Chapter 14
Caroline Atkins?
Snap snap.
Rhonda’s fingers slice through my fog like a damn airhorn wrapped in skin.
“Hey,” she barks, leaning over the counter. “How long are you gonna stare at that prescription like it just insulted your mother?”
I blink and finally tear my eyes off the page I’ve apparently been hypnotizing for the last five minutes. “What?” I mumble, eloquent as ever.
“You’ve been reading the same dosage like you’re trying to astral project into the pharmacy. Earth to Atkins.”
I exhale, rub my temple, and resist the urge to slam my forehead into the nurse’s station.
It’s mid-shift chaos—monitors beeping like it’s a fucking techno party, a toddler screaming in Room 4, and one of the regulars has unplugged his IV line again and is proudly bleeding like he’s reenacting a war movie.
And here I am? Thinking about him.
Not Crash.
Not even Mystery Dick from two months ago.
Alex.
That name hit different last night. Solid. Sharp. Real.
And now it’s in my head. Looping like a damn song lyric I didn’t ask for. He said it with that look on his face—like it hurt, like it cracked something open, and I just wanted to scoop him into my arms and hold him there forever.
“Carol,” Rhonda says again, cocking a brow. “You gonna tell me what’s up or am I gonna have to drag it out of you with cafeteria coffee and legally questionable gossip?”
I shake my head. “Nothing’s up. I’m just tired.”
She gives me the look. The one that says bitch, please in fluent nurse.
But I’m not ready to talk about it.
Not yet.
Because if I say it out loud—if I really let myself admit how much I care for this man with no past—it might unravel me.
So instead I slap the chart shut, grab my next vitals list, and mutter, “Tell the bleeder in Room 6 if he unplugs that IV again, I’m putting the line in his dick.”
Rhonda cackles. “There she is.”
But even as I walk away, clipboard in hand, scrubs sticking to my thighs, the name still echoes.
Alex.
And god help me, I think I’m already falling in love with him.
Because I’m me—and I can’t let shit go to save my damn life—I start a new search.
Before, he was just some gorgeous Greek statue brought to life by trauma and bad luck. A walking wet dream with grey eyes and no fucking name. Easy to categorize as lost, broken, mine. No guilt. No questions.
But now?
Now he’s Alex. A man with a name, and a past, and probably, at some point, a goddamn LinkedIn profile.
And that past? It’s creeping back in. One slow, smirking memory at a time.
Which means… consequences.
Family.
Friends.
Possibly a goddamn girlfriend.
Or worse—
A wife.
Jesus fucking Christ, what if I’ve been unknowingly playing mistress in some Manhattan soap opera? What if there’s a Karen somewhere with a blowout and a diamond ring losing her shit over her missing finance bro husband while I’ve been riding his dick like it owes me rent?
I can’t stop the mental spiral.
What if he’s got kids?
What if I’ve been heating up leftovers for someone else’s baby daddy?
I’ve been swallowing his cock like a star student and letting him fuck me through the headboard, and now the anxiety gremlin in my brain is whispering, “Homewrecker. You might be a fucking homewrecker.”
Shit.
I close the tab I was supposed to be using to check medical dosage protocols and open a new one.
Alex. Grey eyes. New York. Missing person. Finance asshole. Rich dickhead. Maybe hot lawyer? Married?
My search history looks like a paranoid horny wife’s private diary.
And still—still—I can’t stop.
Because if he is someone else’s, if he has a whole fucking life waiting out there?
I’m not ready to let him go.
And that’s the most terrifying fucking thing of all.
Because that’s what I’ll have to do, right?
If he belongs to someone else—if some Upper East Side Barbie shows up with wedding photos and matching monogrammed luggage—then that’s it. Curtain fucking down.
I’ll have to pack up my feelings, untangle my heart from around his stupid perfect smile, and send him back to the life he forgot. Like a stray golden retriever that finally remembered his owners and the backyard he was raised on.
Because what the hell right do I have?
I’m not his wife. I’m not his family. I’m the nurse who changed his IV bags and then accidentally fell face-first into love. And his lap. And his mouth. And his—
Okay, focus, Carol.
If someone claims him—if someone has papers, or memories, or a fucking ring—then I don’t get to keep him.
Doesn’t matter if he calls me baby now. Doesn’t matter if he’s been doing my dishes and making me come so hard I forget my own name.
Doesn’t matter if he smiles like I’m the safest place he’s ever been.
Because none of that will matter if he already belongs to someone else.
I’ll have to let him go.
And smile.
And maybe cry in a stairwell at 3AM over a bottle of shitty wine and half a rotisserie chicken.
Like a well-adjusted adult.
God.
Fucking.
Damn it.
I get home and the second I open the door—bam. There he is.
And holy fuck.
Shirtless.
Jeans slung low.
Fly half-open like he forgot to button it or didn’t bother, which somehow makes it worse.
Sweating like a sinner in church, muscles flexing and gleaming under the shitty overhead light as he does push-ups like the floor personally insulted his mother.
