Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Xavier
My alarm blares at five a.m., yanking me from a dream where Zach’s hands had been exploring places that still make my cheeks burn.
I fumble for my phone, silencing it before dragging myself to the shower.
The hot water does little to wash away those lingering images or the anticipation coiling in my stomach.
As I dress for work, I keep staring at my phone on the nightstand. Zach’s number sits there in my contacts, just a tap away. I pick it up, thumb hovering over the messaging app.
Too early. Too eager. Too much.
I set the phone down, grab my keys, and head out.
By seven a.m., I am checking in patients at the ER, but my mind keeps wandering. Twice, I catch myself reaching for my phone while updating charts. Both times, I stop myself, cursing under my breath.
“You look distracted,” Nurse Reynolds says, sliding a patient’s file across the desk. “Late night?”
“Something like that,” I mumble, suddenly noticing the faint bruising along my knuckles.
At ten thirty-four a.m., while I am suturing a construction worker’s forearm, my phone buzzes in my pocket. My heart leaps into my throat, the needle freezing mid-stitch.
“You okay, Doc?” the patient asks.
“Fine,” I manage, finishing the suture with steady hands that belies the riot in my chest. Only after he leaves do I check my phone.
Just a text from Samantha. Still alive after last night’s throwdown? Took two aspirin and feeling badass.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could ask her for Zach’s number. Double-check I hadn’t hallucinated the whole encounter. But that feels like cheating somehow.
By lunch break, I have drafted and deleted seven different messages to Zach. Each one sounds either too formal, too desperate, or too casual. How do you message someone you’ve fantasized about for years after they’ve finally shown interest?
Hey, thanks for defending my honor last night sounds ridiculous.
Still thinking about you backing me against my car is too forward.
When can I see you again? reeks of desperation.
I settle on staring at the blank message field until my break ends, then shove the phone back into my pocket with a frustrated groan.
The afternoon brings a multi-car accident that keeps me busy for hours. Still, between critical cases and rushing patients to surgery, my mind keeps circling back to Zach. The intensity in those dark eyes. The promise in his voice. The heat of his body pressing me against the car.
“Dr. Blane, need you in Trauma Two,” a voice calls over the intercom, snapping me back to reality.
By six p.m., I’ve resorted to leaving my phone in my locker. The constant temptation to check it, to message Zach, was affecting my concentration. I’d nearly prescribed the wrong dosage to an elderly patient because I’d been mentally composing yet another text.
“You’re off in an hour,” I remind myself, washing blood from my hands after setting a teenage skateboarder’s broken wrist. “You can call him then. Like a normal person.”
At six forty-five p.m., while updating my last patient’s chart, my resolve finally breaks. I slip into an empty consultation room, pull out my phone, and type quickly before I can second-guess myself.
It’s Xavier. Just finishing my shift. Still want to talk?
My thumb hovers over the send button for three full breaths before I press it.
The message whooshes away, and my stomach twists into knots.
What if Zach has changed his mind? What if last night had been adrenaline-induced and nothing more? What if—
My phone vibrates. One new message.
Been waiting all day to hear from you, Doc. Where and when?
The relief that floods me is so intense I have to sit down. I stare at the message, reading it three times to make sure I haven’t misinterpreted.
My place? 8pm? I type back, adding my address before I can overthink it.
The response comes immediately.
I’ll be there.
I pocket my phone, a ridiculous smile spreading across my face. I have exactly one hour to get home, shower, and make my apartment look like it wasn’t inhabited by a doctor who works eighty-hour weeks.
As I sign out my charts and head for the locker room, I feel lighter than I have in years.
I race home, breaking at least three traffic laws in my haste to get my apartment ready. The moment I unlock my door, I head straight for the shower, letting scalding water wash away twelve hours of hospital grime and the lingering ache in my muscles from last night’s fight.
My mind races as I shampoo my hair.
Zach is coming here. To my apartment. In less than an hour.
The thought sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the hot water.
After toweling off, I stand in front of my closet, suddenly conscious of how little attention I’d paid to my wardrobe in recent years.
Most of my clothes are either scrubs or comfortable basics for my rare days off.
Nothing that screams, I’ve been fantasizing about you for years, please be impressed.
