore today. They're wrinkled, and I have a coffee stain on the lapel of my shirt. "I don't want to leave you."

She nods in understanding. "You're making me feel like I won't survive this surgery."

I wake up real fast at that comment and sit up straight. "No. That's not the case at all. You will be fine."

"Meadow, please don't lie just to make me feel better. Christian already went over the risks. I'm very aware."

My shoulders fall. I look away and try to conjure up the words to express what I've been feeling. I rub my mouth with my hand and then hold it there for a moment.

" _Look forward_ ," __ I hear Christian's voice in my head. " _Don't overthink, Meadow. Make sure you talk about what's going on in that head of yours."_

I look at Mom and give her my honest thoughts. "I know you're going to be fine. My brain tells me that. You're in the best hospital with the best doctor, and if I've learned one thing in my line of work, it's that the heart is incredibly resilient. Miraculous even." I smile with that thought, and then it slowly falls as I continue, "But I know there's always a chance you might not make it, and I don't know what I'd do without you."

I have to open my eyes real wide to keep the tears from falling. I refuse to turn away though. Just on the off chance that this is the last time I ever see my mother, I need to know I spent as much time being with her as possible, looking at her, taking her in.

With a severe inhale, I will the emotion back. Mom extends her hand and holds out her palm. I move my chair closer and take it.

"It's okay to be scared. I am, too," she says.

"I know you are, which is why I don't want to get you upset."

She raises a shoulder. "If you think you can hide your feelings from me, then you're crazy."

"Oh, yeah? Then, what am I thinking?" I challenge her.

"How bad you feel for all the times you didn't pick up the phone when I called."

My jaw drops in surprise. She's absolutely correct. "I always pick up the phone when you call."

"No, you don't. Sometimes, you hit the End button and let it go to voice mail."

"Only when I'm working," I say and catch her raised brow at my lie. I have to chuckle at her very true accusation. "Well, sometimes, I don't pick up because I know you will give me your advice of the day."

"It's called caring." She breathes deeply and sags into her pillow. "My mother was like that, too. I hated it, but it's the only way I know. I have this knowledge I want to impart on my daughter. I've lived a beautiful life, and I've had some troubling moments. I've fought with friends and lost touch with relatives. The things I once thought were important are insignificant, and what I value the most is the only thing that matters. You. My family. Maybe I push too hard."

"No. You push just the right amount." I lament quietly.

"Something has been going on with you lately. Do you want to tell me what it is?"

"No," I state.

"I could die tomorrow, and then you'll feel regret never telling me while I was alive."

I want to laugh at her uncanny ability to be so... her. This unrelenting woman, hours away from a life-and-death moment, is still trying to pry.

"You can't pull the _I might die tomorrow_ card."

"It's working."

I let out a puff of air and concede, "If you must know, I'm taking your advice. For once. I'm trying to have a baby. I wasn't going to tell you because I don't want to get your hopes up."

She doesn't look pleased by this news. "My advice was to freeze your eggs."

"I'm gonna go for it. The whole enchilada. Why wait, right? Why are you looking at me like that? I thought you'd be happy."

With a somber smile, she pats the sheet below her. "I want you to be joyous, but don't do something because you think it will make me happy."

I puff out my lips. My entire life, I've been running away from my mother's advice when, really, I've been grabbing it at every turn. I wonder if that's the universal driver—the thing that pushes us into the decisions we make. We're either seeking our parents' approval or doing what we can to prove them wrong.

"Mother knows best," I say with a chagrin. "Turns out, you were on to something. As a kid, I was mortified on a daily basis. The way you'd burst into a room and command it, you were the loudest mom at the PTA and the craziest one on the sidelines. If we had friends over, you would ask them a thousand questions about who they were and who their parents were. And forget about it if I brought a boy home. He would get the third degree and even be told to keep it in his pants. You even made me wear a shoulder strap in middle school, so I wouldn't slouch. You are the epitome of the helicopter mom.

"And yet, I've also enjoyed it. You played games with us and did performances in the living room. You taught me how to cook, and I have decent style since you harped on me at every turn. The care packages you sent in college made me roll my eyes, but I looked forward to them. I have zero crow's-feet because you are always shoving serums in my pocket. And, whenever I've made a mistake, you are always there to tell me I can do better. Because you are so great, I want to be just like you."

I grab her hand. "So, that's why I've been camping out here and hovering. The thought of you not being here to help guide me through this next phase of my life is scaring the hell out of me. You're my mom, and there's no one who could ever replace you. Truly one of a kind."

She pulls on my arm, and I follow the pull to the bed, taking a seat and then leaning down into her as she wraps her arms around me. I lay my head against her neck and let the tears roll off. Her other hand is rubbing the back of my head, petting it with a soothing touch. It reminds me of when she held me as a girl after I used to crawl into her bed following a nightmare. My mother's touch makes everything better.

"Oh, Meadow," she says with another squeeze. It's such a tender moment. I shouldn't be surprised when she makes it even more emotional when she utters the words, "I knew you loved the serums."

I laugh hard and lift my head, rubbing under my eyes. She wipes my face with me and lays a palm on my cheek.

"You're gonna be okay," she says, "no matter what. You are my daughter, and you can do anything."

# Chapter Seventeen

Eight o'clock rolls around way too fast. Brian and Beth are the first to wish her good luck. Beth shows my mom the gifts she brought—new pajamas for when she's rehabilitating at home.

Brian is very businesslike as he kisses Mom and says, "I'll see you on the other side."

I cringe at his word choice.

I don't say anything because I'm feeling pretty vulnerable right now, and everything that needed to be said was spoken last night. I hang in the hallway and wait as Dad kisses Mom for what seems like a thousand times and tells her he loves her a thousand more. He's holding her hand as the nurses roll her out of the room and into the hallway.

Christian should already be scrubbing in. I haven't heard from him since he left my apartment yesterday morning, and I haven't bothered to text, for fear of taking him out of his routine. I've never valued it as much as I do today.

My family and I walk to the waiting room on the fourth floor and take our seats in the plush leather sofas.

We've been here before. Years ago, when I first started working for Park Avenue Cardiology, we sat in this same room as we waited for my mom to have her heart repaired. I was a ball of nerves then, understanding the science but never having been on the other side of the operating table. Today, I'm more aware of the commonality of heart procedures, and I have education on my side, so I try to focus on that. Although the lack of sleep is doing nothing for my anxiety.

I pace the cardiac wing a few times and decide it's killing me, being on this floor and hearing every code red and call for a doctor. I take the stairs and walk down to the second floor. Maternity.

Down the hall is the nursery, once filled with babies fresh out of their mothers' wombs. They don't keep babies in here like they used to. The new protocol is for them to stay with their mothers, only leaving for tests and baths.

The rumbling of wheels on the linoleum floor has me looking toward a nurse wheeling a baby down the hall. The little one is swaddled in a white-and-blue-striped blanket and wearing a pink crocheted hat with a bow. I place a hand on my chest and inhale the scent of the newborn as they pass by.

I know there's no way I'm pregnant right now because I'm just a few days into my new cycle. Christian knows that, too, which means what we experienced the other night was about more than trying for a baby.

_At least, it was for me._

The stairwell door opens, and Brian steps into the hallway. His brows curl. "Wasn't expecting to see you down here."

"For a moment, I thought you'd followed me."

He takes a step next to me and looks through the glass as the nurse unswaddles the baby to place her on a scale. "I needed to stretch my legs, but I don't want to leave the building. Beth told me to come down here. She thinks I'll get inspired. She wants another baby."

"If you want to try, you can in about six days."

He pivots toward me with a scowl. "Why do you know my wife's ovulation schedule?"

"Don't blame me. Our mother is insane."

He doesn't argue with that. Instead, he looks straight ahead and asks into the air, "What's going on with you and Christian?"

I don't answer immediately, mostly because I don't know how to phrase it.

"Whatever you answer, don't lie. I'm not an idiot."

This is the first time in years my brother has instigated a conversation with me, and this is what he chooses. I twist my lips and answer honestly, "We're closer than we were before."

"Are you dating?"

"Yes," I answer.

"Are you a couple?"

"No." That answer doesn't come out as easy, and to be honest, my voice sounds a little despondent.

He lets out a loud, exasperated breath. I can almost feel his body tensing in his khakis. "So, you're just sleeping together like it's no big deal?"

"Oh, it's a _big_ deal."

He turns his hip, leaning against the half-wall of the nursery, as he grumbles something under his breath. I'm not looking at him, but I can feel his frustration. I know that he's trying to will himself not to lose his cool, as he can quickly turn into an arrogant ass. He doesn't do it to be a dick. He just doesn't understand why people don't behave the way he does, which is with high virtue and straight and narrow.

"Does this mean you're not freezing your eggs anymore?" he asks.

I fiddle with the wishbone around my neck.

Maybe it's because I'm tapped emotionally right now, or it could be because he's my brother. Mostly, I'm sure it's because I have finally come to reality with the dream I've been pretending to live in.

I turn to Brian, look up into his curious gray eyes, and tell him, "Christian and I are having a baby together."

His gaze darts to my stomach, as if expecting to see a watermelon growing beneath my shirt.

"We're not pregnant yet. We're trying. Instead of freezing my eggs, he agreed to have a child with me," I explain.

"Why would he do that?"

"Because I want a child, and he's a good man who wants to make that happen for me. For himself."

His focus roams over the black and white tiles on the floor as he processes what I've told him. "This isn't Mario Kart. You don't get the magic bullet and zip through the race to land in first."

I raise a finger. "Don't compare my life to a Nintendo game."

"You will ruin his life."

I flinch at his words. "What?"

"You make terrible decisions, and it costs everyone else. You dated that hockey player we all hated, and we had to sit and bear his dirty jokes and aggressive attitude." His words spit through his teeth.

"Why does everything come back to Brock?"

"Because we hated him, and you married him anyway. He ruined every holiday, not to mention Dylan's christening."

He's right. Brock drank way too much and got into a fight with Beth's cousin because he thought the guy was checking me out.

"I know; you hate him. Can you please quit it with the digs and whispered animosity?" I say, crossing my arms in front of my body as his hands are over his face, rubbing down.

Brian exclaims, "You eloped." He says the words like they're a curse with a taste of bile building in his mouth.

Suddenly, I can finally pinpoint the moment my brother decided he couldn't be around me.

"You've been like this ever since I married Brock. I get it; eloping isn't something you would do. It's too spontaneous and fun."

"It broke their hearts. You didn't even give Dad the chance to walk you down the aisle. They had to throw you a fake wedding a month later, so they could celebrate their daughter's terrible choice in a husband. You weren't there to see how disappointed they were, and then we all had to drop our lives when he cheated, just like we knew he would."

"My failed marriage is my fault?"

"It was the cherry on top of the bad-decision sundae of your life. Every boyfriend you've ever had has been a loser."

"Then, you should be ecstatic I'm with Christian." My voice dramatically rises, as do my arms.

"According to you, you're not together. You're just using him as a sperm donor."

His words hit me in the gut.

If we weren't in the maternity ward of a hospital, I'd kick the wall, but I have way too much respect for the lives that are created in these very halls to tarnish it. "How come Beth was supportive, and you can't even find the silver lining?"

He looks like he was just slapped in the face. "Beth knows about this?"