I freeze in the doorway, keys still in hand, mouth half open like an idiot because—Jesus Christ.
Yes, he works out. Yes, I’ve seen it. Sometimes in the morning when he stretches shirtless in my tiny living room like it’s a yoga studio and I pretend not to drool into my coffee. Sometimes when he throws in some sit-ups while I meal prep like it’s nothing.
But this?
This is not lazy, look-how-hot-I-am working out.
This is rage-fueled penitence.
This is cursed prince in exile, punishing his body because he can’t punish his brain. It’s pure, sweaty self-flagellation, and he’s doing it right there in my fucking living room like a one-man Greek tragedy.
“Uh…” I manage.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even glance up.
Push-up. Push-up. Push-up.
“You okay?” I ask, finally kicking the door shut and tossing my keys into the bowl.
Nothing.
Push-up. Push-up. The sound of his breathing is tight, harsh. Not like exertion. Like he’s trying to burn something out of himself.
I move closer. “Alex—”
That gets a flicker. He glances up at me, just for a second. And fuck me, his eyes look wild. Haunted. Like the ghosts in his head are clawing at the walls.
“What the hell’s going on?” I ask, crouching beside him. “You look like you’re trying to sweat out Satan.”
He drops onto his stomach and rolls onto his back, arm flung over his eyes, chest heaving. The jeans are hanging so low now it’s indecent.
“Needed to do something,” he mutters.
“Yeah, and clearly self-destruction was the top pick.” I cross my arms. “Care to share with the class or just keep playing broody sex-Greek god with a tragic past?”
He huffs. It’s almost a laugh. Almost. But it’s sharp around the edges. Tired.
And suddenly I realize—I’m not the only one spiraling today.
He stumbles up like his muscles are still vibrating from the punishment, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead, chest slick and rising hard with every breath. Walks straight to the fridge, pulls the water pitcher like it personally owes him money, and pours a full glass.
Then he gulps.
Like he’s dying. Like that glass of water is the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane of existence.
And I’m just standing there. Watching his throat work. Watching that Adam’s apple bob like it’s doing a damn striptease and my brain—my traitor fucking brain—is immediately whispering, lick it.
Lick it, you absolute coward.
I blink hard. Think about anything else—taxes, toe fungus, Mitch from HR—to stop myself from crossing the room and climbing him like a jungle gym.
He exhales, finishes the glass, and finally sets it down.
“Do you have any other memories?” I ask, leaning against the kitchen counter like I’m not moments away from climbing him like a cat in heat.
He shakes his head, slow and heavy, curls flopping a little. “No,” he mutters. “Just the same one. The cigar guy. Reginald. My voice barking. Keeps replaying now, like a fucking broken record.”
“Reginald,” I echo, filing it away mentally. Very rich-man name. No Reginalds flipping burgers in Queens, that’s for damn sure.
He rubs his face with his hand, like he’s trying to wipe the thought clean off his skull. “I keep saying something about a strategy. Like… business shit. High-stakes. Power plays. My voice sounded like a dick, honestly.”
I snort. “So, you’re saying you were hot and a douchebag?”
His mouth twitches. A hint of a grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Apparently.”
“Hey,” I say softer, stepping closer, hand brushing his arm. “It doesn’t mean anything now. People can change. Especially if they got brain damage and a hot nurse feeding them pasta.”
He huffs again, another not-quite-laugh. “Yeah. Especially that.”
But his jaw’s still tight. His eyes still far away.
And I get it.
Because nothing’s scarier than realizing you might have been the villain in your own story.
“Look—” I say, fingers hooking into the belt loops of his jeans, yanking him closer like it’s the most natural thing in the world and not a blatant act of self-preservation against the black hole of existential crisis.
“How about we order some pizza, forget about Reginald and his stupid fucking cigar and use our time a little more… productively?”
His chest brushes mine, still warm and damp, and he lifts a brow, lip twitching. “Productively, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say, pretending to think, even though I’m already halfway mentally undressing him again. “Like… eating greasy carbs and maybe testing if the headboard can survive a second month of pounding.”
He huffs a laugh, breathless and low. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm, and you’re standing there half-naked and sweaty in my kitchen like temptation got cast in human form, so maybe you’re the problem.”
He leans down, mouth grazing the corner of mine. “I thought I was in recovery.”
“You are,” I murmur, licking into the kiss just a little. “This is just… physical therapy.”
“You’re a menace.”
“And you love it.”
He groans softly, hands finding my hips, that familiar heat crackling between us like live wire. I grin against his mouth and whisper, “I’ll even let you pick the pizza toppings.”
“Oh, thank God,” he deadpans. “I was really worried about the pepperoni situation.”
“Priorities, babe. You bring the dick, I bring the double cheese.”
“Match made in hell.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and that’s the end of all coherent conversation.
Reginald and his fucking strategy can choke on their fancy cigars.
Tonight?
We’re busy.