Chapter 1 #2
A brain surgeon. Of course he is.
I take a moment in the bathroom to freshen up, reapplying lipstick and giving myself a stern look in the mirror. "One drink," I tell my reflection. "Be polite, thank them, and go home."
Twenty minutes later, I'm sliding into a booth at Revival, my restraint already weakening. The bar is dimly lit and intimate, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs. Sage nearly drops her tray when she sees me with the three men.
"Claire! I thought you were—" She catches my subtle head shake and smoothly pivots. "I mean, what can I get you folks?"
Stuart orders a scotch, neat. The blonde—Jonathan, runs a massive fitness YouTube channel—orders a beer. The dark-haired one, Dane, bestselling sci-fi author apparently, orders red wine. I ask for a Manhattan, agreeing with Jonathan's recommendation—Sage is a master of the Manhattan.
"So, Claire," Stuart says once Sage delivers our drinks, "I couldn’t help but overhear your date mentioning you work in wine?"
I laugh. "God, no. I'm a chiropractor. My date just assumed I needed educating because I admitted I couldn't identify specific French regions by taste alone."
"A chiropractor?" His eyebrows rise. "Interesting."
"Let me guess—you think it's pseudoscience."
"I think the human body is complex and that different approaches to healing have their place." He takes a sip of his scotch. "Though I admit, the evidence for spinal manipulation treating anything beyond basic back pain is limited."
"Spoken like a true surgeon. Everything must be cut or medicated."
"Spoken like someone who's never seen what targeted neurosurgery can do for chronic pain patients."
"Because surgery is always the answer? No risks, no complications, just slice and dice?"
His eyes spark with interest. "Tell me, what would you do for a patient with lumbar radiculopathy?"
"Depends on the presentation. Acute or chronic? Any red flags suggesting cauda equina syndrome?"
He blinks, clearly not expecting medical terminology. "Chronic. Six months of progressive symptoms. No red flags."
"Then I'd start with a thorough assessment. Look at not just the spine but the entire kinetic chain. Hip mobility, core stability, even breathing patterns. The body compensates in fascinating ways."
"And if conservative treatment fails?"
"Then I'd refer them to someone like you." I take a sip of my Manhattan—Sage made it strong. "But I'd bet my approach would help sixty percent of them avoid surgery altogether."
"Sixty percent is optimistic."
"Your skepticism is pessimistic."
Jonathan laughs. "Are they actually debating medical treatment or is this some kind of weird foreplay?"
"Both," Dane says mildly, not looking up from the notebook he's pulled out. "Stuart hasn't argued with someone this enthusiastically in years and that’s saying a lot."
Heat floods my cheeks. "We're just discussing—"
"We're intellectually sparring," Stuart corrects, and there's something in his voice that makes my pulse skip. "And she’s holding her own."
"You sound surprised."
"Pleasantly surprised. Most people either defer to my medical degree or dismiss traditional medicine entirely. You're doing neither."
"Maybe because I actually know what I'm talking about."
"Clearly." He leans forward slightly. "Tell me your thoughts on the gate control theory of pain."
We debate for the next hour, the conversation flowing as smoothly as the alcohol.
Jonathan and Dane occasionally interject, but mostly they seem content to watch us keep this going.
The topics range from medical to philosophical—the role of placebo, the mind-body connection, the limitations of evidence-based medicine.
"You know what I think?" I say, emboldened by my third Manhattan. "I think surgeons are control freaks who can't stand that some things heal without their intervention."
"And I think chiropractors are frustrated healers who want to believe touch alone can cure everything."
"Touch can be incredibly powerful."
The words hang in the air, suddenly charged with different meanings. Stuart's gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes.
"Yes," he says quietly. "It can be."
Jonathan clears his throat. "Well, Dane and I have that early thing tomorrow."
"What early thing?" Dane asks, then catches Jonathan's look. "Oh. Right. That thing."
They're not subtle, but I'm grateful for the excuse to break the tension. "I should go too. Thank you for the drinks and for... earlier."
"I'll drive you home," Stuart offers.
"I can get an Uber."
"At least let me walk you out while you wait for it."
I nod, and we all stand. Jonathan and Dane say their goodbyes, and then Stuart and I are alone on the sidewalk. The night air is cool against my flushed skin.