"I had to tell someone, and I chose her because, apparently, my brother doesn't know how not to be a dick." I continue, "I know I'm flawed. I'm also well aware I've made some poor choices in the past, and trust me, I've paid for them. Despite my broken heart, I still believe in love. I want the happily ever after. I want what you and Beth have."

"You want my life?" he asks with genuine surprise laced on his face.

"Yeah. Who wouldn't? You're crazy about your wife, and she is wild about you. I don't know why sometimes. It must be the sex swing."

He drops his shoulders and rolls his head, probably cursing his wife for spilling the beans.

I put him out of his misery. "You're a great husband, Brian, and an amazing father. You did good. Your life is awesome. Your marriage is something most people dream about, and your kids are... God, I love them more than you and Beth could ever comprehend. I want that, too. All of it."

"Then, why are you settling?"

"You think it's settling. I think it's finally getting my all. It took me a long time to realize you can't have it all unless you redefine what all is. I desperately want a child, and I won't settle for some man to make it happen. That's why, when I told Christian I planned on freezing my eggs, he offered to have a baby with me."

With his hands on his hips, Brian leans in and asks like he just can't believe it, "This was his idea?"

I nod my head. "Crazy, right? Oh, and get this—you are going to love this one. While we've been 'dating'"—I use air quotes with the word _dating_ —"I've fallen in love with him. Isn't that a kick in the pants? So, don't worry because I've managed to screw this relationship up, too. It'll be over soon, so you can give me grief about that at our next family barbecue."

He massages his temples like my words are giving him a headache. "You're mixing up sex and love."

"Oh, how I wish that were true. You might not think highly of my relationships, but I know what love is. In fact, I think it took a broken heart to realize exactly what true love is." I sag into the wall and lightly bang my head against it as I look at the defibrillator on the wall, just waiting for someone to need their heart to be shocked back to life. "Do you know why I always had the worst taste in boyfriends? Because they were never Christian. In high school, I liked the boys as athletic as him and always wound up with someone who was too busy, trying to get their hands up my skirt. In college, I dated guys as smart as him. They were always snobbish and cold. As an adult, I looked to find someone who was as fun and easy to talk to as Christian. I wound up married to a big, fat lie."

Brian's demeanor shifts. His hands rub his eyes as he takes some deep breaths and absorbs everything I said. When he lowers his hands, his light eyes are turned down at the ends. That annoyed stance of before has morphed into something softer.

He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it because heart-to-hearts really aren't his strong suit. Instead, he goes for rational.

"If you really wanted him all this time, you wouldn't have been able to be friends and see him date other women. Hell, you were married to another man for seven years."

"Isn't that the million-dollar question? How do two people with such insane chemistry and an outstanding friendship stay away from each other sexually their entire lives?" I say sarcastically.

"I've never spoken this much about sex in my life, and I'm having this conversation in a hallway with my sister."

I have to laugh at that comment. Even Brian lets out a chuckle. I'm glad I didn't blink and miss it.

"He friend-zoned me." I lean my head against the glass and think of Christian as a teenager with his shaved head, which grew out like peach fuzz. I used to rub my hands over it, and he would laugh. He has the best laugh, even then.

"We were in my room, studying for finals. There were study guides on the floor as we took practice exams, and all I remember is wishing he'd look at me as more than a silly girl he studied with or hung out with in the basement, playing video games. I was going to tell him I had a crush on him. Ask him out. I was so nervous. My palms were sweating; I dropped my pencil twice. I never got the chance. He looked at me with these bright eyes, almost like this amazing revelation had just come to him. He said I was his best friend and that I was the only one he could count on. My little heart was disappointed, and yet I felt special. He thought I was so amazing that he gave me the greatest title a teenager could bear. I figured maybe someday he'd look at me as more. But, as the years ticked by, I was always the confidant—the one he called for relationship advice or to vent to about school. We fell into a routine, and I stopped wondering if we'd morph into something more. I was okay with it. Until now. This deal we made with each other, it brought all of those feelings to the surface. The ones I'd buried over and over are now magnified greater than the sun. I'm so far gone; I won't be able to push them back into that hidden corner of my heart again."

Brian takes in my sigh and the words of my confession and analyzes them. He leans a hand on the glass as the nurse swaddles the baby back in her blanket and laces her in the portable crib. "Do you think he loves you, too?"

Do I believe Christian loves me? As a friend, yes. I know for a fact that there is so much love in his heart. He'd never have agreed to have a child with me otherwise.

To love me as a wife? His career is too important to him. He wants his freedom, and when he pictures himself old and gray, I'm certain it's not with me by his side, feeding our chickens in our country house Upstate. How do I know this? Because, since we were in college, that has been his mantra. It hasn't changed in all the years, and I doubt it ever will.

"No," I whisper.

"You can't..." he starts and stops, clearly not comfortable with what he's about to say. "You can't have a baby with Christian if you're in love with him."

Having someone as your moral conscience is daunting.

I've loved hard in the past, and I've had a broken heart because of betrayal. But this? This will break my soul.

"I know." I push off the wall and continue to hug myself. "I know." Taking a few steps away, I turn to my brother and explain, "It just feels like, now, I'm losing two dreams."

Brian's mouth pulls in. There's a sincere expression in his eyes as he stands here with nothing to say. I'm actually thankful for the fact that he doesn't fill the air with words just for the sake of talking because there is nothing he can say right now that will make me feel better.

"I'll see you upstairs." I walk away, needing more time to be alone with my thoughts. "Thanks for the talk."

"Meadow," Brian calls me before I push open the door to the stairwell.

"My life is really great. I'm only hard on you because I want you to have it, too. Your all," he says without a hint of emotion on his face. And then he adds, "Mom really knows Beth's ovulation schedule?"

I give him a nod with a face that matches his perplexed expression and then watch as he looks through the glass while the nurse starts to wheel the baby back out. I hope he and Beth decide to have a third child. I would be lying if I said I wasn't hoping for a niece I could spoil with tiaras and tea parties. Yes, I believe a girl can be anything she wants, but every girl deserves to be a princess now and then.

I make my way back to the fourth floor, but I'm not ready to go back to the waiting room. Perhaps this overthinking has been good for me today. It's kept my mind off of Mom. I know that, when I walk in that room, I'll find out the results of her surgery, and I'm not ready to hear it.

I take a seat on the concrete stair and rest my head on my knees.

In here, time is still.

I don't know what is happening with my mother.

I don't have to end things with Christian.

My heart isn't shattered, as I have a feeling it will be soon.

My moment of silence is disturbed by the stairwell door being violently flung open. The steel hits the wall with a bang. Christian enters the landing, the door closing behind him as he grips his hair and looks to be hyperventilating.

I rise to my feet and run to him. "Christian!"

He stares at me like I'm a ghost. His arms hang idly at his sides while his eyes are wide and glazed. It takes a moment for him to come to his senses and realize it's me standing here. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

The pause electrifies the air. My skin tingles, and the blood in my veins rushes to my chest.

With two fast and steady steps, Christian grips my head, pulls me into him, and sears me with a kiss.

I let him brand me.

He's kissing me with desperation. There's anger in the kiss and a whimper pouring from his lips when my tongue dances with his. I don't know what this kiss is.

It's desperate and powerful.

I tug the front of his scrubs and push him against the wall. My hands are now in his hair, and his fall to my waist, his fingers digging into my sides so much that they hurt.

He pulls away first, panting. Our chests are heaving as we catch our breaths.

His eyes are red and swollen.

Not from crying.

From fear.

"What happened?" I ask, afraid of what is about to come out of his mouth.

"She's okay." It doesn't sound like he believes what he's saying.

"Then, why are you looking at me like that?"

"I almost lost her."

"But you didn't—"

"No. She's okay." He shakes his head with his eyes trained on mine. "And all I kept thinking was how I had to save her for you. I was so worried about you."

He kisses me again. I don't even have a moment to comprehend what he's saying or why he's saying it. My mother is okay. She's alive.

Whatever happened in that room has shaken Christian to his core. I hold him, pulling him into a hug. His head is buried in my neck as I rub his back, willing his body to relax and bring him back to the cool, calm, even downright cocky Dr. Gallagher demeanor.

When he's unwound, he stands tall. He lays his hands on my face and caresses my cheeks.

"I needed you, and here you are," he says.

"Funny, because I really needed you." I smile. "And here you are."

He kisses the inside of my palm; that kiss soars right to my chest, and it hurts. Hurts because I know now, for sure, I have to tell him how I feel.

We walk into the waiting room together. Christian tells Dad, Brian, and Beth how the surgery went. Dad cries tears of joy. Brian and Beth hug him, Brian giving an extra handshake to top it off.

"What do you say we go out tonight and celebrate?" Christian asks me when we're out of earshot of my family. "There's a great sushi place in the East Village one of the nurses was telling me about."

A night out with Christian sounds fantastic.

"I can't. I'm going to spend time with my family. Now that Mom's in the intensive care unit, I might get Dad to come home with me. Sleep in a bed."

He nods in understanding. "You're right. You're a good daughter."

I smile. "I try."

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course," I say without looking at him.

He leans forward to give me a kiss on the cheek, and I back away a little. It's the first time I've ever done that, and I instantly regret it.

He has a look of confusion. I just smile and wave at him as he walks down the hall.

The conversation I must have with him is deep and not something I can do in a public place or while I'm in the midst of my mother's surgery. It's something we need to discuss in private and preferably with a scotch... or ten.

It's a few hours before we're allowed to see my mother. Dad goes in first, coming out with a red face, tears in his eyes but a smile to go along with it. Brian and Beth are next, and then it's my turn.

I take my time as I walk down the hall of the cardiac intensive care unit and look for her room. I've seen her post-operation before, and it doesn't help that gut-clenching feeling I have right now.

Her face is swollen, and there's a breathing tube down her throat since she's still sedated. Her bed is flat but on an incline, making her look almost Frankenstein-esque, lying there with several monitors around the bed, each hooked up to her body like she'll be brought back to life by a mad scientist. The steady beep of the machine is drowned out by the rattling of the blood pressure cuff.

I take a seat in the chair by her bed, grab her warm, lifeless hand, and hold it in mine.

A fresh tear rolls down from my eye as I look at my mother, the first love of my life. She looks horrible. If she were awake, she'd lose her mind. Then again, considering what her body just went through, she looks positively beautiful. It's a unique experience for a child to see their parent at their most vulnerable. Throughout this ordeal, I've witnessed my mother's strength and her weakness. As she grew sicker, her fear was evident, yet she always kept a steady head. Her concerns were never for herself but for her family.

I love her so much for that.

"Full disclaimer," I say out loud, not knowing if she can hear me. "I'm a bit of a mess right now."

My nose flares as I attempt to hold back the burning sensation building behind my eyes. My mouth turns down on its own, and there is just no use. More tears fall down my cheeks.

"How am I even your daughter? You are so strong and resilient. Hell, you almost died today. You're so stubborn that I bet you saw Saint Peter at the gates and demanded he send you back." I let out a laugh-like cry.

She doesn't respond. That's okay because I actually don't need her to.

"I'm glad you're okay because I really need your advice, but you have to promise you won't try to meddle. I know; I know. It's hard for you not to." My head tilts curiously at my mother, as I wonder, just wonder, if maybe...

I lean my arm on my chair and twist my body, thinking about my mother's motives for giving me the egg-freezing brochure. I was so lost in the past that I wasn't looking toward the present. She pushed me to see what I wanted and knew it wasn't just about a baby.