I settle on a pair of dark jeans that Samantha once said made my ass look good and a simple white t-shirt that is slightly more fitted than my usual choices.
Casual but not sloppy. I run a hand through my damp hair, trying to style it into something that looks intentional rather than just air-dried.
A glance at my phone shows it’s seven forty-two p.m. Eighteen minutes.
My stomach twists with nerves as I hurry around the apartment, throwing discarded scrubs into my bedroom and closing the door, stacking medical journals into a somewhat orderly pile, and wiping down countertops that haven’t seen a cleaning cloth in days.
I pause in the middle of my living room, suddenly realizing I haven’t thought about food.
My refrigerator contains exactly three condiments, half a carton of orange juice, and something in a takeout container that might have once been Chinese food but is now probably classified as a biological hazard.
“We can order takeout,” I mutter to myself, grabbing my phone to check which places deliver to my neighborhood. Pizza would be too messy. Chinese too cliché. Maybe that Thai place on Fourth Street?
A knock at the door freezes me in place.
I glance at my phone. 7:54 PM. He is early. Of course he is early.
My heart pounds as I cross to the door, pausing to check my reflection in the hall mirror. I look… nervous. Excited. A little terrified. I take a deep breath and pull the door open.
Zach stands in my doorway, and all the air leaves my lungs in a rush.
He wears dark jeans and a black Henley that stretches across his broad shoulders, the sleeves pushed up to reveal tattooed forearms. His dark hair is pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of his neck, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw.
He looks dangerous and beautiful and so intensely male that my mouth goes dry.
“Hey,” I manage, voice embarrassingly rough.
Zach’s eyes travel slowly down my body, then back up to my face. The heat in that gaze makes my skin flush.
“Hey yourself, Doc,” he says, voice low. He holds up a six-pack of beer in one hand and a paper bag in the other. “Brought provisions.”
I step back, gesturing him inside. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Figured you wouldn’t have much in the way of food,” Zach says, moving past me with a confidence that suggests he’s been in my space before. The thought sends a strange shiver through me. Not unpleasant, just… unexpected.
“That obvious, huh?” I close the door, hyperaware of how small my apartment suddenly feels with him in it.
Zach sets the beer and bag on my kitchen counter. “You work eighty-hour weeks saving lives. Grocery shopping’s probably not high on your priority list.”
“Fair point.” I move closer, curious about the contents of the bag. “What’d you bring?”
“Burgers from Ray’s,” Zach says, unpacking foil-wrapped packages that release the mouthwatering scent of grilled meat and spices. “Best in town.”
My stomach growls audibly, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since a hurried protein bar around noon. “You’re a lifesaver. I was just about to order something.”
“Great minds,” Zach says, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half smile that does dangerous things to my pulse.
We fall into an unexpectedly comfortable rhythm, me grabbing plates and napkins while Zach arranges the food. He seems to know his way around my kitchen better than he should, finding the bottle opener in the second drawer he tries.
“You want a glass?” I ask, holding up a beer.
Zach shakes his head. “Bottle’s fine.”
We settle at my small dining table, knees almost touching in the limited space. I unwrap my burger, perfectly medium-rare with what looks like caramelized onions and some kind of aioli, and take a bite.
“Holy shit,” I groan, the flavors exploding on my tongue. “This is amazing.”
Something flashes in Zach’s eyes at the sound I made. He takes a slow pull from his beer, throat working as he swallows, and I find myself transfixed by the movement.
“So,” I start, desperate to break the tension before I do something stupid like climb across the table to him. “About last night…”
“Which part?” Zach asks, his voice a low rumble. “The fight, or what happened after?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Both, I guess.”
Zach sets his beer down, eyes never leaving mine. “The fight was necessary. Those assholes deserved worse than they got.” His jaw tightens. “No one talks to you like that. Not while I’m around.”
The possessiveness in his voice sends a thrill through me that I probably should find alarming but instead find incredibly hot.
“And after?” I prompt, heart hammering against my ribs.
Zach leans forward slightly, the intensity in his gaze pinning me to my chair. “After was a long time coming, Doc. Years too late, if you ask me.”
I swallow hard. “Why now? What changed?”