Chapter 4
Chapter Four
CAMERON
Christ. What have I done?
I grip the steering wheel as I drive away from Tally's place, knuckles white.
The medical board would have a field day with this—doctor sleeps with patient, loses license, film at eleven.
But how could I resist? The way her Black Orchid perfume lingered in the air between us.
Those Mediterranean-blue eyes watching me from beneath dark lashes.
The curve of her waist under my hands, so delicate I could almost encircle it completely.
Her beautiful full breasts consumed me—the weight of them, the heat, the way my tongue traced her nipples until she gasped my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
Alecia's face flashes in my mind. Two years without dating anyone, and now this.
The guilt sits heavy in my chest even as I remember Tally's sighs, the way she arched against me.
I justified it as medical care—endorphins are nature's painkillers, after all.
Those bruises from the accident looked agonizing, and when I arrived, she couldn't even make it to the bathroom without help.
For a few hours at least, I distracted her from her pain. At least that's what I tell myself.
I need to talk to someone about this whole situation, so I dial up Dr. Elias Stone.
We've been tight since our Harvard Westlake days—the fancy prep school where the Kensington boys get polished.
I'll have to admit I crossed a line with a patient, but Elias won't report me.
We've got a brotherhood that runs deeper than DNA.
Don't get me wrong—I love my actual brothers, all seven of them.
But with Elias, it's different. He chose me, and I chose him.
That kind of bond hits different than the one you're born into.
I call my friend as I’m driving home from Tally’s.
"Eli," I say when he picks up. I check my watch—7:30 PM.
He's been home for hours already. Lucky bastard with his pediatrician's schedule, nine-to-five with weekends off, while I'm pulling another double shift in the ER.
That sports medicine fellowship can't come soon enough, but first—Sicily.
One more month and I'll be on a plane, spending a year with Doctors Without Borders helping refugees. "I need to talk."
"Door's open, Cam,” Elias says. "Sarah just put Molly to bed. Wine's breathing on the patio."
I hate barging into Elias' perfect little world.
His life is exactly what mine was supposed to be when I married Alecia.
We had Stephanie within a year after those "til death do us part" vows, never imagining death would claim her just two years later.
Watching Elias with his clockwork routine, his beautiful wife, his four-year-old daughter, the age Stephanie would now be - it stings.
We used to joke about the cosmic timing—both having baby girls who'd grow up as best friends.
The four of us were inseparable: weekend cabins at Lake Mead, skiing trips to Mammoth, that amazing week in New York.
Then suddenly, my world collapsed while his remained intact.
I don't resent his happiness—I'm not built that way.
But knowing he'll probably meet me alone on that terrace, without Sarah, because we're no longer two couples but a pair and a spare—that's the part that cuts deepest.
I get to Elias, and, sure enough, Sarah and Molly are nowhere to be seen. “Sarah is upstairs with Mol doing a puzzle with her,” Elias says. “She’s so bright that she helps her mom do 500-piece puzzles. Can you imagine?”
I nod and sigh. Yeah, it’s difficult hearing about Molly’s milestones just because Molly is the same age that Steph would be right now.
And Steph was an extremely bright child, too - she was a little younger than one when she was killed, but she was ahead of schedule for her milestones - babbling in complete sentences, walking already, tracking objects with those intelligent eyes while she was still crawling, already knowing her colors.
So she probably would’ve been able to help Alecia put together a puzzle, just like Molly is with Sarah.
And it’ll always be like this, I know - when Molly is going to kindergarten and learning her tables, I’ll think that Steph should be doing the same.
When Molly makes the swim or gymnastics team or whatever she’s bound to do, I’ll wonder what sports Steph might’ve liked.
When Molly gets her driver’s license, there’ll be a pang that Steph isn’t doing the same.
When she graduates high school, goes to college, gets married…
I’ll always wonder about Steph. After all, they were the same age so all the milestones Molly hits, Steph would’ve hit them at roughly the same time.