"You knew Christian would do the right thing. You knew he'd want to have a baby with me. And you knew I'd agree because I love him."

I won't be able to verify this until she wakes up, but I'm pretty damn sure my mother is the most interfering, nosy, conspiratorial helicopter mother there ever was.

I'm so lucky she's mine.

Only problem with her plan is, Christian doesn't want me the way I want him. I want more, and that's unfair because I'd be breaking my vow to him. His career is still his focus; it's part of who he is. I would never, could never, jeopardize that.

"You have a lot of explaining to do." I lean down and kiss my mother on her forehead. "Dad is waiting for me. I'm going to make him come home with me to shower and have a home-cooked meal. Next time I see you, you'll be awake, and everything will go back to normal. Everything..." My voice trails off.

# Chapter Eighteen

"Better than a recliner?" I ask my dad as he comes out of my bedroom, showered and ready to see Mom.

I gave him my bed last night and took the couch for myself since my second bedroom only has a desk and stationary bike.

He has a giddy smile on his face as he grabs his wallet off the counter. "I'll feel even better when I can get your mom home. How long do you think she'll stay in the hospital?"

"Only a few more days." I grab my bag.

There's a ring on my landline. When I pick it up, Salvatore is on the other end. "Brian Duvane is here to see you."

I look at Dad, wondering if he knew Brian was coming over. "Send him up."

I open the door and wait for the elevator to open. When it does, Brian steps out with three coffees on a cardboard tray.

"I was up early and thought I'd swing by," he says, lifting the tray.

I open the door wider and welcome him in. He gives Dad his decaf coffee and a small bag before giving me my drink. I take a sip and am surprised my brother knows my coffee order. While Dad rummages through the bag and takes out a blueberry muffin, Brian corners me in the kitchen.

"I came to apologize."

I nearly spit out my coffee. "For what?"

He holds his hands up in a praying position, something he does when he's about to do something really uncomfortable. "Beth and I talked last night, and I now realize that I've been hard on you."

I would make a sarcastic comment about pigs flying or ask if he only has months to live, but from the way he's making a face like he has a sour taste in his mouth, I have a feeling this apology is difficult for him.

"You're just saying that because I said you have the perfect life."

"I do," he states. "I want the same thing for you, and it's why I've been so disappointed. I always thought you lived your life on a cloud with no real responsibilities. It felt as if you never cared about how your decisions impacted those around you. I'm a realist. It's hard for me to understand someone who lives on passion."

I let out a small laugh. "That's crazy because Beth is the most passionate person I've ever met."

"It's why I love her. And you. You have a big heart, Meadow. You shouldn't change who you are because of an asshole like me."

"You're not an asshole, Brian. You're just... you. I like you for being you." I put my coffee down on the counter and push my hair off my face as I think of something Brian opened my eyes to. "When we marry someone, we think it's a singular decision when, really, they're not just marrying us; we're also welcoming them into an entire family. I never considered how Brock's carelessness affected you or how my decisions with him made Mom and Dad feel. You marrying Beth is one of the greatest things to happen to me. I have a sister. You never had that with Brock, and it must have been hard for you to not only see me married to a man you shared no values with, but to also watch him hurt me the way he did. I would have married him anyway. I was blinded by romance. What I should have been was sensitive to our family. I understand how that must have been for you."

His mouth quirks up. My acknowledgment of his feelings seems to be enough for him. "Anyway, that's why I brought you coffee."

I raise my paper cup in salute. His coffee and an apology are enough for me.

Dad is wiping crumbs off his face as we all head out the door. The two of them are talking about last night's Yankees score when we get to the lobby. I'm almost at the door when Brian pulls me back. I don't know why until I look over at a bench by the window and see Brock sitting there in cargo shorts and a T-shirt with a clean-shaven face—well, clean for Brock.

Salvatore scurries around the desk, his hat flopping on his head. "I was trying to call you, Ms. Duvane. He just arrived."

"Thank you, Sal," I tell Salvatore because I know he's worried about Brock being here, especially with my father and brother in the room.

While I'm assuring him all is fine, Brian is walking up to Brock.

His fist is clenched.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Brian asks Brock, who rises from the bench with his hands open, palms out.

"I came to talk to Meadow," Brock says.

He almost doesn't get to finish his sentence because Brian's fist is up in the air and flies right into Brock's face.

"Oh shit!" I yelp, my hands flying to my mouth.

Dad is quick to grab Brian's belt, pulling his khakis back and then grabbing his shoulder.

Salvatore runs to Brock and helps him steady himself from how he's leaning over from the blow of Brian's punch to his face.

Brock is a big man, so the fact that Brian got him off his toes is pretty impressive. And stupid. Brock's face is red and flummoxed. He looks ready to charge toward Brian when I snap out of my stunned position and rush over to Brock to calm down the beast.

"Okay, just relax. You had that one coming," I explain to Brock, who's wiping his mouth to see if he's bleeding.

He's not. I mean, Brian doesn't hit that hard.

Brian gives him a vicious pointed finger. "That's for fucking over my baby sister."

I give Brian a surprised yet satisfactory nod. An apology and an achievement of vengeance on my part in one morning? He can be a dick to me for the rest of the year, and I'd still be a happy little lady.

Dad ushers Brian toward the doors, but I stay back.

"I'll see you guys at the hospital." Dad looks unsure, but I assure him, "I just need five minutes."

Neither of my family members seems happy about my staying with Brock, but I'm a grown woman who does what I set my mind to. They also can't stay because Brian might end up breaking a bone from attempting to fight Brock. And, next time, he wouldn't be catching the brute off guard.

"Do you need anything, Mr. Lannister?" Salvatore asks nervously.

"Ice," Brock spits out.

"Yes, sir." Salvatore goes to a back room, leaving me alone with Brock.

I move him to the bench, and the two of us take a seat. I cross my legs and arms. Brock sits with his legs wide open and rests his elbows on his knees.

"Your brother punches like a girl."

"You're just jealous because he got one in on you."

Brock sways his head in annoyed agreement.

"You can't keep stalking me in lobbies."

Salvatore comes out with a Ziploc bag filled with ice and hands it to Brock, who takes it and rests it on his jaw. "I'll give you two a minute," he says and then walks outside to stand on the sidewalk, looking through the glass to make sure I'm okay.

I give Salvatore a thumbs-up and then look over at Brock. This six-foot-three, two-hundred-twenty-pound mammoth of a man is sitting here with a baggie of ice on his face. I start to chuckle.

"What's so funny?" His thick brows curve in at the sight of my laugh.

"You're such a wimp."

He looks at the bag of ice in his hand and chuckles at himself. He puts the ice on the seat beside him. "For the record, I'm not stalking. I wanted to stop by and say hi like an adult. This place looks good. They redid the floors."

"Yeah. Last summer. The construction was a mess, but the new marble is good."

"Did they ever fix the window that wouldn't open all the way?"

I nod. "A few weeks after you left."

"Good. Good." He leans forward and plays with his ring. He clears his throat and says, "Sal looks tired."

"Yeah. Carol's been having some health issues, which is why he won't retire. He says the property service union has great benefits."

"It's easy work, and he has nice people like you to buy him candy."

I grunt, knowing Brock's attempt at being charming is flattery. "Okay. Talk to me. Why are you here at eight o'clock in the morning? And I know it's not to talk about the marble floor."

"The baby is due in September. She wants to raise her in Boston."

"It's a girl?" My brows rise with the chill that shoots up my spine.

Brock having a child was ominous until he gave it a sex. He's going to have a little girl. I bet she'll be in skates before she can walk. An image of a chestnut-haired girl in an Islanders jersey comes to mind. Ironically, I never thought about what our kids would look like when we were together.

"Congratulations."

He rubs his forehead and puffs out his lips. "Thanks, I guess. I don't know what the hell to do."

"That doesn't matter anymore. She's coming whether or not you want her to."

"I didn't say I didn't want her." He sits up straight. "I don't want her mother or the responsibility. I know that's a horrible thing to say."

"It is," I state as I grip the bench and tap my fingers on the edge. "And it's honest. You didn't plan on it, so no one can blame you entirely. What they _can_ blame you for is what you do, moving forward."

"I want you to tell me what to do."

I tilt my head at him. "Why me?"

"I don't know," he says seriously. I squint my eyes at him, and he laughs, looking up at the chandelier and letting out a loud, "I'm so fucked up."

I lean back against the window and look up for divine guidance. What do you tell your ex-husband who is having a child with a woman who is not you, and, oh, he doesn't want her... just the baby he didn't have with you?

When we were together, I took the motherly role for him. Brock's mother had left when he was a kid, and his father based his love for Brock on how well he did on the ice. I tended to be more mother than a wife to him at times.

It's also another reason my family didn't like him. Brock didn't have respect for my family. He thought they were too clingy, and he couldn't understand the emotion. He resented them, and they resented him for the way he'd behave. Then, I'd pick up the pieces.

"You're not fucked up. You just have a shitty support system."

My answer causes his face to ignite in agreement and a bit of surprise. He puffs a large breath from his lips and then leans back, too. He turns his head, and I stare into his eyes.

We used to end our days like this, except we were lying in bed, looking at each other. The days that I refuse to erase because they are part of me. They happened. There were bad times, but there were so many good times, which is probably why I decide to cut Brock some slack and help him.

"Be a dad. Buy a place in Boston, so your daughter can have a place to go to where she feels welcome. Lord knows, you have enough money to do so. You like it there anyway. Maybe that can be your home base when you're in the off-season."

"I'm away so much—"

"I hate to break it to you, but you're getting old. How many more years will you be playing? Think about what you want to do next and include your daughter in your decision." I close my eyes and remember the advice Thomas gave me. "You'll never regret it. One look at that child, and you'll be so in love, so fulfilled, that you'll know it was the right thing to do."

Brock grimaces as he takes in my words. As they seep in, a smile builds on his face.

"You think so?" he asks.

"A wise man once told me so." I stand up and adjust my purse on my arm. "Good-bye, Brock." He stands up and looks like he wants to say something, but I answer for him, "You're gonna be a good dad."

As I walk out of my building, Brock doesn't follow. It's fulfilling this time to walk away from him, not feeling lost or sad. For the first time in years, I don't have this unfortunate feeling of a failed marriage and a longing for what could have been. Brock might have done me a favor by being unfaithful. Our love affair was intense, but it wasn't for ever.

It was fast.

Insta-love is addicting because it's so much fun to fall in love. Problem is, you get hurt when you fall.

Brock Lannister swept me off my feet in a bar, and I was blinded by his whimsical nature—so blind that I crashed. If love were the Brooklyn Bridge, I jumped off the rails and crash-landed into the East River.

The relationship didn't work because he didn't value my love. He didn't earn my trust or get to know my inner thoughts. Honestly, I didn't know his either. I loved the idea of him and thought that was love.

I don't want to fall again. I want to walk steadily with my eyes open and looking ahead. There is someone who walks beside me, over the rushing waters and onslaught of traffic, who holds my hand and keeps me from focusing on the creaky boards of my fears. A man who knows my inner soul and crazy thoughts yet still wants to be by my side when we step off the bridge.

I know I told Brian I fell in love with Christian. That was a lie.

Christian Gallagher slowly walked his way into my soul and built a home in there, stirring a fire in my belly and a hearth over my heart.

That kind of love, you can't walk away from. It's firmly rooted with two feet on the ground.

