7. Anya
ANYA
The paper clip bounces off my computer screen and lands somewhere near my keyboard. I don't look up from the patient file I'm reviewing, though my mouth twitches at the corners.
"Impressive aim, Dr. Calloway. Your surgical skills must be extraordinary."
Ryan's laugh carries across the open space of the Ashford wing. He's been hovering near the main desk for the past ten minutes, ostensibly waiting for something, though what that something might be remains unclear.
The brothers are all in surgery this morning, which means the wing feels unusually quiet despite his presence.
"I prefer Ryan. And thank you—precision is one of my many talents." He moves closer to my desk, lab coat pristine and smile confident in that practiced way that suggests he's used to it working. "I don't think we've been formally introduced. I'm Dr. Ryan Calloway, junior fertility specialist."
"Anya Cole." I save the file and close it, finally meeting his gaze. Hazel eyes, brown hair that looks like it was styled this morning, clean-shaven jaw. He's attractive in the conventional way that probably worked wonders in medical school. "I know who you are."
"All good things, I hope." He leans against my desk, settling in like he plans to stay. "I have to say, you've really turned this place around. The filing system alone—it's like night and day from what Carol left behind."
"It wasn't difficult. The foundation was already solid—it just needed attention." I reach for the next file, but Ryan's position blocks my access to the cabinet. "Did you need something specific?"
"Actually, yes." His smile widens, confidence radiating from every line of his body. "I was thinking we should grab coffee sometime. There's this great place just down from the medical district?—"
"No, thank you."
The refusal comes out crisp and final. No hesitation, no softening around the edges. Ryan's eyebrows lift slightly, like my response isn't quite what he expected, but his smile doesn't waver.
"Come on, just coffee. Nothing serious—I'd love to get to know you better. You're obviously intelligent, and from what I can see, you've got excellent taste." His gaze flickers down to my outfit and back up. "We're both young professionals. It makes sense."
Heat crawls up my neck, but not the kind that makes me blush with pleasure. This feels invasive, presumptuous, like he's already decided what my answer should be and my actual words are merely a formality to work around.
"I said no." The words come out cooler this time, edged with the kind of politeness that isn't polite at all. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to finish."
I turn back to my computer, but Ryan doesn't move. His presence lingers at the edge of my peripheral vision, solid and expectant. The silence stretches for several beats before he speaks again.
"You know, I think you might be playing a little hard to get." His tone stays light, conversational, but something underneath it makes my shoulders tense. "It's cute, but we both know?—"
"Good morning, sweetheart."
Eric's voice cuts across the space, warm and familiar and completely different from the tone I'm used to hearing from him.
I glance up to find him walking toward my desk, and everything about his usual easy demeanor has shifted into something else entirely. The smile is gone. His green eyes have gone flat and cold, focused entirely on Ryan with an intensity that makes the air feel suddenly thinner.
"Eric." Relief floods through me, though I'm careful not to let it show on my face. "How did surgery go?"
"Perfectly." He reaches my desk and places one large hand on my shoulder, fingers curving slightly against the fabric of my blouse. The touch is possessive and deliberate, a claim made without words. "Dr. Calloway. Don't you have a consultation at nine-thirty?"
Ryan straightens, some of his confidence wavering as he takes in Eric's size, his authority, the unmistakable shift in the room's dynamic. "I do, yes. I was just?—"
"Getting acquainted with our secretary." Eric's voice stays level, pleasant even, but there's steel underneath it now. "How thoughtful. I'm sure Anya appreciates the attention, but as you mentioned, you have patients waiting."
The dismissal is absolute. Not a suggestion, not a request. Ryan's jaw tightens slightly, but he nods and steps back from my desk.
"Of course. Nice meeting you properly, Anya." He turns to go, then pauses and looks back. "My offer stands, by the way."
The words are barely out of his mouth before Eric takes a single step forward. Nothing dramatic, nothing that could be called threatening, but the movement carries enough quiet menace to make Ryan's face pale slightly.
"I'm sure it does." Eric's smile returns, sharp-edged and entirely without warmth. "Have a productive day, Doctor."
Ryan leaves without another word, his footsteps quick and purposeful down the hallway. The sound fades, and Eric's demeanor shifts back to something closer to normal, though the protective edge remains.
