Chapter 2
Chapter Two
CAMERON
I shake my head. “Didn’t go to Yale. Johns Hopkins.
" I tap the face of my watch—the only Patek Philippe I own, unlike my brothers who collect them like trading cards. Something in Tally's eyes tells me she knows me and thinks that I’m a trust fund baby playing at being doctor. Had she been watching me at those weddings too? My family is incredibly wealthy and she assumes I’m the same, which I admittedly am, thanks to a half-billion trust fund set up by granddad for all of us Kensington boys.
Still, she probably doesn’t know me as the black sheep of a dynasty, the one who chose a year in Kenya's dust with Doctors Without Borders over boardroom battles and trust funds.
The one whose annual salary wouldn't cover what Roman makes in a day.
I can still see her at Max and Celeste's wedding—that burgundy halter dress that framed her shoulders like artwork, the slit that revealed legs strong enough to kick down doors.
Her short dark hair shot through with defiant rainbow streaks.
She stood there like someone who'd parked a Harley outside the church, and I couldn't look away if I'd wanted to.
Of course, being mesmerized by her meant I froze like a statue.
My brothers would've strolled right up—Roman with that cocky grin, Silas with his smooth one-liners, Max already making her laugh.
Ansel would've had her feeling like his oldest friend within minutes.
Kalen would've channeled that rock star confidence, while Connor—despite those childhood years when he could barely order pizza without stammering—would've drawn on that Oscar-winner charisma.
Even Asher, who treats romance like an abstract theorem, would've managed better than me.
My palms went clammy just watching her from across the room.
I've always been this way around beautiful women—admiring from a distance, tongue-tied and hesitant.
The irony is I probably respect women more than any of my brothers, yet I'm the one who can never seem to approach them.
Which is why I'm still stunned—thunderstruck—that I convinced a woman like Alecia to marry me.
My Alecia, with those freckles scattered like constellations across her nose, hair blazing like summer wheat under a merciless sun, and eyes that cut through me—green as absinthe and twice as intoxicating.
Her laugh that first day slammed into my chest like a fist. How could a goddess like her even acknowledge my existence?
But I knew—Christ, I KNEW—the instant I saw her that I would drown in her.
And I did. And she did too. One weekend in her Arts District loft was all it took.
I would have slit my own throat before letting her slip away.
Three years ago, her laugh was silenced forever when a drunk driver obliterated her car with my baby girl Stephanie inside.
All because I couldn't handle a goddamn cold. We ran out of NyQuil, to my chagrin. I never run out of anything because I make sure to replace everything once it gets low. I never, ever just run out of toilet paper, paper towels, toothpaste, cold medicine, aspirin, anything that’s necessary.
Yet we did run out of NyQuil, a fact that haunts me to this day.
Why, why, why didn’t I get a bottle of NyQuil when I happened to be at the store instead of running out completely?
But I didn’t, so, that early morning when I was so sick, we needed to get some in the house ASAP.
The coughing fits had been ripping my lungs apart for hours when Alecia kissed my burning forehead at 1 AM and whispered she'd be right back.
She took Stephanie because I was too pathetic to move.
Three blocks away, that bastard plowed through a green light at 80 mph without touching his brakes.
I heard the sirens screaming through our neighborhood and knew—KNEW—before my phone rang.
My soul recognized the sound of my world ending.
I'd resigned myself to a life of solitude.
Then I spotted Tally across the crowded room at Max and Celeste's wedding.
My heart stuttered. The champagne flute nearly slipped from my fingers.
I kept stealing glances at her while pretending to listen to some cousin's medical woes.
Three times I started toward Celeste to ask about her friend, and three times I retreated.
What would someone with galaxy-blue hair streaks and sleeve tattoos peaking beneath her cocktail dress want with a guy who spent his days in scrubs and his nights hunched over medical journals?
Now, here she is, and I'm attending her after her accident. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow on her bruised skin.
Her voice comes out like sandpaper. "Hit me with it, doc.
" She narrows her eyes at my badge, then recoils.
"Dr. Kensington? Christ. You're Max's brother.
" She clutches the paper-thin sheet to her chest, fingers digging into the fabric.
"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Next dinner party at Max's, you'll have this little tableau burned into your memory, won't you?
Me, splayed out like a science experiment.
" Her jaw tightens. "I'm guessing the hospital gown came after you got quite the anatomy lesson. "
She didn't recognize me until she read my name tag.