"Good to have you back, Mrs. Lerry," I tell the patient who just came out of the hospital and is here for her follow-up.

"I feel good and have you to thank for it." She beams at me.

"I taught her everything she knows," Thomas says as he writes the results of today's examination in her file.

"He's so modest." I undo the blood pressure cuff from her arm.

Mrs. Lerry holds her finger out, so I can check her oxygen level. "Even the hospital staff was fantastic. I had this wonderful nurse, Natasha, who calmed me in the middle of the night. I think I had post-surgery anxiety, and she stayed with me until I relaxed."

Thomas lifts a brow at me.

I ignore him and agree with Mrs. Lerry, "Natasha is a fantastic nurse. She cared for my mother as well."

She smiles. "My nephew came to see me in the hospital, and I think I saw a few sparks fly between the two. Wouldn't that be something? Maybe everything happens for a reason."

I check the level on my monitor and remove the device from her finger. "I am a firm believer in Karma."

"And wishes," Thomas says.

I have a lot of wishes that have come true. A few I'm still waiting on.

The appointment ends, and I head to the next exam room.

It's a busy day of appointments, and when I get my stack of files back to the front desk, Angela is sucking on a lollipop, eager to talk.

"Guess who has upgraded to having a drawer?" She swivels in her chair. Her long, dark hair sways with the turns.

I look around, trying to figure out what the hell she's talking about.

"Me, silly! Denny gave me a drawer in his place. Told me I could leave my clothes there for sleepovers."

I give her a congratulatory smile. "Let me guess; you gave him a whole dresser?"

She grins. "Damn right! That boy can move himself in anytime he wants. Although his building has a doorman, so I'd much prefer to move in there."

"You've gone from toothbrush to beyond a box in a short time. I have _high_ hopes for you. Pun intended."

"Don't knock it. I've been using his hemp conditioner, and my hair has never been so smooth." She hands me a piece of paper. "Your mother called while you were in your appointment. She told me not to bother you while you were with a patient but to please ask you to bring her hairspray and compression socks because she didn't like the ones from the hospital."

I laugh, happy to know Mom is back up to her usual self. "How did she sound?"

"Fantastic for someone who had valve replacement surgery two days ago." Angela purses her lips. "She spent a long time talking about the best positions to procreate. Is that common for people who have near-death experiences?"

My guffaw bursts out. I have to cover my mouth to retain my laugh. "I might have told her you were trying to get pregnant. It's a long story. One I will tell you tomorrow over drinks?"

She practically falls out of her seat. "You want to come out on a weekday?"

"I think it's time I got out of my routines."

She taps her feet and raises her arms in victory. "There is the swankiest little wine bar downtown that has the best cheese platter. Denny is lactose intolerant, so I never get to go anymore."

I hand her my last file. "It's a date."

"Who's dating?" Christian asks as he approaches the desk.

I didn't notice him walk out of the exam room.

"Meadow and I are going out tomorrow. Wine and cheese for me! Oh, can we see if Beth wants to come? I am dying to see if she was serious about that offer to work for her."

Christian looks at her with the drop of his chin. "Not something you should tell your boss's son."

"Stilettos over stents," Angela sings and then adds, "Oh, come on. You know I'm only teasing." She puts her hand to the side of her mouth, blocking it from Christian, and whispers to me, "I'm not teasing."

I gently hit her in the head with my pen and walk away from the desk, toward the break room. It's been a long day, as I've been trying to keep Thomas on schedule, so I can get out of here on time and see my mom. She's still in the ICU, but she's awake, and the breathing tube has been removed. Hopefully, they'll move her to a regular room tonight.

Focusing on Mom and work is a great distraction as I ponder what exactly I'm going to say to Christian.

I've worked through our conversation in my head a hundred different ways, and each has a new outcome. It's why I don't know what to say, how to say it, or when. So, I'm just not saying anything.

I enter the break room and grab my bag from my locker. As I turn toward the door, Christian walks in and puts his back to the closed door, trapping me in.

His arms are crossed, and his eyes are narrowed at me. "You've been avoiding me again."

_This was not one of the scenarios in my head._

"I have to run. My mom needs some John Frieda. I'm sure she's planning beauty school lessons for the night staff." I take a step toward the door, but he's not budging, so I back away.

"Are you free tonight? I have an extra ticket to the Yankees game, and it has your name on it. Legends Suite, which means you can get Fresco To-Go delivered right to your seat."

I fiddle with the strap of my bag, hating that he's enticing me with Italian food. I _love_ Italian food. "Bring your dad. Or Angela. You know how much she loves her new Bedazzler. She'll make you a matching jersey."

"Come on. I'll wear my mom's pink fishing hat, and I'll even get you a foam finger." He winks in an attempt to lure me in.

_Why does he have to be so damn appealing? And I'm not talking about the foam finger or the hat, although that sounds pretty funny._

"No. I'm gonna see my mom, and then Dad is sleeping over again."

With a nod, he places his hands in his pockets and chews on his lip. "I have tickets to the New Kids on the Block and Backstreet Boys concert."

"You do?"

He looks at me with an arched brow. "Would you go with me?"

I adjust my bag on my shoulder and fold my arms, shrugging apologetically. "I'm busy."

"I didn't even tell you when it was." His posture changes as an annoyed tone caresses his lips.

"When is it?"

"I don't know because I didn't buy them. I just made that up to prove that you're avoiding me." He runs his hand along the back of his neck, and I know I've officially found myself backed into the proverbial corner. Especially when he takes a step toward me and passionately looks at me with an irritated and a scornful clench of his jaw. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"A lot. And you know better than anyone that I have to work through it before I come out and say it."

"Say what?" His body leans in as he waits for an answer.

"The look on your face right now is not what I was hoping for when I planned this conversation."

He balks at my response. "You're thinking about something that has to do with us, and I won't let you decide for me."

I sway my head to the side and inhale so deeply that my head feels hot, and I'm rubbing my hands together in uncertainty.

Christian is watching me, waiting. His eyes roam over my face until they settle on my eyes. He's asking me questions, searching for... something. When his eyes widen and glaze over, I know he's found the answer he was looking for.

His voice breaks down to a whisper. "You've changed your mind."

"Christian—"

"Damn it." He hits his fist on the closed door and then spins back. His hand flies to his hip, pushing his lab coat to the back. A pointed finger is aimed in my direction. "You can't make a choice like that without me."

"Things have changed."

"What's changed?" That naturally tan skin is searing red as his Adam's apple bobs with every annoyed gasp.

"I'm in love with you," I blurt out.

His eyes widen in a confused and moistened red glare. "You what?"

"You're so damn intense. I didn't plan on telling you like this. And, for the record, I didn't plan on being in love with you either. It's just something that happened, and... I can't do this with you right now."

I try to push him to the side to open the door to leave, but he's on me, his body trapping me against the door. One hand is on the steel, another on the doorknob. His chest against my back is the only thing that is keeping me grounded.

"You're not leaving this room until you finish what you just said." His words are an order. A hot-blooded command.

I close my eyes and revel in the feel of his heat. "I can't have a baby with you."

"Not that part," he growls, releasing his hold on me.

I feel him take a step back, and I turn around. Confusion and hurt mar his features.

"You love me?"

When I don't respond, he looks disappointed and frustrated. Raking his fingers through his hair, he fixes me with a stare. "So, that's it? You just end _our_ dream... just like that?"

It's the first time I've ever heard him refer to it like that. I'm taken aback.

"Christian, you've been my friend, my best friend, and that has always given you this important place in my heart. The truth is, it's always been you. I knew you didn't feel that way about me, so I suppressed it. I even loved someone else. Did you know you could love another even though your heart belonged to someone else? It's true. But it doesn't make it right.

"I guess I thought I could ignore it, and technically, I was—and doing a fabulous job of it, too. Then, you swooped in with your promises and made love to me, and that changed _everything_. How do you suppress your true feelings after you find out just how magnificent it is to be made love to by the man you've always wanted to love you back?"

I might not have known how I would talk to Christian about this, but now that I've started, I can't seem to stop. "I could have a baby with you and know that it was created out of love, and damn it, I still want to. But—and there's a huge _but_ —I'd want you to be a family with us. I'd want more than your promise. And I don't want you to feel guilty or tricked. You have a plan, and I respect that plan. I saw what you did for my mom, and I can't even begin to explain how much admiration and respect I have for your brilliant mind. Yet here I stand, knowing what you want and telling you that it wouldn't be enough. It's so messed up, and I'm sorry. That's why I can't do this; it's not the right thing to do."

His head is bowed a touch as he listens. With the purse of his lips, he seeks clarification. "Let me get this straight. You're in love with me, and because you love me, you don't want to have a baby with me?"

"No. Wait. Yes. Everything you just said is right."

"Why?"

I close my eyes and sigh. I can't look at him anymore because, every time I do, I see my future, everything I want... everything I've dreamed of... wished for.

Everything I can't have.

"I want it all. I want you and marriage and kids and the house Upstate and the baseball games and bad pop music and flowers at work and quiet reading on the sofa and coming home to you fixing the sink and me making you lasagna and... I want it all. Watching my parents, seeing how they love each other... God, how much he cherishes her... it makes me selfish for wanting that, too. I want to have a family with someone who loves me as much as I love him. I want _you_ to love me as much as I love you."

"Meadow—"

I cut him off. "Please don't tell me you love me or that you think you could grow to love me. That's just insulting, and it would hurt."

"What do you want me to say?"

_Everything._

"Nothing." I swallow.

He nods in understanding, his eyes looking down as he rubs his jaw.

"Then, I guess that's the end of our friendship," he says.

I swear, my stomach just dropped to the center of the earth.

My heart? Shattered into a million pieces.

"Oh," is all I say.

Of all the scenarios I played in my head, this gut-wrenching feeling of loss and abandonment wasn't a part of them.

With my eyes heavy with unshed tears, I rush out of the break room and dash through the office, passing Angela without a wave good-bye as I storm out of Park Avenue Cardiology.

I have things I have to do and a mother I need to see, but my broken heart has me crossing the street and running into Central Park. As fast as I can, I run to the center of the park to the place that has always been my spot of peace and solace.

When I get to the edge of my fountain and look up into the angel of the water and her bronzed cherubs, I curse her for the first time ever.

"You can have your stupid wishes," I tell her as I rip the wishbone off my neck and hold it up in my fist. "You can have your stupid wishes and your fucked up dreams. I don't believe in them anymore. I don't believe in you."

The hot tears come bursting down my cheeks as I declare to her, "This is now yours."

I throw the wishbone into the water and fall to the basin as I cry for my wish that never came true.

# Chapter Nineteen

Christian

* * *

Everyone has a best friend.

For some, it's the person you've known the longest, the childhood playmate who's been there for every bad decision... and was probably the one egging you on. For me, that's my friend Mike. He now lives in Delray Beach where he owns a restaurant off the intercoastal. If it wasn't for his wife and kids, he'd still be making some questionable choices in late-night debauchery.

Others look to that person from college, the one who was there when no one else was. Those were the _coming into your own_ days. My roommate, Zach, was the guy I partied with, yet he also kept me focused on getting into a good medical school. He's now an oncologist in Baltimore and kicking ass in his field.

Then, there's the group who states a sibling, parent, or loved one is their best friend because blood is thicker than water.

That's me.

Both Mike and Zach are great friends, but they're not my best friends.

