Conflict of Interest (Devon Memorial #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

FINN

The lock flashed green.

White walls, white sheets, a bed that looked like it had been retired by a far better hotel a couple of decades ago. Windows framed the back end of an aggressively average post-war building while a coughing AC unit lost its face-off with the summer evening’s lingering heat.

All right, then. I dragged my suitcase into the room, closed the door, and exhaled. So. This was home, at least for the next two days—until the sublet on 156th released its previous occupant and I could pretend I belonged here.

Welcome to New York, Finn. You are one in eight million.

This was big, though. I’d done it—landed a general surgery residency at Devon Memorial, training ground for demigods with a side of impossibly high standards. People would kill for this chance. They probably had.

So why did my chest feel just a shade too tight?

“Might as well marry your ambitions, Finn—shack up with a sexy textbook and call it your honeymoon.”

Fucking Travis. His words clung to the ends of my thoughts like a burr I couldn’t shake.

He’d been way out of line. Sure, maybe I hadn’t given him daily updates about the application process, but I’d told him I was casting a wide net, that New York was on the list, what the timelines were. Not my fault he hadn’t been listening.

“Reality check, babe: You’re hot, yeah. But I’m not gonna drive four hours for medical rambling and some sloppy grinding.”

Asshole.

I toed off my sneakers—scuffed and grass-stained as if they’d yet to realize we’d left the Berkshires, traded forested hills for a city where everyone walked twice as fast and talked like they were trying to win an argument.

Ever since the bus had spat me out into the evening masses, I’d felt like I was three steps behind, like an accidental extra in a foreign movie.

Traffic noise and life filtered through the windows.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror by the door—full-length if I ignored a crack running along one corner.

I looked as rumpled as I felt, my travel tee damp and creased, brown curls messy in a way that was miles from intentional.

Hot in the literal sense, only just passable if we were talking dating material.

If Travis could see me, he’d feel next-level smug about dumping my ass.

Third guy in four years. Apparently, looks fade fast when you prefer deep dives into pancreatic anatomy over whichever superhero was breaking box-office records that week.

Okay, time to end this pity party for one. New plan: shower, a shirt that hugged my chest, maybe a subtle hint of eyeliner to make the baby blues pop. Let’s see how sloppy it would feel when it was against a wall, with someone whose name I wouldn’t remember.

Fresh start.

Electric drinks sloshed in sweating glasses. A dozen bodies pressed against the bar, the bass so deep it thrummed in the pit of my stomach, lights streaking behind my lids. Travis would have choked on his stupid craft beer. Me? Well. I was wearing midnight-blue silk and an I-could-be-yours smile.

Bring it on.

Vodka? Rum? Eh. Mezcal, please—neat. I planted a foot on the rail and glanced around like I couldn’t really be bothered, trying maybe just a little too hard. But then, so was everyone else.

And hey, it worked: heads turned, attention lingered. Didn’t take long for a muscled guy in a tank top to slot in next to me, skin gleaming with sweat. He looked like he bench-pressed trucks for fun, all confidence as he shouted that I had killer bone structure, and did I want to get out of here?

Uh. Wow, okay. Direct. Which, yeah, was what I’d come here for. But back home, I was used to diner coffee and a hiking date before anyone suggested that clothes came off. I recovered enough to toss him a crooked smile. “Thanks, man—just getting started, though.”

He gave a little smirk and shrugged—no offense, no pause—and peeled away. Cool, cool, cool.

Next was a baby-faced twink who licked condensation off his straw with the subtlety of homemade porn.

Then a duo who looked like they’d shrunk their shirts in a coordinated laundry accident.

It was all quite flattering—in theory. But somehow, half an hour in, my ego felt…

overstretched, like a balloon filled with too much hot air.

Everyone was on. There were no quick smiles across the room, no blink-and-you’ll-miss-it side glances that kept me wondering.

Here, desire barged in with a megaphone.

I sipped my mezcal, its smoky burn settling somewhere behind my sternum.

This was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it? Validation.

But, well. It felt more like a sugar high—too much, too fast, already dipping with the taste of disappointment.

The sticky, humid air, the way bodies kept bumping into mine without apology.

Some guy slid a hand along my spine, sticky with sweat.

Too forward. I ducked a question about kinks, pretended I couldn’t hear over the heavy bass, while two stools down, a guy in a simple white Henley sat nursing a glass of bourbon.