"You handled that well." He looks down at me, hand still resting on my shoulder. "Cool as ice."
"I can handle pushy doctors, Eric." But warmth spreads through my chest at the approval in his voice, the way he stepped in without hesitation. "Though I appreciate the backup."
"Always." His thumb brushes against my collarbone once before he pulls his hand away. "Speaking of which—dinner tonight. All four of us. There's a place I want to try."
The casual way he says it makes something flutter in my stomach. Not nervousness, exactly, but anticipation.
We've been together in various combinations over the past weeks—passionate encounters in offices, quiet conversations over morning coffee, stolen kisses in empty hallways. But a proper dinner, all of us together outside these walls, feels different. More real somehow.
"What kind of place?"
"The kind with actual cloth napkins and waiters who don't wear name tags." Eric grins, and this time it's genuine, reaching his eyes. "Seven o'clock. I'll pick you up."
The restaurant is exactly what Eric promised—upscale without being pretentious, warm lighting that makes everything look softer, servers who move efficiently without hovering.
Jones and Vincent are already seated when Eric and I arrive, and the sight of them stops me short for a moment.
They look different here. Still unmistakably themselves—Jones in his perfectly tailored shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his tattoos, Vincent in dark jeans and a fitted henley that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders.
But there's something relaxed about their postures, something that speaks to comfort and familiarity rather than the controlled intensity they carry in the office.
"You're late," Jones observes as we approach the table, though there's no real accusation in his tone.
"Traffic," Eric lies smoothly, pulling out my chair. The truth is we spent an extra fifteen minutes in his car while he kissed me breathless in the restaurant parking lot, but some things don't need to be shared.
Vincent's mouth quirks in what might be amusement. "Terrible problem this time of evening."
I settle into my chair, hyperaware of the way the three of them arrange themselves around me. Not crowding, not suffocating, but present in a way that makes me feel anchored. Protected.
The thought should bother me—I've never been the type to need protection—but tonight it just feels right.
"How was the consultation with the Hendersons?" I ask, reaching for my water glass. The afternoon had been busy, with back-to-back appointments that left little time for conversation.
"Promising." Jones signals the waiter with a subtle gesture. "Third round of IVF. They're cautiously optimistic."
"As they should be," Eric adds, unfolding his napkin with casual precision. "Jones works miracles with difficult cases."
"We all do." Vincent's correction is mild but pointed. "It's not magic. It's medicine."
"Spoken like someone who's never seen you talk a thirty-eight-year-old through her fourth miscarriage," Eric counters. "That's not just medicine, brother. That's something else entirely."
The easy affection between them is visible in every word, every glance. I've seen them interact in the office—professional, efficient, occasionally sharp with each other when disagreements arise.
But this is different. This is family, in the truest sense of the word. The realization settles into my chest with surprising warmth.
"What about you?" Jones asks, turning his attention to me. "How was your introduction to Dr. Calloway?"
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. "How did you know about that?"
"Eric mentioned it." Vincent takes a sip of his wine, dark eyes steady on mine. "Said he was being persistent."
"Persistent is a generous word for it." I set my fork down, considering how much to share. "He asked me out for coffee. I declined. He pushed."
"And then?" Jones's voice has dropped to that lower register that means he's paying close attention.
"And then Eric arrived and made the situation clear." I glance at Eric, who's watching me with obvious satisfaction. "Very clear."
"Good." The single word from Jones carries finality. Not possessiveness, exactly, but something deeper. Certainty. Like the idea of another man pursuing me is so fundamentally wrong that it doesn't warrant discussion.
"Did he back down?" Vincent asks.
"Eventually." I pick up my wine glass, taking a small sip before continuing. "He's the type who thinks persistence is romantic instead of annoying."
"It's not," Eric says flatly. "When a woman says no, that's the end of the conversation."
The conviction in his voice makes something warm unfurl in my chest. These are men who understand boundaries, who respect them even when—especially when—they're the ones being told no. The contrast to Ryan's assumption that my rejection was negotiable couldn't be starker.
"Enough about Dr. Calloway," Jones says, dismissing the topic with characteristic directness. "Tell us about your week. Beyond work."