For me, a best friend is the person you can talk to about anything and not worry about being judged or criticized. A person you can shoot the breeze with and leave the conversation, feeling better than before. The one who helps you when you're down, not hands you a shot and tells you to go home with the brunette at the bar.

_Thanks, Mike._

That person, __ that would be my father.

When I lost my virginity at seventeen, I told him because I didn't know who else to talk to. My friends weren't much help. They were full of high fives and story exchanges, something I knew early on I wasn't into. It only took a week for my dad to see something was off with me. I wasn't down. In fact, I felt good about myself. I just felt different. He knew it.

He took me for a drive to the shore. We went to the beach and sat on a wooden bench overlooking the ocean. He brought two beers—one for him, one for me. Yes, I was way too young to drink, but he said, if I was old enough to have sex, I was old enough to have a beer.

Just one.

He was adamant about that.

"There are three keys to a good life. Success, love, and happiness," he explained as we stared out into the rolling waves of the Atlantic. "You can have success in spades, love in bounty, and fun with the wicked in the best ways. Life is a balance of abundance and control. If you don't share in your success, you'll never prosper. If you treat those you love with disrespect, you'll live in great misery. And, if you overindulge in the vices, you will lose the success and the love."

Dr. Thomas Gallagher is a wise man.

I have always looked to him as a role model. He's the consummate gentleman, kind to his friends and a

scratch golfer. My mother often says he's a great husband, although she wishes he'd stop leaving newspaper sections all over the house. He's like a child leaving a trail of crumbs, except it's the business section in the kitchen, technology in the living room, and sports in the study.

He's the reason I became a surgeon. I marveled at his ability to cure people and found the heart both challenging and simplistic. We'd spend hours discussing the human anatomy, and he'd let me shadow him in his office.

I've come to my father for advice many times throughout my life. As a kid, it was school advice, friendship dilemmas, and health tips. As I got older, it was career advice, dating dilemmas, and more health tips. Not much has changed.

He's guided me through my medical training. When I had to choose between the University of California, San Francisco or School of Medicine at Temple University, he helped me with the decision to leave my family, saying, "Follow your dreams. You can always come home."

As I struggled with the training for a new procedure, one many in the medical community deemed impossible with my experience, my father flew out west to help perfect my technique.

His advice was, "To master a skill, you need to have patience, heart, and a _fuck you_ attitude."

That was the first time I'd heard my father curse in years.

And, when I told my father, at twenty-five, I was in love with Meadow Duvane, he told me, "Let her go."

I know it sounds foolish, but let me tell you a little story.

It doesn't start when we were thirteen, and she convinced me Sally Romano had herpes. I knew she was lying, and to be honest, I didn't mind. I hadn't wanted to hang out with Sally, and Meadow was way more fun. At least, that was what I thought. Believe me when I say, I had no idea she was only pretending to like roller coasters.

No, this story starts when we were fifteen. And the girl's name was Amanda Rackshaw. She was my first serious girlfriend, who I was madly in love with. Well, as in love as a teenage boy with raging hormones could be.

She sat behind me in Algebra II and rolled her school skirt up three times. I know this because I used to watch her hands as they skimmed her waistband, exposing extra inches of thigh. It was against school rules, which made it even hotter. Pervy, I know, but I was fifteen, so bear with me.

Amanda was my first girlfriend. I took her to the movies three times, bought her a bracelet for our one-month anniversary, and wrote a love letter. I asked her to go with me to the school play where Meadow was starring as Annie Oakley. My parents told me I had to support her because our families were friends, and it was the right thing to do. Meadow was cool, but _Annie Get Your Gun_ wasn't my idea of a fun Friday night. Amanda agreed to go, so we went.

Meadow was okay from what I remember. Actually, I don't remember most of it because I was too busy being dumped during intermission. I was heartbroken. I felt like my chest had turned to stone, and this lead weight was now sitting inside my ribs, waiting to drop. I wanted to hit something, so I did. I punched a tree and hurt my knuckles. And I cried. A lot. Again, I was only fifteen, so cut me some slack.

After the show, I did what they'd sent me to do and waited for Meadow to come offstage, so I could congratulate her, and like any sullen teenager, I kept my head down and looked off into the distance. I thought no one noticed or cared that my heart was shattered.

I was wrong.

Meadow noticed.

"Where's Amanda?" she asked, looking past my shoulder for my girlfriend.

"Gone," was all I said.

Meadow took the hint.

By the time I got to the sidewalk in front of our school, Meadow was jogging behind me.

"Wait up!" she called out, huffing from trying to keep up with my long steps.

Man, she was out of shape.

I looked at her with her hot-pink sweatshirt and hair still in barrel curls from playing a sharpshooter from the Wild West. "Aren't you supposed to be hanging out with the cast? I thought there was an after-party."

She shrugged. "Yeah. They're headed over to Umberto's for pizza, but I can hang with them after tomorrow's performance."

I looked at her like she was an idiot. "Why would you ditch your friends like that?"

"I'm not." She raised her brows at me as she dug her thumbs through the straps of her backpack and gave a smug look. "You're my friend, too, and something tells me you need me more than they do."

Until that point, I never considered Meadow more than someone I hung out with sometimes—at our parents' country club, tennis camp, and on the occasional school trip. She was all about the arts, and I was a sports guy. She hung out at the library, and I went to the mall.

She stopped walking and bent to look at an old penny on the ground. "Find a penny, pick it up, and all day long, you'll have good luck." Instead of picking it up, she flipped it over.

"What did you do that for?" I asked.

"This way, someone else will find it heads up, and they'll have a good day."

Since I was alone and down, I let Meadow walk with me. I was thankful she didn't mention Amanda again. Instead, she asked if I had seen _Saturday Night Live_ last weekend. I had, and we laughed for ten blocks about our favorite Will Ferrell skits.

We didn't live too far away from each other, so I walked her home. Her parents were already back from the performance and were surprised to see Meadow hadn't gone out with her friends. I was young but wise enough to see the mischievous way Mrs. Duvane looked at us together, her wheels turning with how exciting it would be if we dated.

My first thought was, _No way_.

I mean, Meadow was cool, but she wasn't someone I was attracted to.

She asked if I wanted to come in and play video games.

Since I had nothing else going on, I said, "Sure."

I stayed until midnight when my dad picked me up. After he found out what had happened with Amanda, he approved with how my night had turned out.

"Great friendships are the best cure for a broken heart."

He was right. Meadow had turned my glum night into a bearable one.

After that, we hung out more. Mostly playing video games in her basement. She came to my basketball games, and I'd see her in the school plays. She didn't hesitate to tell me when she thought my next girlfriend was a bitch. I took her out for pizza when the bitchy girlfriend and I broke up. Meadow seemed pleased.

Then, junior year happened.

It was the year Meadow came into her own.

Before then, Meadow was dorky. She was scrawny and always reading her Eloise books or The Baby-Sitters Club. She then moved on to Judy Blume and pretty much anything she could get her hands on. Her favorite music was NSYNC and Backstreet Boys, and she had Britney Spears posters all over her room. She didn't wear makeup, she had a rabbit's foot keychain on her backpack, she let her mom dress her in ruffles, and she always wore her hair in a ponytail.

Now, she was reading her mom's Doubleday Book Club romances, listening to Maroon 5, and doodling boys' names in her notebook. Her hair was down, and her face looked... different. It could have been the makeup she wore or the fact that her eyebrows were thicker. Perhaps her face was just changing, but she was getting pretty.

Really pretty.

_Too pretty._

And then she turned seventeen.

If my hormones weren't already raging, Meadow's teenage metamorphosis had me going crazy. Her boobs had grown overnight, she had an ass, and that gawky figure was filling out all over. By the time the winter formal came around, I was having a hard time not staring at her when I should have been focusing on the PlayStation. It was as if she were channeling her own Britney Spears with the small tank tops and super-short shorts. One time, when we were supposed to be studying, I spent twenty minutes watching her suck on a Blow Pop.

That was when I decided I would ask her to the winter formal. I was a nervous wreck. I didn't know why. She was a friend. We'd have fun together. I would not tell her I was lusting after her like the out-of-control teenager I was.

I waited until our drive home from school—something I'd started doing. When we got in my car, her door wasn't even closed when she danced in the seat, screaming in excitement.

"Garret Kent asked me to the winter formal!" She was glowing. Ecstatic to be going to the dance with the biggest douche bag in school.

"When did you start liking Garret?" I wasn't hiding my disgust. She was just too into her own celebration to notice. "You didn't say yes... did you?"

"Are you serious? He's the cutest boy in school, and he asked _me_. I mean, I know my value is more than some silly boy asking me to a dance, but can we first revel in the fact that, one, this is the first time I have ever, ever been asked to a dance, and two, I was asked by the boy that every girl in school wants to go with? This. Is. So. Exciting!"

_Damn. How could I compete with that?_

Not only did she think Garret was hot, but she also felt good about herself.

So, I did what any other guy in my position would do. I asked someone else.

And, when Meadow and Garret left the dance to go to a hotel, I did the same with my date, except I lost my virginity that night.

Meadow puked on Garret's Nikes.

So, there I was, having a beer in Long Branch, New Jersey, with my dad in celebration of becoming a _man._

"Not as exciting as you thought it would be?" he asked as I took my first sip.

"Sorry to break it to you, but this isn't my first drink, Dad."

"I'm not talking about the beer."

"Oh." I squinted my eyes into the sun and wrapped my hands around the cold beer. "No. Not really. Is that normal?"

"Only when you do it with someone you don't care about."

It was a powerful lesson. One that has sat with me over the years. As did another that my father imparted on me that day.

"You be a gentleman and treat this girl right by letting her down gently. Now, why don't you tell me what you were doing at that dance with a girl you didn't like?"

I rolled the bottle back and forth in my hands. "I was going to ask Meadow to the dance. You know, toss her a bone, so she didn't have to go alone." I tried to act unaffected because I didn't need my dad knowing I liked her in that way. "She went with someone else."

With an understanding nod, my father sat there and absorbed my admission. "Meadow doesn't need your favors anymore. What she needs is a friend."

As always, he was right. Meadow had been a good friend, and all I did was think of ways to get in her pants.

I was no better than Garret.

I deserved to have her puke on my Nikes, too.

That was why, a few weeks later, I said something to her. I told her she was my best friend. Was she? She was the best of all my friends, sure. The person who I wasn't worried about being the coolest or best around. I wasn't concerned about what she thought if I wanted to stay in on the weekend to study or watch _SNL_. She liked me for me, and that felt good.

Meadow was someone who, if I dated and we broke up, our relationship would never be the same.

I was also hoping I wouldn't always have this attraction to her. I was wrong. It lasted past graduation and into the college years.

We went to different universities, but we spoke often. Mostly online. Our text chains were long and always up our computer screens. If I needed to talk to her, she was a click away.

Thanksgiving Eve was always the top party night for us. We'd get together with our old high school friends. Over the summers, we'd spend time with our parents at the club, play tennis, and swim. We dated other people, and as always, she liked none of my girlfriends. It was surprising because she always dated losers. More than once, I had a heart-to-heart with some guy in a parking lot. It was the classic _you hurt her, and I hurt you_ speech.

I stayed on the West Coast for medical school, and she got her master's back east. By then, I had my heart set on becoming a surgeon. My priorities had switched from girls to becoming the most advanced valve replacement surgeon in the field. I was obsessed, and it paid off.