This realization hits like a sucker punch—while I'd been stealing glances at her all night at Max’s two receptions, memorizing the curve of her smile, the way she cocked her head, and the way she threw her head back when she laughed, she hadn't even noticed me in the crowd.
When she called me Scrooge McDuck, it wasn't because she knew who I was.
She just took one look and decided. And hell, maybe she's right.
I've held dying children in refugee camps and stitched wounds by flashlight, but at the end of the day, I'm still a Kensington.
Maybe wealth clings to me no matter how far I run from it—like some designer aftershave I can't wash off.
I clear my throat. "Your CT scan and MRI results aren't back yet, but I need to ask you a few questions."
"Shoot," she says, wincing as she shifts position.
"Can you tell me how the accident happened?"
"Damn deer." She sighs. "Not that I should blame her—poor thing was just being a deer. But she darted across the road and next thing I knew, my Jeep was rolling."
I run through the standard checklist. Seatbelt? Yes. Airbag deployment? None to deploy—her '97 Jeep predates mandatory airbags. Windshield impact? No. Alcohol consumption? The lab work confirms what she tells me—BAC of .02, nowhere near the legal limit.
I glance at my watch. "What day is it today?"
She arches an eyebrow. "Depends. Has the clock struck midnight yet? Because if it has, we've crossed into Friday territory. If not, we're still clinging to Thursday by our fingertips."
Good enough. She seems to have a sharp memory, so I don't suspect a concussion.
But I go through the rest of the protocol anyway.
I check her pupils with my phone flashlight, ask her to follow my finger with her eyes, test her balance by having her stand on one foot, and quiz her about who the president is.
She passes everything, rolling her eyes at my ministrations.
She finally grips the edge of the bed, her knuckles paling.
"Listen, doc. I need to get out of here.
" Her jaw tightens slightly. "My tattoo studio on Mateo is in trouble if I don't show up.
Maya—she's not the most reliable—called in sick yesterday, or maybe it was today? Is it past midnight or not?” She leans forward, concern in her eyes.
"She might not come in again today, and if I'm not there, that's twelve appointments canceled.
Twelve. That's rent money I can't afford to lose while I'm stuck here.
" She gestures toward the clipboard. "Please. Sign the papers."
I grip the side of her hospital bed. "Ms. Steele.”
"Oh please." Her eyes flash, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "You've seen me naked. Tally is just fine."
Yes, I’ve seen her naked and it is a sight to behold.
Heat floods my face. "Tally," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
I lean closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume beneath the antiseptic.
"You cannot leave. Not right now, anyhow.
Not when every minute counts after trauma like this.
The protocols don't catch everything—I've seen patients walk and talk perfectly, then collapse hours later from a brain bleed no one detected.
I won't risk that. Not with you. Celeste would kill me if you died on my watch.”
She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms so tightly it's like she's physically holding herself together.
"Goddamn it," she hisses through clenched teeth.
"But yeah, I've heard of that talk and die thing.
Liam Neeson's wife? Hit her head skiing, said she was fine, then—dead.
And Jesus—Celeste's father." Her voice cracks.
"Laughing with the EMTs one minute after that skier crashed into him.
Next day we were picking out his casket because his brain just—" She makes an explosive gesture with her fingers near her temple.
"Fuck. You win. Not risking that." Then she shakes her head. “But if Maya wants to call off again for another fucking hangover, I’m firing her ass and getting somebody I can rely on.”
“You do that,” I say with a smile. “Anyhow, need to do my rounds. I’ll be back when I get the results back from your scans.”
She salutes me like she's in the military and I leave her there, my pulse hammering so violently I can feel it in my fingertips.
During ER rounds, her scent haunts me—Tom Ford Black Orchid invading my senses, making it impossible to focus.
The black truffle, black orchid and black plum notes mixed with that intoxicating patchouli and chocolate—it's not just a perfume, it's her essence distilled.
Dark. Dangerous. Utterly consuming. Like her. I want to drown in it.
A few hours later, I return with results that bring visible relief to her face. "The scans came back clean—no internal injuries," I tell her, watching her shoulders relax. "You'll probably need to stay tonight for observation, but you should be free to go home tomorrow morning."
And then I go about the rest of my rounds, the scent of Tom Ford’s Black Orchid following me around like a ghost.