Early thirties maybe, hard to make out details beyond how he’d swept his dark hair back and was watching the crowd like he had nothing to prove.

I turned away before curiosity bled into staring and paid for another drink. The bartender slid it over with an easy grin.

One sip. The second got stopped by the clamp of a hand around my wrist—which, okay, not so awesome. I angled slightly away even as I turned to face the guy. He oozed confidence, all slicked hair, open shirt, and glinting gold chain. His gaze scraped from my mouth to my belt.

“How much for the hour?” His voice carried—and whoa, what, hang on a fucking sec. It took a beat for my brain to grind back into gear.

Right. So. Lesson learned—next time, go a little lighter on the eyeliner and come-hither outfit.

I fished for a smile and hoped it turned out easy and a touch dismissive. “Starts at three hundred, sweetheart.” I pitched my voice just loud enough for nearby ears. “Got to first submit a reference through my agent, though, so he’ll put you on the waitlist. Crazy backlog.”

The guy blinked, recalculating. “C’mon, babe,” he tried, his free hand slipping toward my ass. “I’ve got cash.”

Jesus.

“And I’ve got a security company on standby. In the event that you keep breathing on me.”

He released me, muttered some insult to my ancestry, and slunk back into the sea of moving bodies.

Well, that’d been fun. Maybe I should have asked if he liked his grinding with a side of sloppy.

Or maybe I shouldn’t have come here with the day’s overload still pulling at me—city noise, cab horns, sidewalks like a conveyor belt for the human masses. I reached for my drink.

“Charming guy,” a wry voice commented from my left, just loud enough that I caught it. I glanced over and found White Henley studying me, amusement dancing across his face. “Guess that wasn’t your typical client base?”

He was… Wow. Now that I got a decent look at him? Easily the most interesting guy in the room, with broad shoulders and a lean waist, watchful eyes that might be green in decent lighting, one corner of his mouth hinting at a private joke. And, right—he’d caught the whole thing.

Something ridiculous tugged at my belly, humid warmth and mezcal and a long fucking day. Here goes nothing.

I slid one stool over, settling right next to him, and lifted my glass in a lazy salute. “Yeah, well. Haven’t checked the open market in a while.” Not a lie given I’d been with Travis for the last ten months, give or take. “Good to know there’s still some enthusiasm.”

“Enthusiasm.” He sampled the word like another sip of whiskey, then huffed out a laugh. “Okay, I’ll bite. Do you actually have an agent or was that just to get the guy off your back?”

“Trade secret.”

He chuckled, leaning an elbow on the bar as he turned fully toward me. “And the going rate—three hundred plus, you said? Or is that another trade secret?”

“Depends.” I let my gaze flick down his chest and back up to the amused tilt of his lips.

A game. I could play for a few minutes longer, have some actual fun tonight, before I finished my drink and went back to my lonely hotel room.

“Specials Monday through Wednesday, premium for weekends. Surcharge for pet names.”

“Fair.” The twitch of his mouth felt like a reward. “What about first-contact discounts?”

Ha. I bumped his knee with mine. “Why—you interested?”

“Academic curiosity.”

“That’s what they all say.” I swished the liquid in my glass and slid him a grin, a mildly disbelieving laugh bubbling in my stomach. “I’ll give you twenty minutes of free conversation—a sample, so to speak. Because I like you.”

“People pay for the talking part?” A quick, clever look told me he was still trying to figure me out, not fully buying just yet what I was selling. Figuratively. Literally?

“What do you think?” I shot back.

“Hmm.” He stretched it into a hum that buzzed at the base of my spine, a deliberate delay as he assessed me. “Yeah. I can see why they would.”

Take that, Travis.

I offered a handshake as if we were sealing a deal. “Twenty minutes, then. Name’s Finn, by the way—in the interest of avoiding pet names.”

“Jesse,” he said, with the kind of smile that doubted I’d given him something real. His palm was dry and warm against mine. I was first to pull away.

“So, Jesse.” I lingered on the name. “Any questions to kick us off?”

He studied me over the rim of his bourbon glass, the liquid catching sparks. “Okay, give me your expert opinion. Best lay in the room?”

Unintentionally funny given he had roughly five years on me, and likely double my numbers. If not triple.

I raised a meaningful brow. “Fishing for compliments?”

“Other than me.” Wry and amused, mostly dismissed as par-for-the-course flattery when it wasn’t.