I didn't party at all, so I lived vicariously through Meadow and listened to her stories every Sunday. I don't remember when that started, but for years, that was our day. We spoke about everything from books to what was on television to politics to friends and family. We learned more about each other over the phone than we had in all the years we'd known one another. I took her to a Justin Timberlake concert one year for her birthday, and she came out to San Francisco twice on her own and twice to see her boyfriend play hockey.

By twenty-five, I was taking part in research my peers would have killed to be part of. I spent my days in labs and my nights in research books. I had the lead and was doing everything to stay focused and seize my dream.

That was when Meadow got married.

She eloped.

It devastated her mother. It disappointed her dad because he hadn't gotten to walk her down the aisle. They threw her a wedding party afterward to appease their need to give their daughter the wedding of their dreams.

My heart was broken for the second time in my life.

No, that's a lie. It was the first and only time because what I'd thought was a broken heart at fifteen was just a pissed-off attitude. This was different. I didn't actually feel it in my chest. It felt like my bones had lost their density. My gut was hollow, and I had this terrible headache that lasted for weeks.

I'd thought I had my life figured out. No, I did have my life figured out. I'd just forgotten to figure Meadow into it.

I was an idiot. It took Meadow getting married for me to realize for certain that I was in love with her. I was hoping it was jealousy, and it would pass. It didn't.

"Don't do anything foolish," my father said when he picked me up at the airport.

"Why would you say something like that?"

"She made her vow to another man. If there's one thing Gallagher men hold sacred, it's marriage. Let her go. Let her be happy."

On the day of her wedding party, I gave her a gift. A wishbone necklace. I'm always surprised when I see her wearing it. It's like she knows why I picked it out.

"It's beautiful," she said, thankfully not questioning the fact that I'd bought something so personal.

"When I was in school, we had to break open the chest cavity of a bird. The wishbone protects the heart. It reminded me of you. Wishes and luck and... well, I saw it at the jeweler, and he said a wishbone meant hope for the future. I hope you like it."

"I love it." She threw her arms around me, and I didn't hesitate to hold her a little longer than I should have.

_My Meadow._

She belonged to someone else.

I flew back to San Francisco and devoted my life to my career for the next seven years until the day she called in tears.

She'd left Brock. I took the first flight home.

I held her when she cried.

I fed her when she said she couldn't eat.

I made her laugh when I thought her smile had faded forever.

And I made my decision. It was time to come home. I spent the next six months applying for positions in Manhattan, and the stars aligned for me, placing me in the hospital next to my father's office. Her office. I didn't have to see patients at Park Avenue Cardiology. The fact that my two favorite people were there made it an easy decision.

It was okay that Meadow didn't love me. Watching her heal the wounds given to her by another man was horrible to watch. She might not be mine, but I've always taken my father's advice. She needed a friend, and I've tried to be the best she deserved.

When she gets lost in her thoughts, I'm there to help her work through her problems.

When she needs a confidence boost, I tell her how desirable she is.

When she wants to become a mother, I am the first in line to be the father of her child.

Was it selfish on my part to make the offer? Yes. I did it with the best of intentions for her and for myself. To have a child I always wanted but just didn't think it would happen for me in the next decade? I was all in. To make love to the woman I had wanted for half my life? Damn, it was the best night of my life.

Then, she reminded me we were still friends. That was like a knife to the chest. I told her that night to let me know if I was breaking her heart. I was talking to myself. Once I had her, I knew there would be no accolade, no amount of success in the world that would triumph over being with Meadow.

I was in love with her. Body and soul.

The last few weeks have been the best and worst.

I wanted to have a baby with her. Being a father had me excited for the first time in years. Still, I almost dreaded the day she'd say she was pregnant because I wouldn't be able to pretend she was mine anymore.

Then, she told me she loved me.

And I told her we couldn't be friends anymore.

"Well, that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," my father says when I come to him with the story.

Meadow just ran out of here, and like the good friend I am, I let her run off.

And, yes, instead of going after her, I walked right into my father's office at Park Avenue Cardiology to tell him this whole tale.

"She tells you she wants forever, and you tell her you can't be friends?" He looks exasperated as he sits at his desk and taps his pen. "Am I missing something?"

"Nope." I pull the ends of my hair and look out the window.

My father leans with an elbow bent on the armrest and massages his chin, looking at me in contemplative thought. "You're a brilliant man. Got a fifteen forty on your SATs. Top of your class in med school and performing breakthrough heart procedures that only a handful of people in the world have the intelligence to master. You're also the dumbest son of a bitch I've ever met."

I look back at him with profound shock. "What?"

"You heard me. You're thick in the head for standing here right now when you should be chasing after that girl and begging her to be your wife."

He's right. I know he's right, except he's greatly wrong.

"She wants it all, Dad. She wants lasagna."

"What does lasagna have to do with anything?"

"Everything." I look out the window at the setting sun that leaves a shadow over the street. Leaning back on my heels, I fiddle with the coins in my pocket. "What if I hurt her because I can't provide the life she deserves? What I did for Gail, it was a miracle. The possibilities that are now open to future patients, the technology that we can use to heal people... it'll be my life, more so than it already is now. I have papers to write and boards to communicate with. I am one of three people in the world who have done this surgery, and I even found a new pathway to do it. This is what I've studied for. My plan, the dream of being director by forty, is on track and even better than before."

"You're going to choose a heart over love?"

"It's not like she gave me much of a choice. She changed our plan, told me she couldn't have a baby with me."

"Because she loves you," he reminds me.

I drop my shoulders. "She doesn't want the life I planned out."

He sits there a moment, his back leaning into his chair, making it creak as he thinks. "Did she ask you to give up your work?"

"She'd never," I answer easily.

"Did she tell you she wanted a traditional life with a husband who was home at five and home on the weekends?"

"No." I shake my head as I rub a penny between my fingers. "But she has dreams."

"So do you. And, for someone who was upset with her for making decisions without consulting you first, you sure are making decisions for her without asking what she damn well wants." He rises from his desk, his palms flat on the desk as he leans in and gives me a stern eye, similar to the one I got when I took his car for a joyride at sixteen. It's the face he gives when he's no longer my friend. He's my father. "I know I've given you advice in the past that you've taken to heart, but it's time that you stop listening to things I've said and listen to me now. Don't be her friend. Don't leave her alone, and you'd damn well better not seize your dreams over anything other than love."

"You make it sound so easy."

He stands up straight and looks me dead in the eye. "Do you love her?"

It doesn't take a second for the answer to pour right from my heart and straight to my lips. "More than anything."

"Well then, what the hell are you waiting for?"

# Chapter Twenty

Meadow

* * *

The sky has long since gone dark, and I'm still sitting here at the edge of the fountain. Despite the night sky, the fountain and arcade of Bethesda Terrace are still packed. The Boathouse on the other side of the lake is lit up, packed with diners enjoying their evening, while I sit here and commiserate with the pigeons.

A pint of ice cream and a long bath are probably the best solution for my horrible existence, but I can't seem to move. Sure, it's a bit melodramatic, but at this point, it's go home, eat my weight in cookie dough, and finish the bottle of Johnnie or sit here for a while longer where at least there's life surrounding me.

I cried for a while. I cursed a few times and scared off a nice family. There might have been an instance where I gave a lovely-looking couple the finger.

Good news is, I'm not as angry as I was before. My tears have stopped, and I pretty much just feel hopeless.

I'm facing the lake tonight, taking in the way the moonlight hits the water. Its beam of light shines on the glass-like black surface, looking like a beam of hope in the dark abyss.

_I should remember this moment when I'm writing my manual._

To my right, a man is doing tricks with his dog, and the poodle is jumping up into the air, doing flips, and even walking on its hind legs. The man hands the dog a treat and gives the pooch a scratch on the tummy. I wish someone loved me as much as that man loved his dog.

I kick a pebble on the ground. "That's silly, Meadow. You're loved. Stop being such a sorry sack of—"

"Do you always talk to yourself?"

I look up to see Christian standing with his hands in his pockets, looking down at me with a raised brow and a lopsided smile.

I hate his handsome face and hilarious personality. I hate his suits and leather shoes. I hate the woodsy cologne he wears that seems to stay on all day when everyone else loses their scent after an hour. Mostly, I hate that my heart is racing at the fact that he's here.

"Rarely. Mostly when I'm feeling sorry for myself, so now seemed like a good time." I look up at him with a forced grin and then let it go quickly, looking away. The running water of the fountain is enough to drown out the thoughts running through my head, which are telling me that Christian being here might not be a good thing. "What are you doing here?"

"My father told me I was a fool not to run after you."

"You are a fool," I say. It's rather juvenile, but it's the truth. Then again, if he's the fool, I'm a joker because I've been playing tricks on myself. "Between your dad and my mom, we have the most meddlesome parents in the tri-state area."

He laughs. It's that deep baritone that sends chills right up to my head.

"Maybe it's our fault for taking their advice," he says.

With his back to the lake, he's standing in the moonlight, a glow surrounding him, highlighting his perfect, straight nose and strong jaw.

_Maybe this would be easier if he wasn't so handsome._

No, I'd love him if he were half as tall, had a crooked nose, and an eye in the middle of his forehead.

"Why did you run off like that?"

I look away. "You said we couldn't be friends."

"No. That we can't," he says.

I look up him with a dropped jaw as I feel my heart plummet.

I feel like crying.

Scratch that.

I am crying.

_Goddamn it._

"Who says that anyway? _We can't be friends._ We're not in high school. You can't just eradicate twenty-some-odd years of friendship like that." I snap my fingers to make the point.

At the sight of my tears, he treads toward me in two steps and holds out a hand. "Dance with me," he says.

I look up at him with my hand on my cheek, rubbing away a tear.

"Don't appease me." I rub the other cheek.

He doesn't take no for an answer. "Dance with me, Meadow."

I look up into his eyes. The flecks of gold are illuminated by the amber streetlights of the park. I might hate him, but I'm a glutton for this man, so I take his hand and let him pull me up to a standing position.

His hand snakes around my waist as his other grabs my hand and holds it close to his chest. I pick at the collar of his shirt as he sways his hips and dances to no music, just the sound of rushing water as the beat.

Placing my hand on his shoulder, I step further into him, feeling the protective feeling of his hand on the small of my back, and let out a sigh.

He smells so good. Not just his cologne or the fine Italian suit. It's the sinful scent of testosterone-laden man. The natural scent of him when he's naked in bed.

I open my mouth to speak, but I have no words. I don't know what else to say. His beating heart is pressed against our joined knuckles, like a drum to the melody of the night. The slight breeze is the poetic melody of a flute and the water weaving the heavenly notes of a piano.

I move my hand to his neck and rest my head against his beating heart. He pulls me impossibly close. We're two people resembling one.

"How did you know I was here?"

His chin rests against my head. "I went to your apartment first, but Sal said you hadn't come home yet, so I walked into the park."

I let out a groan. "There was a day when I had an unpredictable social calendar."

The light rumble in his chest radiates through mine. "Trust me, you're still unpredictable."

It's dark. It's late. My entire day has been a roller coaster of emotions. I step back from his embrace, but his hand that's gripping mine pulls me back. The breeze brushes against my cheek, forcing a tendril of hair to blow in front of my face.

With a genuine smile and eyes that glaze over, glittering with emotion, he pushes the tendril behind my ear. He puts a hand in his pocket and takes out a shiny copper penny.