"This is probably forward," he says, "Would you have dinner with me sometime? I promise I won’t grill you on French wine regions."
I should say no. He's older—at least fifteen years—clearly wealthy, a surgeon and probably has women throwing themselves at him regularly. But the way he's looking at me, like I'm a puzzle he desperately wants to solve...
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Because of the age difference? Or because you think I'm an arrogant surgeon?"
"All of the above?"
He laughs, low and rich. "Fair enough. But consider this—when was the last time you had a conversation that stimulated you this much?"
"You're assuming I'm stimulated."
"Your pupils are dilated, you've been leaning toward me for the past hour, and you've touched your neck six times—classic signs of attraction."
"Or I could be having an allergic reaction to your ego."
"Also possible." He steps closer, and I catch his scent—expensive cologne and something uniquely male. "But I don't think so."
My Uber pulls up, saving me from responding.
"Goodnight, Claire," Stuart says, opening the car door for me.
"Goodnight."
I'm about to get in when he speaks again. "For what it's worth, I haven't enjoyed an evening this much in years. Even if you never want to see me again, thank you for that."
The sincerity in his voice undoes me. "Stuart..."
"I'm staying at the St. Regis. Room 1247." He hands me another business card, on which he quickly scribbles down the info. "In case you change your mind about dinner. Or breakfast. Or just want to continue our intellectual sparring."
I take the card, our fingers brushing. "You're very sure of yourself."
"No," he says softly. "But I'm hoping."
I get in the Uber, clutching the card. As we drive away, I see him in the side mirror, standing on the sidewalk watching the car disappear.
I should go home. Take a hot shower, go to bed, and pretend tonight never happened.
Instead, I tell the driver, "Actually, can you take me to the St. Regis instead?"
He changes direction without comment. My hands shake as I text Sage:
Girl. I've lost my mind. Making potentially terrible decisions.
Her response is immediate:
GET IT GIRL. Details tomorrow or we're not friends.
The St. Regis lobby is all marble and crystal, the kind of place I’ve never had enough money to book. I almost turn around twice, but something pulls me forward. The elevator ride to the twelfth floor feels eternal.
I knock before I can lose my nerve. I’m wondering if he’s even back yet.
Stuart opens the door immediately, like he was waiting. He's removed his suit jacket and tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He must have taken a shortcut to the hotel.
"You came."
"I'm probably going to regret this."
"Probably," he agrees. "But not tonight."
He steps aside to let me in. The suite is enormous—floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city lights, a living area bigger than my entire old apartment.
"Drink?" he offers.
"I think I've had enough."
"Then what would you like?"
The honest answer surprises me. "To stop overthinking for once."
"I can help with that."
He moves closer, giving me every opportunity to step back. I don't. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone.
"You're extraordinary," he murmurs. "Beautiful and so incredibly smart. Do you know how rare that is?"
"Stuart..."
"Tell me to leave you alone and I will. I'll call you a car, we'll pretend tonight never happened."
"I don't want to pretend."
"Then what do you want?"
I answer by rising up on my toes and pressing my lips to his.
The kiss starts soft, exploratory, then ignites into something desperate.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him, tasting scotch and something darker, hungrier.
His hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, and I moan into his mouth.
"Bedroom," I gasp when we break for air. "Now."
He lifts me suddenly, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. "Demanding. I like that."
He carries me through the suite, my mouth finding his neck, kissing it until he moans. "Keep that up and we won't make it to the bed."
"Promise?"
He presses me against the hallway wall, grinding against me. Even through our clothes, I can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this. "You're playing with fire."
"Then burn me."
We barely make it to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes. My dress pools at my feet while his shirt gets tossed somewhere behind us. His hands are everywhere—cupping my breasts through my bra, thumbs brushing over already-hard nipples.
"Look at you," he breathes, taking in my black lace lingerie. "Did you wear this for him?"
"I wore it for me."
"Good answer." He unhooks my bra with practiced ease, immediately lowering his mouth to my breast. His tongue circles my nipple before sucking hard, making me arch against him. His hand finds my other breast, rolling the peak between his fingers until I'm panting.
"Stuart, please..."
"Please what?" He switches sides, lavishing the same attention while his hand trails down my stomach. "Tell me exactly what you want."
"Touch me."