10. Tara
TARA
I woke with a jolt, my body tensing before I even opened my eyes.
I’d slipped out of Xander McCrae’s penthouse just before dawn, my body still humming with the aftershocks.
“Fuck,” I whispered, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until stars burst behind my eyelids.
Sunlight streamed through the gaps in my blinds, painting bright stripes across my pristine white duvet.
My bedroom looked exactly as it always did—minimalist, organized, controlled.
Everything in its place. Nothing to betray the fact that less than eight hours ago, I had stood outside Xander’s door, heart hammering in my chest, and told him?—
“Let’s fuck.”
Oh god.
I cringed so hard my entire body curled in on itself. Had those words actually come out of my mouth? Had I really shown up at his door in the middle of the night and propositioned him like some desperate groupie?
Yes. Yes, I had.
And then I’d let him carry me to his bedroom. Let him undress me, touch me, taste me. Let him see me fall apart beneath him, my careful control shattered by his hands, his mouth, his hard cock.
I flung back the covers and headed for the shower. Under the hot spray, I took inventory of the evidence. The slight soreness between my thighs. The shadow of a bruise forming on my hip where his fingers had dug in. The faint sting of his stubble burned on my neck and chest.
Physical proof it hadn’t been a dream. That Dr. Tara Swanson, head of sports medicine for the Miami Pirates, respected professional and consummate control freak, had come completely undone in Xander McCrae’s bed.
What was I thinking?
That was the problem. I hadn’t been thinking at all. I’d been feeling—raw, desperate, and out of control.
Pathetic .
I shut off the water and wrapped myself in a towel. As I wiped the steam from the mirror, I stared at myself. “This stops now,” I told my reflection firmly. “You are not some lovesick teenager. You have a reputation to maintain and a career to protect.”
My reflection stared back at me, unconvinced.
As I dried my hair, a new perspective took shape in my mind. Maybe last night hadn’t been a mistake after all. Maybe it had been exactly what I needed—what we both needed. Years of tension, of wondering, of what-ifs... all of it released in one night of mindless, physical pleasure.
I’d gotten him out of my system. That was all. I’d satisfied my curiosity, scratched the itch that had been plaguing me since I was sixteen.
And I’d done it on my terms. I’d gone to him. I’d dictated what would happen between us. I’d left before dawn, before things could get messy or complicated.
I hadn’t lost control at all. I’d exercised the ultimate control.
I hadn’t fallen victim to any uncontrollable desires. I’d made a strategic decision to neutralize the distraction he represented. And now that it was done, I could move forward. Focus on my job. On my future.
I dressed with renewed confidence, choosing a casual sundress for my Saturday brunch plans.
As I applied a light touch of makeup, I avoided thinking about how Xander’s eyes had tracked my every movement as I’d dressed in his room.
How he’d watched me from his bed, the sheets pooled around his waist, his expression unreadable in the pre-dawn light.
“So what happens now, Dr. Swanson?”
I pushed the memory away. Nothing would happen now. We’d had our moment, and now it was over. Back to reality. Back to our respective roles—player and team doctor. Nothing more.
“You fucked him.”
I nearly choked on my mimosa. “Jesus, Chloe. Keep your voice down.”
Chloe Durand, my best friend since undergrad and the most unapologetically blunt person I’d ever met, leaned across our table at Havana Café, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
Her wild curls were dyed a vibrant turquoise this month, a vivid contrast to the bohemian white sundress that made her look like some kind of ocean goddess.
“Well, did you?” She pressed on, undeterred by my glare.
The trendy brunch spot was packed with beautiful people in designer sunglasses, sipping overpriced drinks and pretending not to eavesdrop on each other’s conversations. I glanced around, paranoid that someone from the team might be nearby.
“Can we not do this here?” I hissed.
Chloe rolled her eyes but settled back in her chair. “Fine. But you’re not getting out of this conversation, T. I’ve waited for God knows how long to hear how the ghost boy measures up to your fantasies.”
I winced at the nickname. Ghost boy. That’s what Chloe called Xander. The one who haunted my dreams, my relationships, my entire adult life.
“It’s not what you think,” I said, picking at my avocado toast.
“So you didn’t sleep with him?” Her arched eyebrow called bullshit on my evasion.