"Make a wish," he says.

"I don't believe in wishes anymore."

My words seem to cause him distress because his brows are turned down, and his lips are parted.

"Do you know what I wish for?" he asks.

"You can't tell me or else it won't come true."

"Or maybe it will." With a fierce determination, Christian drops down on one knee and holds the penny up between us. "Meadow Duvane—"

"What are you doing?" I ask rather abruptly.

He laughs, seemingly at himself. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

My palms are held up high as I try to assess the situation. "It looks like you're proposing. Anyone who looks over here at me standing and you down on one knee would assume you're proposing. But you're holding a penny. Oh God, are you not proposing? Because, right now, you are winning some kind of award for making me feel crazy."

"Are you done being crazy?" he asks calmly.

"I think so," I huff.

"Because I'd like to propose." Christian looks up with a steadfast twinkle in his eye. "Meadow Duvane—"

"No."

"No?"

I stomp my foot. "No, Christian. You can't." I run my hand over the back of my neck as I try to process what the hell is going through his head right now. "You can't just come here and propose marriage with a penny."

"Why not?" He looks up at me, confused. "Is it because I don't have a ring? I do, if you're wondering. It's my grandmother's. Three carats on a gold band. You can change the setting if you want."

He's incorrigible, completely beguiling, and I want to slap the smug smile off his face. Yes, he's smiling. The bastard thinks this is funny.

"An hour ago, you said we couldn't be friends, and now, you're here. Doing this!" I let out an exasperated breath.

As muddled as I seem to be at the situation, he is taking it all in stride.

"For the record, I didn't say we couldn't be friends. I said that was the end of our friendship. And you're the one who told me not to tell you I loved you."

I nod slowly. "That sounds about right."

"Believe me when I say, I didn't plan on proposing like this. In my mind, it was with a romantic dinner and dancing. I'd have a ring in a box, but as you well know, life doesn't go as planned."

"Then, why are you doing this?"

"Because you don't let me talk. I'm down here, on a knee, and I'm not getting up until you let me finish." His tone is loud, and my heart jumps wildly in my chest.

I stand here, stone silent. He raises his brows and tilts his chin in temptation to make me speak. I don't say a word. He takes that as his sign to continue.

"What you didn't let me say earlier is that I am wildly, crazily, passionately in love with you. I don't just love you. I live for you. I'm not saying it because you said it first. I'm telling you, I fell in love with you on a walk home from your school play. I fell harder during car rides and late-night talks. I found my soul mate over two decades of friendship. You're the only woman I have ever and will ever love. I lost you once, and I will never lose you again. That's why I'm not asking; I'm telling you. Marry me. Be my wife, the mother of my children, my soul mate, my whole heart, my last wish. Marry me, Meadow." His tender gaze is accompanied with a hard swallow as he adds, " _Will_ you marry me?"

"I thought you weren't going to ask?"

He shrugs. "Call me a gentleman."

And, just like that, I fall into his arms. My knees hit the pavement as I tumble into his embrace and kiss the man of my dreams with every bit of love in my body.

"Yes," I whisper into him as he kisses me back, stealing my breath away. "Are you sure? This was very sudden."

"Not for me. I've been dreaming about this my entire life."

As the water trickles from the fountain behind us, we kiss for an eternity. He caresses my head and bends me back, his tongue stroking mine with an intensity that leaves me clinging to him.

"It won't be easy," he says with his hands on the sides of my face, holding me tight. "I won't always be here—"

I grab his hands and kiss the lifeline on his palm. "Being a great surgeon is one of the things I love about you the most."

My answer seems to please him immensely.

With a steady smile, he stands up, pulling me with him. "What else do you love about me?"

"That you're my best friend."

"Hate to break it to you, but we were never best friends."

"What were we?"

"More."

As he pulls me in and kisses my hair, I relax into his embrace and look back at the fountain. The one I cursed not too long ago.

My hand flies to my chest in a panic. "My necklace! I threw it into the fountain. I was angry because she didn't give me my wish."

Instead of being concerned, he pulls me in and laughs. "That's okay. It's served its purpose. I always hoped it would bring you to me in the future." He takes the penny he proposed to me with and holds it out to me. "Do you want to make a wish?"

With the shake of my head, I say, "No. I don't think I'll be making any more wishes."

"No?" He looks back at me, confused.

"My wish came true. I wished for you."

"All these years?" he asks.

With a hand on his jaw, I tell him my secret. My one wish. "Every time. It was always you."

He grips my waist and pulls me in. His head buried in my neck, he kisses along my collarbone and under my ear, and he lays the most tender of kisses on my jaw. With the penny in his hand, he holds it up to his lips and gives it a kiss, tossing it into the fountain.

I raise a brow at him in question.

He lays a protective hand on my belly and whispers, "I can't tell you, or it won't come true."

My teeth skim my lip as I pull him toward me and the west side of town. "Let's go home."

"Not so fast." He pulls me back, motioning back toward the hospital.

I grimace at him, wondering what he could possibly want to do instead of going home and celebrating the first day of the rest of our lives.

"You still have to get your mom John Frieda," he says, and I fall into his chest in laughter.

And this is why Dr. Christian Gallagher has always been my wish.

# Epilogue

"This is my cardio for the day," I say as I bend my knees and get down into an Egyptian pose.

"This is your song. You should be kicking his butt!" Dylan says, disappointed in my low score.

"Don't let Uncle Christian beat you again!" Aiden bellows form his spot next to me.

"It's all in the hips," Christian says as he twists his torso, following the avatars on the screen.

I sneak a glance at the way he gyrates his hips, and I momentarily lose my place in the dance moves.

"Eyes on the screen." He winks with his focus turned to the television.

We're in a one-on-one battle of Just Dance _._ The song: "Everybody" by the Backstreet Boys.

Never play a video game, any video game, against a surgeon. Their eye-hand coordination is impeccable.

Dylan shoots his theory down. "It actually doesn't matter what you do with your hips because the remote in your hand is tallying the points."

"It's anatomy. Trust me, Dylan; you'll learn soon enough that the hips and hands go hand in hand."

I kick Christian in the shin. "He's not even old enough to play Fortnite, let alone have an analogy from his uncle."

"His favorite uncle," he says with his hands in the air and body walking to the side.

I roll my eyes and move alongside him in unison. "His _only_ uncle."

"Nuance," he teases, getting his fourth star and securing his win in the game.

I'm breathless as I hand the controller to Aiden and motion toward Christian, who didn't break a sweat. "Think you can best him?"

"I'm only eight, and he's a hundred. Of course I can kick his butt." My nephew is smug as he takes a spot in front of the television and looks for a hip-hop song. He knows it's Christian's least favorite, and therefore, it's Aiden's best shot of winning.

Footsteps on the stairwell have me looking in that direction as Beth comes down with a baby monitor in her hand. She shakes her head as she sees the four of us in the basement, playing games, as usual.

Looking at the screen, she sees Christian won the game. "You could let her win every once in a while."

His full lips creep into a wicked smile. "And miss out on this pout?" He grabs my chin and pulls me in for a kiss.

Dylan and Aiden let out noises of disgust, making me smile into his kiss.

"Never."

Beth holds up her cashmere-clad arm and gives Christian the baby monitor. "Enjoy your sweet moment because your daughter is up."

"Which one?" we ask in unison and then look at each other with a laugh.

We still can't believe we have twin girls.

"Lucy," she says.

Christian looks at the monitor and hits the button to look into the other crib. His face lights up with a gleaming smile. "Looks like her sister is up, too."

"Let's go get our girls," I say.

Christian and I walk upstairs to the second floor of Beth and Brian's house.

When my brother finally convinced his wife not to have a third child, Christian and I had just found out we were expecting two of our own. Beth immediately turned her fourth bedroom into a nursery for her nieces, ensuring Christian and me that the girls would have a place to feel at home.

"Hey, sweet girl," I say as I pick up little Lucy from where she's lying in her crib, babbling at her mobile of stars.

She has blue eyes and the tiniest smattering of blonde hair. When I pick her up, her head falls to my shoulder, and she starts sucking on my neck.

"Someone's hungry."

"I think this little bean is, too." Christian is holding Abigail with his pinkie against her lips as she sucks sweetly. Like her sister, she has blue eyes, but she has a full head of brown hair.

Our fraternal miracles came to us just four months ago, and they've been an absolute blessing.

After a few months of trying on our own, Christian and I had a visit with Dr. Abbot. Turns out, Christian has decreased sperm mobility, and his boys needed a little help. He's not embarrassed, as I would have thought he'd be. In fact, my lover-of-all-things-medical husband was fascinated by the process and even asked if he could watch the embryo transfer. He was there for every sonogram and appointment, even delivering the girls himself in the hospital room—with the assistant of an actual OB, of course.

Baby A was born at seven fifty-two in the morning. Five pounds, five ounces and eighteen inches long. Lucy Beth Gallagher is named after Christian's mom, Lucille, with a nod to my sister-in-law. She looks like me with light eyes and her daddy's dimples.

Baby B came three minutes later and two ounces less. Abigail Duvane Gallagher is named after my mom. She gives me grief about not naming her Gail, but I liked Abigail so much more. She looks like me, too, without the dimples and has her dad's hair. A lot of it, too.

"I'll nurse Lucy, and you can give Abigail a bottle." I kiss my husband.

Then, I sit in the rocker with my baby girl in my arms and nurse her. I wanted to exclusively breastfeed my girls for the first year, but I found it wasn't the right fit for our family.

I was relieved when Christian asked me last month why I wasn't using formula. He had walked in at four in the morning after coming home from an emergency call to the hospital. I was in our room with both girls and a mess of tears. I was tired and felt like a total failure because I just wanted to sleep, and Lucy was hungry.

He suggested alternating between breast and formula, and it was like a weight was lifted off my shoulders. I've enjoyed the small bit of freedom, and he's been loving the one-on-one time when he gets to feed them.

I rock Lucy and look at the room Beth decorated in light pink walls and weathered gray mini cribs. Next to the changing table is a photo of me and Christian on our wedding day. Our smiles are big as we look at the camera. He looks debonair in my most favorite look on him—a tuxedo—and underneath my white lace dress are the most gorgeous pair of silver sparkle Yves Saint Laurent shoes that Beth bought me as a wedding gift.

We married the September after he proposed with a penny. The ceremony and reception were at The Loeb Boathouse in Central Park, overlooking my fountain... our fountain. Our moms planned the entire affair. Beth served as my matron of honor, and Christian asked his father. The band played an entire hour of boy band music.

I wear his grandmother's rings and feel a tinge of amazement every time I think of my life. I married the man I'd wished for and have the family I dreamed about.

Lucy has fallen asleep in my arms, so I adjust my top and change my girl. This nursery is similar to the one we have at home, except the girls have their names on the wall over their cribs and a mural of hearts and stars painted on the ceiling.

Before the wedding, Christian moved in with me, only to find out we were pregnant with twins, and our home was suddenly too small for the four of us. I hated the idea of leaving. I was quite close to Sal and couldn't part with my lovable doorman. We sold the apartment and bought a new one two floors up. It's three bedrooms with the same open kitchen, and it has the same view of Central Park but even better.

With my little lady changed, I walk her downstairs. The house is empty, and it seems everyone is on the back deck. It's a beautiful spring day with a sunny sky and the fresh scent of daffodils and cut grass.

