Chapter 20
POV: Marina
We were leaving the hospital together when I heard Sarah’s voice behind us.
“Stokes!”
He stopped. I stopped with him.
Sarah jogged closer, Melissa right behind her, both of them still in scrubs and gossip-energy.
“So,” Sarah said, a little breathless. “Did you get the email from St. Vincent’s?”
My stomach tightened.
St. Vincent’s.
The cardiology program.
The one.
Brennan didn’t even hesitate. “I did.”
“And?” Melissa pressed.
Sarah’s eyes were bright. “They invited me for the interview. Dr. Green is leading the panel.”
Dr. Thomas Green.
My old professor. The reason I fell in love with advanced heart failure management. One of the most respected cardiologists in the country.
“That’s huge,” I said automatically.
Sarah beamed. “I know! I thought Dr. Stokes might be there too.”
She turned to him. “You’re going, right?”
His hand brushed lightly against my lower back.
“I won’t be there,” he said calmly.
Sarah blinked. “What? Why?”
“I have something more important.”
Melissa’s eyes flicked between us. Slow. Knowing.
“More important than St. Vincent’s?” she teased.
Brennan didn’t smile. “Yes.”
Sarah frowned. “But that program is insane. Dr. Green personally mentors residents.”
“I already have the best mentor,” Brennan said evenly.
His thumb pressed slightly into my spine.
“There’s no one better than Dr. Marina Meyer.”
My face heated instantly.
Melissa’s eyebrows shot up.
Sarah laughed nervously. “Okay… wow.”
I forced a professional smile. “You should go, Sarah. It’s an incredible opportunity.”
“It is,” she said. Then to Brennan, softer, “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
There was something final in his tone. Not defensive. Not uncertain.
Certain.
He just looked at me.
And that silence said more than words.
In the parking lot, I finally asked.
“You’re not going to the interview?”
He unlocked his car with a quiet beep. “No.”
“That’s St. Vincent’s. With Dr. Green.”
“I know.”
“That’s one of the best cardiology programs in the country.”
He leaned against the car casually. “There are other programs.”
“In this city?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“It’s in Chicago,” I said softly. “You’d have to move.”
“Yes.”
My stomach dipped.
“And you’re not going because…?”
“Because I have my motives.”
“What motives?”
He stepped closer. “One of them, you.”
The word was simple. Uncomplicated.
Too uncomplicated.
“Brennan…”
“You’re here. My work is here.”
“For now,” I said carefully.
He held my gaze. “I don’t build my life around hypotheticals.”
Something in my chest twisted.
I had built mine around Jonathan once.
Now Brennan was choosing… me.
It should have felt romantic.
Instead, it felt like standing at the edge of something steep.
“You shouldn’t give up opportunities for me,” I said quietly.
“I’m not giving anything up.”
“You don’t know that.”
He opened my car door. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
And that certainty both steadied me…
…and scared me.
At home, my mother looked up from the kitchen when I told her I had a date.
Her smile was soft. Relieved.
“I’m glad,” she said simply.
So was I.
And terrified.
I drove to Brennan’s apartment just after seven.
He opened the door before I knocked.
Gray shirt. Fitted. Sleeves rolled just enough to show strong forearms. Black tailored pants. Dark blazer that made his shoulders look even broader.
He looked expensive.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
Mine.
His eyes dropped to the red dress.
Slowly.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
Heat climbed up my throat.
“Too much?”
“Not enough,” he murmured.
His hand slid to my waist, not possessive—yet—but firm.
“You wore it.”
“You asked.”
His jaw flexed at that.
He drove.
One hand on the wheel. The other resting loosely on my thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles just above my knee. Not moving higher. Not pushing.
Just reminding.
The restaurant was intimate. Low lighting. Soft music. White tablecloths.
The kind of place where everything feels deliberate.
He pulled out my chair.
Ordered wine without looking at the menu.
And then he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room worth studying.
Not glancing.
Looking.
“You’re staring,” I said, reaching for my wine.
“I am.”
“Why?”
His gaze moved slowly over my face, my shoulders, the line of the red dress against my skin.
“Because you’re beautiful.”
Heat crept up my throat.
He didn’t stop there.
“You’re beautiful sleeping in my arms.”
My fingers tightened around the stem of the glass.
“You’re beautiful curled up on my couch.”
My breath thinned.
“You’re beautiful in my apartment.”
The way he said it made it sound like territory.
I tilted my head. “I’m not moving in.”
A slow smirk.
“You spend more time there than at your parents’ house.”
“That’s temporary.”
“Is it?”
The question wasn’t playful.
It was weighted.
He leaned back slightly, studying me with a calm that felt almost predatory.
“I like it,” he said. “You there. In my space.”
His voice lowered just enough.
“I’m very into this.”
“Into what?”
“This.” His eyes locked on mine. “You. Me. Committed.”
My pulse skipped.
“That’s a big word.”
“I don’t use small ones.”
The waiter arrived with our food.
Brennan didn’t break eye contact while ordering.
And then his hand slid under the table.
It rested on my knee.
Casual.
Almost innocent.
I swallowed.
His thumb drew a slow circle through the fabric of my dress.
Higher.
Not enough to cross any line.
Just enough to promise it.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured.
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Yes.”
His fingers moved again.
Higher.
The fabric bunched slightly under his knuckles.
My thighs tensed.
I could close my legs.
I didn’t.
The waiter returned with water.
Brennan’s hand didn’t move.
He just looked composed. Relaxed. Untouchable.
His thumb traced another slow path upward.
My breath hitched before I could stop it.
The waiter left.
His fingers paused.
“Look at you,” he said softly. “Trying to stay composed.”
“You’re insane.”
A faint smile.
“And you like it.”
His hand moved again.
Higher.
Not enough to expose.
Enough to make heat pool low in my stomach.
My heartbeat was loud in my ears.
“If I told you to close your legs,” he murmured, voice barely above the music, “would you?”
My lips parted.
“I’m not something you command.”
His gaze darkened.
“I don’t want to command you.”
A beat.
“I want you to want it.”
The words wrapped around my spine.
His thumb pressed gently into the inside of my thigh now, firm enough to make my breath stutter.
“I don’t share,” he added quietly.
“That again.”
“I don’t share what’s mine.”
There it was.
That line.
Possessive.
Controlled.
Heavy.
“I’m not something to own,” I said, but my voice lacked its usual sharpness.
He leaned closer across the table.
“I know.”
His thumb moved again, slow, deliberate.
“I just prefer when you choose me.”
My thighs trembled.
And I still didn’t close them.
“You’re distracted,” he said.
“You’re impossible.”
His fingers stilled.
“For the record,” he added softly, eyes flicking up to mine, “I could take you home right now.”
The air between us thickened.
“But,” he continued, withdrawing his hand slowly — painfully slowly — “I like watching you wait.”
The loss of contact was almost worse.
He picked up his wine glass like nothing had happened.
Calm.
Composed.
“Eat,” he said lightly. “You’ll need your strength.”
I nearly choked.
And somewhere beneath the heat, beneath the tension coiling tight in my body, there was a quieter realization:
He was patient.
Deliberate.
Strategic.
He liked control.
And I liked giving him that.