I sighed, resigned to her persistence. “Okay, yes. I did. But it’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” Chloe let out a burst of laughter that turned heads at nearby tables.
“Honey, you’ve been obsessed with this man since you were in braces.
You’ve stalked his social media, dated guys who looked like him, and literally chosen your entire career path just to get close to him again.
And now you’ve slept with him. That’s the fucking definition of a big deal. ”
Put that way, it did sound slightly unhinged. But Chloe didn’t understand. She lived her life like one of her art installations—chaotic, vibrant, open to interpretation. She’d never understood my need for structure, control, and carefully laid plans.
“It was just sex,” I insisted, lowering my voice. “I needed to get him out of my system. And now I have.”
Chloe studied me over the rim of her glass, her artist’s eye missing nothing. “Is that what you’re telling yourself?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Her skepticism was palpable. “And that’s why you’re positively glowing this morning? Because you got him ‘out of your system’?”
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. “I am not glowing.”
“Oh, sweetie.” She reached across the table to pat my hand condescendingly. “You’re practically radioactive. I’ve known you for eight years, and I’ve never seen you look like this after sex. Not even with what’s-his-name, the CrossFit instructor with the eight-pack.”
“Connor,” I supplied automatically. “And that was different.”
“Yeah, because you weren’t in love with Connor.”
“I’m not in love with Xander either,” I snapped, more sharply than I intended. “I was... fixated. Obsessed, maybe. But that’s over now.”
Chloe’s expression softened. “Tara. Come on. You can’t close a book by skipping the middle and reading the last page. You just made yourself want to read it all over again.”
I hated how right she was, and I busied myself with my food, avoiding her too-perceptive gaze.
“Look,” she continued, “I’m not judging. God knows I’ve made some questionable choices in the name of great sex. Remember the fire dancers from Art Basel?”
I couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “The ones who almost burned down your apartment?”
“Worth it,” she said with a wink. “My point is, if this was just a one-night stand to scratch an itch, great. But be honest with yourself about what it meant.”
“It didn’t mean anything,” I insisted. “It was... closure.”
Chloe snorted. “Closure rarely involves orgasms, honey.”
“Can we please change the subject?” I begged, glancing around the café again. “How’s the installation coming for your opening tomorrow?”
She allowed the deflection, launching into an animated description of her latest mixed-media project—something involving reclaimed driftwood, copper wire, and projections of ocean waves.
I nodded in all the right places, but my mind kept drifting back to Xander’s hands on my skin.
His mouth on mine. The way he’d looked at me in the darkness, like I was something precious.
“I never stopped thinking about you either. Not for a single day.”
I shook the memory away, forcing myself to focus on Chloe’s words.
“—and the lighting is still giving me fits, but I think it’s going to be amazing,” she was saying. “You’re coming, right? I reserved a special space for your brother’s piece.”
The mention of Jimmy brought me back to the present. “Of course I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Jimmy had been an artist too, though his medium had been photography rather than Chloe’s eclectic installations.
After his death, I’d kept several of his pieces in storage—moody black and white landscapes that captured something essential about his soul.
I haven’t looked at them for years, but when Chloe asked about using one in her show, I gave her the key to the storage unit.
“You should bring him,” Chloe said suddenly, her eyes lighting up with inspiration.
“Bring who?”
“Ghost boy. Xander. Your one-night stand that definitely meant nothing at all.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
I stared at her, aghast. “Are you insane? I can’t bring him to your opening.”
“Why not? If you’re really over him, it won’t be a big deal.” She leaned forward, her expression turning sly. “Prove it. To me. And to yourself.”
She was daring me to put my money where my mouth was—to prove that last night really had been nothing more than physical release.
“It would be inappropriate,” I argued. “He’s a player. I’m his doctor.”
“Didn’t seem to bother you last night,” she countered.
I glared at her. “That was different. That was private.”
“And this would be public. Neutral ground. Just two colleagues attending a cultural event in the name of charity.” She spread her hands, the picture of innocence. “What could be more appropriate?”
I knew what she was doing. She was poking at my defenses, testing the story I’d constructed to protect myself from the truth that last night hadn’t resolved a single thing. If anything, it had only deepened the connection between Xander and me, made it more immediate, more dangerous.
But I couldn’t admit that. Not to her, and certainly not to myself.