Today is my thirty-fifth birthday. Two years ago, I was looking out this door, dreading walking outside to the party that awaited. It was full of people I really didn't want to see and advice I didn't want to receive.

Instead of wanting to turn around and run away from everyone, I'm excited to see my family, the people I love the most.

As warm as it is, I take a baby blanket from my diaper bag and lay it over Lucy. When I walk through the French doors, my mother rises from the patio table with her arms wide open.

"There's my girl!" She's not talking to me. She's talking to the baby. "Come to Grandma."

My mom takes Lucy from my arms and saunters over to the table where she takes a seat next to Thomas, who has Abigail in his arms as he feeds her a bottle.

Christian walks up to me and slides an arm around my shoulders. He kisses my hair. "The old man stole her from me as soon as I came downstairs."

Thomas grins at his son. "Not too long ago, I didn't know if I'd ever have grandchildren. Sue me for wanting to enjoy every minute of this!"

My dad nods in agreement. "You know what you two need?" He points his Tom Collins in my and Christian's direction. "A weekend away. Let the grandparents watch the kids."

I shake my head. "We're not ready to leave the girls."

"Maybe in another two months," Christian says.

I shoot a look back at him.

He raises a shoulder. "I'd like to take you away for a weekend before you go back to work. The girls will be six months, and we have a village to take care of them. Literally."

I look back at our family, all corralled around the table. Our moms have done nothing but spoil our little girls, as has Beth, who already got the girls little Stuart Weitzman shoes for their christening. Dad and Thomas are the doting grandfathers. Even my nephews are helpful with the girls even if they do find this baby stage pretty boring.

"We have the nursery set up. The girls can stay with us," Brian offers as he walks over with his hands full of drinks and places them on the table in front of Thomas, Beth, and Lucille. "They're good for us. Seeing how much work they are reminds Beth why we shouldn't have any more kids."

Beth crumples a napkin and tosses it at him. "Speak for yourself. I am having way too much fun shopping for them."

Brian shakes his head in dismay. "Exactly. You should see the bill from Bloomingdale's. Now, I know why God didn't bless us with daughters. I'd be in the poorhouse."

I laugh, thinking that, while Brian's exaggerating, he does have a point. Beth has been nonstop, buying girlie things. Their closet at home is packed with things I am scrambling to dress them in before they grow out of it all.

"I'm coming over this week. Meadow, I booked you an appointment at the salon. You're getting dead ends, and you could really use a facial. These first few months are hard on a new mother's complexion," my mother states.

I don't even take offense. I haven't had a haircut in months, and a little pampering sounds nice.

"I'll ask Angela if she wants to join me. She's been nagging for me to do something with her."

My dear friend has been texting me like crazy, asking when I'm coming back to work because she's bored. Apparently, watching Christian and I dance around our attraction was the highlight of her workday.

"How is Angela?" Beth asks.

"Crazy as ever. Apparently, without Meadow, she's resorted to telling me her drama. She's currently scheming ways to get Denny to propose," Christian says with a grin. "I told her to ask Gail."

My mom looks pleased with the comment and then looks at Lucy and Abigail with a proud gleam. "I won't take all the credit for you two getting together, but I will acknowledge the push."

That's right. My mom did own up to the fact that she had hoped that suggesting I freeze my eggs would lead to Christian doing this with me. When she heard of the idea, she thought it would be a great way to push me out of the funk I seemed to be in. It wasn't until she ran into Thomas at the club and heard him talking about how he wished Christian would settle down and have children that her wheels started to turn. Knowing our friendship and Christian's qualities as a man, she was banking on him not wanting me to go it alone and do it with me. I give the woman credit. She's good.

"Do you know who's having a baby?" Mom says from the end of the table. "Frank Romano. He married this darling girl named Vicki." She turns to Lucille and shakes her head. "Wasn't that a horrible wedding? The food was terrible, which is surprising for the Romanos. They love to eat."

Dad laughs it off. "It wasn't so bad. Garret Kent caught the garter and had to put it up Sally Romano's leg. He went a little too far, if you know what I mean, and she punched him in the nose right on the dance floor."

"What about the Vaduccis' boy? Isn't he getting married?" Thomas asks, moving Abigail to his shoulder so he can burp her.

"Yes. He's getting married in Aruba next year to a lovely dermatologist from Greenwich. George and I are going. We're extending it a week and taking a vacation for our anniversary." Mom runs her fingers through Lucy's hair. "Maybe my daughter and son-in-law will come and bring these little beauties with them. Won't that be wonderful?"

Lucille claps her hands in glee. "We'll come, too. We'll make it a family vacation."

"Can we go?" Dylan is on his dad like white on rice. "My friend from school goes to this hotel in Aruba that has waterslides and a pirate ship. Please, Dad, please!"

Aiden jumps up and grabs Brian. "That would be so cool. Please, Dad."

Beth laughs into her wine spritzer. "You're losing this one, three to one."

Brian gives me a look of grief, which is really unfair because I didn't start this vacation nonsense.

I just shrug at him and give a closed-mouth smile. "Looks like we're going on vacation."

He grimaces as his boys do a dance, and my mother beams as she somehow just managed to get everyone to agree to go away for her anniversary.

Beth rises from the table and pulls the boys by the shoulders. "Come on, guys. I have a job for you."

As they go inside, Christian pulls on my hand and walks me away from our family, down the steps of the deck, and onto the grass. We stroll to the back of the yard where Beth's garden is coming into bloom. The roses have just blossomed and look radiant with the man standing among them.

He laces his hands with mine and pulls our hands up and me against his chest. Our lips collide, and I melt into him. Like teenagers sneaking away for a make-out session, I let Christian cop a feel, and I do my own grab of his desirable backside.

"Happy birthday, Mrs. Gallagher," he mutters against my lips.

I weave my fingers through his hair and give it a tug as his mouth moves to my jaw and nibbles lightly.

"Are you going to be okay with me being gone for a few days?"

I sigh into him. He's leaving on his first symposium since the girls were born.

"I'll miss you, but that's why Beth and Brian made the nursery. The girls and I will be in great company."

"Good, because I'm gonna be a mess without you."

"It's only three days."

"Three days without my three favorite girls."

With my hands wrapped around his neck, I look at my beautiful husband and the love reflected in his eyes. I told him when he proposed that his ability to heal was one of the things I loved about him. I meant it. I never want him to give up an ounce of his passion. I support him a thousand percent, and so does our family. Our village.

"When you come home, we'll go to the zoo. It's warm enough, and I think it's time the girls saw the sea lions," I say.

He grins. "I love that idea."

"And maybe, in two months, I'll take you up on that offer for a weekend away."

"Really?"

I sway my head. "Well, we haven't gone away since our honeymoon. We can go to the Hamptons for a few days. This way, if something happens with the girls or you have to get to the hospital, we can drive back."

I don't know if it's because I agreed to go away or because I thought of the girls or because I considered his career in this decision, but he pulls me in and kisses me with so much passion that it feels like it's the first kiss of the rest of our lives.

When he pulls away, my eyes flutter open, and my lips are still parted.

_I love kissing this man._

"Before I forget..." He digs into his pocket and pulls out a small black box wrapped in a red bow. "For you."

I take it from him and pull on the ribbon. "I told you, no presents."

"And I didn't listen." He takes the ribbon from me and puts it in his pocket.

I open the box and see a diamond-encrusted wishbone necklace, similar to the one he gave me years ago that I tossed in a fountain.

"Christian, it's beautiful." I touch the diamonds and watch them glint in the sunlight.

He moves to the side and points to the pendant sitting against the velvet backdrop. "When I gave you the wishbone years ago, it was with hope. This time, I'm giving it to you as a thank-you. For our girls."

I squint at him, wondering what he means. He takes the necklace out of the box and motions for me to lift my hair.

"The wishbone is the fusion of two clavicles. Two bones that became one." He clasps the necklace around my neck, and I want to laugh at his very technical speech. With the pendant secure on my neck, he looks at it and smiles. "You can also look at it as one wish split into two. That's us, the fused pair, and our girls are the ends of the wishbone."

He's so adorable and sweet. I don't even know if he understands just how amazing he is. With my hands on his jaw, I pull my husband into me. His forehead falls against mine.

"I love you so much."

"I love you more," he breathes.

A slight chattering captures my attention. I roll my head to the side and see our family looking at us from across the yard.

"They're staring," I say.

He grips my chin and brings me back into him. "Let them stare. I'm about to kiss my wife for a very long time, and I don't care who is watching."

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# Acknowledgments

A year and a half ago, I started writing a book about a woman who falls for a man in a support group. She worked at an orthopedist's office where her best friend was a doctor. I sent the book to my first-run beta reader, Stefanie Pace, who asked me a great question: "Is this a love triangle?"

It was not.

Because of Stefani's insight, I was able to see there was another story brewing and that Dr. Christian Gallagher was a hero. I ripped his chapters—the first office scene and Meadow's birthday barbecue, including the three suitors!—from my work in progress and thus began the creation of _A Really Bad Idea_.

Around the halfway point, I scrapped it. My mother got sick... _really sick_ and was in the cardiac care unit of our local hospital, waiting to die. _Melodramatic, I know._ _But it was scary._ That's when a handsome thirty-something-year-old surgeon came in and told us he was moving her to a hospital in Manhattan and doing a state-of-the-art procedure that had only been done thirty-six times in the world, ten by him. When I Googled his Facebook page, he had a profile picture of him in a wet white T-shirt. My mother wasted no time in making him blush about it.

The surgery was canceled twice due to difficulties. I made many middle-of-the-night hospital runs to sit by her side, wondering if it was the last time I'd ever be able to talk to her. And then surgery day came.

My mother, Maria Thompson, survived a very rare and complicated valve-in-valve procedure with the complications of myelofibrosis. Thank you, Dr. Chad Kliger, for saving my mother's life. And for giving the hero of this story a greater purpose.

I have started and stopped this story more times than I care to admit. Meadow and Christian had too many important issues to tackle. I know women who struggle with infertility issues or have researched freezing their eggs. I wanted to do right by their stories without offending anyone. If I have, feel free to reach out to me at jeanninecolettebooks@gmail.com.

And, now, a drumroll please, for those at the HEART of the creation of this novel. **THANK YOU** to...

Jovana Shirley of Unforeseen Editing for your diligent copy and content editing as well as interior design.

Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations for having the vision to create a face for this romance.

Autumn Gantz of Wordsmith Publicity for every bit of friendship, guidance, and for being a kick-ass publicist and PA.

Virginia Tesi Carey for proofreading and making a space for Christian in the basement. ; )

Kelli Mummert for keeping the plot on target.

Author Janine Infante Bosco for maintaining the eye rolls.

Author Lauren Runow for the smiles.

Author Robin Hill for being a second eye.

Helene Cuji for being an amazing friend and promoter.

Love always for Nicole Romano, Nicole Lancellotti, Tara McCormick, Nicole Parsons, Michelle Worden, Jill Meister, Nanci Weaver, and Jennifer Windstein. Your friendship means the world and is where I draw inspiration from.

To my husband, Bryan, for being the best support system in the world, and helping pay Starbucks on Hylan's rent from all the coffee and egg bites I purchase while writing.

And hugs to my littles—Jake, Everly, and Aliette—who have begun creating their own stories. I hope you enjoy seeing your names on this page.

Oh, and of course, YOU!

Thank you for taking a chance on my work. Your support means the world.
