Chapter 17
The Surrender
Robyn
We’ve pushed two of the blue picnic tables on the gravel patio close enough to the firepit that we can comfortably sit outdoors in the unusually chilly air.
The soundtrack of chatter around us and the fire flickering gold against the blue-and-white striped umbrellas give the whole setup an edge of casualness.
The smell of burning wood dominates the atmosphere, and the laughter from the tables closest to the heaters drifts our way.
Daniel slides into the space beside me, and his shoulder brushes mine. He sets a cold pint glass in front of me and tips his chin toward it. “It’s easier to get the same thing,” he says, a lazy grin forming. “You can pick the next round when it’s your turn to get it.”
I glance at the drink, then at him, arching a brow. He’s built like someone who once played contact sports and never stopped training. His green eyes glint under the bar’s dim lighting, hair tousled with intentionality.
I force a small smile and lift the glass, but I tighten my grip on it. “Generous of you,” I murmur.
The beer’s sour and heavy with over-fermented hops, but I take a sip anyway. I don’t need a man to buy my drinks and definitely not one who decides for me. Before I can school him on his horrible taste, a voice cuts through the noise.
“Robyn!”
Marisol’s across the table, half standing, one manicured hand lifted in a wave. Her brown eyes are wide and searching, curls pinned half up but still spilling over her shoulders in dark styled ringlets.
“Where’s Julian?” she calls, louder than necessary.
They’re a match made in heaven. I swivel toward her. “Why do you think I know?”
She scoffs. “Don’t play coy. You two are attached at the hip.”
“He said he might stay home,” I state, taking another swallow of the bitter beer. Daniel hums after his own sip.
“See? You did know. Honestly, no wonder your boyfriend made out with that girl. You and Julian have zero boundaries.”
Her words land sharply and are so unwarranted I forget my friend wants to tap that. I tilt my head, smiling without warmth. “You’re right. My ex-boyfriend was so intimidated by Julian he couldn’t handle it. Makes you wonder what else Julian and I have done that got him so insecure, doesn’t it?”
Marisol’s smile falters. I look away before I say something I can’t take back, like calling her a bitch.
Daniel chuckles beside me, low and easy. “Don’t take it personally, Marisol. He’s probably at home staring dramatically through the window. Classic surgical resident.”
I grab my drink, pretending I don’t care that my pulse has gone sharp, and push away from the table.
Daniel follows, his hand brushing the small of my back as we pass the crowd. “Come on,” he says. “Foosball table’s free. Bet I can still destroy you one-handed.”
“You wish.”
He grins wider, the kind meant to provoke. As he stretches his shoulders, the sleeves of his Henley ride up his forearms. “Let’s see if you’re as good at foosball as you are at darts, yeah?”
“I’m not,” I admit.
He flashes a crooked grin. “Perfect. I’m excellent at losing. Let’s do this.”
The table sits under a striped umbrella near the bar’s edge, lit by a string of fairy lights that flicker every few seconds. The handles are sticky, and the ball is scuffed from years of use. Daniel takes his position opposite me, spinning one of his defenders with mock seriousness.
“Ready?” he asks, grinning.
I nod, and the game starts with the sharp clack of plastic against metal. The ball ricochets wildly, and Daniel manages a perfunctory save.
“Okay, that doesn’t count,” I say, reaching to reset.
“Everything counts in foosball,” he says. “House rules.”
Smiling, I roll my eyes.
We fall into an easy rhythm—play, banter, a little too much trash talk for the level of skill either of us has. He leans in close when the ball jams near midfield, and I catch a hint of his aftershave.
“You’re pretty competitive for someone who claims to be bad at this,” he teases.
“I’m just highly motivated by injustice.”
He laughs, and the air between us goes taut. The game slows, then stalls, the ball trapped between two plastic players. We reach for it at the same time, our fingers brushing on the edge of the table.
My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my denim skirt, so I check it and find an email from Kelly Rogers, one of the people I’ve been in touch with about the position I interviewed for earlier today.
Subject: Onsite Visit – Neurology Position, Bend, Oregon.
I skim it. Interview. Facility tour. Travel arrangements. They want me there this weekend.
It’s the out I didn’t know I wanted. In a few seconds, it goes from possibility, to appealing, to necessity. Miles of space between me and being the girl whose boyfriend made out with someone else. No more awkward jabs from bitchy nurses—not about my love life at least. Just … a fresh start.
A low whistle sounds behind me. Daniel leans in, his breath warming the back of my neck. “That’s a great facility,” he says. “You should totally go.”
His front is plastered to my back, and when I turn, my side brushes against his chest. His green eyes have darkened, and I know it has nothing to do with the lighting.
Because what I’m feeling isn’t about Daniel either.
He’s right here, so close his breath fans my lips, and I have the urge to lick his.
I could step away, but I don’t want to. I want the world tilting, the feel of his skin, taste of beer, and the scent of his cologne. I want to kiss him.
Leaning closer, I give him time to pull away; I want him to know what this is.
And it’s not about starting something with him.
When our lips touch, it’s not a clashing of mouths, but there’s certainly aggression.
I press my tongue against the seam of his mouth, then he opens on a groan, and I don’t feel conflicted. I feel in control.
Daniel’s mouth is still on mine, his tongue failing to call the shots on this kiss, as we stumble down the short hallway toward the bathroom.
The music swells and blurs, laughter and glass against glass fading behind us.
Then the door clicks shut, and it’s just the thrum of the bass and our breaths mingling.
He reaches for me, but I smack his hand away and grab his belt buckle. While he fumbles for his wallet, I slide his pants halfway down his thighs. He rolls on a condom, and I lift my skirt, tug my underwear off one leg, and spread my thighs.
“Fuck me—”
I press my index finger to his lips. “No talking.”
I want the world silent, the moment reduced to the sharp immediacy of touch. I want now.
We kiss until we don’t. My back hits the door, and everything around us shrinks to the heat of him.
The doorknob presses into me, the pulse of my heartbeat against my throat.
And just when nothing exists beyond motion and the dizzy, aching rush of choosing this, I moan, my release riding through me.
He groans through his own against my neck.
I’m breathless, fisting the fabric of his shirt, staring unfocused in the mirror. My hair’s a mess, my pulse still hammering, but underneath it, there’s calm. A startling, solid quiet that comes from picking what I wanted, consequences be damned.
Daniel steps back, wisely not leaning in for a kiss now that the moment’s gone. He’s handling the condom. Nothing’s leaking; everything stayed where it should.
I grab my underwear, shimmying my skirt down, and toss my hair back.
“Hey,” he whispers. “It’s good. I’m aware this wasn’t some grand romantic moment. I’m fine with that. Happy to be of service any time.”
I nod, grateful he said it. “Meet me outside when you’re ready,” I say.
I unlock the door, smoothing the fabric down as I walk out. Every step feels strange and raw. The aftertaste of freedom makes me almost giddy. Escaping never felt this clean. And the thought of leaving this city filled with cracks I failed to see feels even better.
“Robyn?”
The voice cuts through the noise, familiar but distorted by the music. I lift my eyes, and there they are. Cognac-colored eyes I used to lose myself in. Nate.
The bathroom door opens behind me. Daniel steps out and steadies me at my back.
I don’t look away from Nate, even when so much pain takes over his face you’d think I stabbed him. He has no right, though, not with her standing next to him, with her phone clutched in her hands, directed toward me. Tessa.
I may have finally surrendered, but he surrendered first.