But there's no way in hell I'm saying a word to Elias.
What am I supposed to do—make him feel like shit because he's living my dream?
The white picket fence, the whole package I'd sketched out in my head.
Christ. One hint of how I really feel, and he'd get that kicked-puppy look, start dodging my calls.
So I swallow it down, paste on a smile, and keep my jealousy locked behind my teeth where it belongs.
He hands me a glass of wine and settles back into his patio furniture. "So," he says. "What's going on?"
I stare at my palms like they might hold answers. "I don't really know." I exhale slowly. "I'm kind of..." My words trail off. "I might have..." I run a hand through my hair. "I met someone.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “So…you ready to crawl back into the land of the living?”
I shrug, voice rough. “Land of the living’s a stretch.
But hell—if I’m even noticing a woman again, that’s something.
Ever since the crash, every woman I see just…
nothing. Doesn’t matter if she’s kind, brilliant, drop-dead gorgeous—my heart’s been a block of ice.
” I swallow hard. “But maybe—just maybe—the frost is cracking.” I shake my head, bitter smile.
“Still, I can’t picture myself falling in love again.
I couldn’t survive another Alecia or Steph.
So maybe I’ll just play the field—flit from one beautiful face to the next, never anchor down.
Beats rotting alone in a dark house, staring at the walls. ”
Elias leans forward. “How hot’s this spark, really?”
My chest tightens. “Goddamn, it’s a blast furnace.
More intense than anything I’ve ever felt—even with Alecia.
With her, love sneaked up on me over years of friendship.
We were comfortable, predictable, hanging out, setting each other up with different people so we could hopefully double-date one day—until a drunken dare set our lips together one night and boom.
So yeah, years of friendship until the night it wasn’t just friendship.
That relationship was the epitome of slow burn.
But this thing with Tally? It’s thermonuclear.
” I press my palms to my temples, as if my skull might split open.
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve seen her before she crashed into the ER?”
I nod, eyes distant, replaying the moment.
“First at Max’s fake wedding to Celeste—she stormed in like a riot.
Hair cropped short, streaked in neon, tattoos spilling down her arm, that dress hugging every curve.
She looked like she’d drag me through asphalt and laugh the whole way.
Totally the opposite of Alecia’s cashmere-and-pearls sweetness.
Alecia was a kindergarten teacher. Tally is a tattoo artist. Those two couldn’t be more different if they tried.
And yet—Tally’s raw power, her fierce beauty—it obliterated me the second I glanced her way.
No type? Forget that. I’ve got one now.”
Elias and I talk for several more hours before I head out of his place.
After leaving Elias, my car seems to drive itself to Tally's place.
With three days off from my ER rotation—a rare luxury in my four-day, 12-hour shift schedule—I find myself calculating how many hours I could spend making her forget about her injuries.
My mind lingers on the thought of her smile breaking through the pain.
She'd need help getting around, someone to cook meals, maybe assistance slipping into a bath.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. Two days of playing caretaker, of being needed in her space, before she'd be mobile enough to manage without me. Though I wasn't sure I wanted her to.
I smile at the irony—after spending hours making her writhe and moan beneath me, I never once thought to ask for her number.
Calling Celeste isn't an option; Tally made it clear she wanted this kept between us.
Fine by me. I'm not looking to announce whatever this is to the world.
A fling? No, that sounds dismissive. Hooking up?
Christ, I'm 38, not some college kid. I've saved lives in African villages and navigated emergency rooms during the worst nights imaginable.
There has to be a better word for what I want—which is to show up at her apartment, strip her bare, and lose ourselves in each other until we can't move.
Not dating, certainly. Just pure, electric connection. A liaison? An arrangement? A tryst?
I head over to her apartment. Just like before, she hollers for me to come in instead of getting the door herself.
That can't be good. Has she been stuck on that couch this whole time?
Sure enough, when I step inside, there she is, sprawled out with an ice pack wedged under her lower back.
Her face brightens when I take a seat beside her.