Chapter 1
"Goddamn it, Beth, it's not a difficult question," Grant snapped.
My hands squeezed around the armrest and door handle to brace myself for the car's jerking stop. The seatbelt bit into my neck and my bag pitched forward, spewing its contents at my feet. He pounded his fist against the steering wheel and then turned to me, his eyes blazing.
"I've been more than patient," he said, huffing out the words.
Recovering the contents of my bag turned into my singular mission. Pens, breath mints, lip gloss, tampons, business cards. It excused me from meeting his gaze and it distracted me from the fact that I was fifteen minutes behind schedule.
"Okay, great, ignore me." He gave a bitter laugh that promised he’d take this tantrum to the curb so we could share this moment with a bunch of strangers at the airport. "I waited because I thought you needed it after your dad died. I’m not unsympathetic. I get what you’re going through."
Almonds. Didn't I snag a bag of almonds on my way out of the surgeon’s lounge? They should be around here somewhere.
"But it's been a year. I've given you the time. If this isn't gonna happen, just fuckin’ say so, Beth."
A quick glance at my watch told me that my lateness was now pushing nineteen minutes and I'd have to go without the almonds if I wanted to get through security checkpoints with time to spare.
Goddammit, I really enjoyed my afternoon almonds.
"Grant, this is a longer conversation for a different day. I can't miss this flight."
He was out of the car with a frustrated snarl, muttering to himself while he grabbed my luggage from the trunk.
"I'm not looking to get married tomorrow, Beth," he yelled. Securing my laptop case to the upright handle of my luggage was my new mission. All about the mission. "But this is bullshit. I see you once or twice a week—if I'm lucky. I proposed a year ago."
I spared him a glance. "I'm building my practice."
And I was having a damn hard time doing it because all the senior surgeons had a nasty habit of pulling rank on cases and poaching my patients. I couldn’t even think about the brutal on-call schedule without grinding my teeth.
"You're a fucking dermatologist, Beth, and it's Boston. It's not that hard to freeze some warts, pop some pimples, and inject some Botox. And you're forty-fucking-two. Do you really think you can wait any longer to have kids?"
I’m double board certified in micrographic dermatologic surgery and dermatology, you overwatered legume.
"Like I said," I replied, "this isn't a conversation for the departure curb at the airport. We can talk when I get back from my conference."
And do you really think screaming at me is going to make me want to marry you and turn my body inside out for some kids?
But I didn’t say that. I knew I should’ve sat Grant down for a serious talk months ago.
Just like I knew I should’ve declined his offer of a ride and taken a car service to the airport today.
But I was having work done in my condo while I was away and needed to meet with the architect right after my morning surgeries, and I took the easy way out with Grant.
Which wasn’t easy at all though I only remembered that when he was halfway through another one of his tirades.
He nodded, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. "There's nothing to talk about. I'm done talking. I'm calling off the engagement. If we were ever actually engaged at all."
I didn't wait to watch him slam his door shut or speed away from the terminal.
No time for that now. There was a flight to catch and a presentation to polish.
The time for processing my emotions relating to Grant would come after my presentation and the conference's networking events, and in the privacy of my villa in Bermuda.
That was the way I liked it to be. Ordered. Scheduled. Contained.
I focused on rehearsing my presentation while the check-in line inched forward.
Speaking at the Emerging Topics in Melanoma conference was huge for me.
I was still shocked my abstract had been accepted and three months of preparation didn't feel like hardly enough.
I also had a pretty significant case of impostor syndrome so there wasn't likely to be a time when it did feel like enough.
"Next, please," the agent called. I moved to the podium and presented my passport and boarding ticket. "This flight has been canceled due to inclement weather. I can rebook you on the nine-thirty flight. Watch the boards for updates because it’s probably going to be delayed."
I stared at the agent for a moment, taking in her starched jumper and deep maroon lipstick.
There were pinpoint-sized milia ringing her hairline and if the icy panic over changes to my travel schedule weren't rippling through my blood, I would have recommended a new lactic acid product that worked especially well for that.
"Nine-thirty—tonight? Like, six hours from now? "
"I don’t make the storms.” She glanced at the line behind me. “If you’d checked in sooner, I might’ve been able to get you on the four-fifteen to Newark for a connecting flight to Bermuda but since you’re cutting it so close"—she hit me with a pointed stare—"nine-thirty is the best I can do."
"Okay," I mumbled.
Shuffling through security, I worked to keep a neutral expression on my face but the panic was winning.
I’d had it all planned out: fly out mid-day Wednesday, get to the resort by the evening, and then spend the next few hours running through my presentation.
It was the perfect plan for my Thursday afternoon talk on concurrent treatments for melanoma that coincided with certain cases of breast cancer and my weekend plan for rest and relaxation—except that these plans were crumbling to bits.
It only got worse when I heard, “Don’t tell me you’re frowning that hard over a little flight delay.”
I swallowed a groan and glanced around to find Jay Acosta grinning at me like this was the best day of his life, which was not how any normal human should experience air travel. “Dr. Acosta.” I forced a smile. “I take it you’re also headed to Bermuda.”
He swept a thorough, assessing gaze over me before saying, “If this storm ever lets up.”
I nodded. That was about as much polite conversation as I could manage with Acosta. We were colleagues but we were not friends. “Well. Nice seeing you.”
He shifted an old leather briefcase from hand to hand. I could tell from here it was an exceptional quality, butter-soft and perfectly broken in. “Join me in the Admiral’s Lounge.”
“I appreciate your offering but I couldn’t.” Another hollow smile. I had an endless supply of them. “I need to catch up on some reading.”
He motioned to the other end of the terminal but I found myself staring at the wild riot of his wavy hair instead. Silver shot through the inky black and he had an obvious habit of raking his fingers through the strands. “The lounge will be quieter and more comfortable. For your reading.”
“Thank you for the invitation,” I said, my words coming out like I’d chiseled them from a block of granite, “but no, thank you.”
As wonderful as a members-only lounge sounded right now, I didn’t consort with Jay Acosta for good reason.
Aside from being the kind of self-absorbed egomaniac who’d sign on as the centerpiece of a reality TV series about derm surgery, he’d gone out of his way to block me from getting a job at his practice. And not just any job but the job.
After finishing residency, I’d earned a spot in a highly competitive fellowship program for microscopic derm surgery where I’d kicked ass. My surgical outcomes were among the best, I jumped on every opportunity to observe and learn and teach, and I produced a steady stream of published research.
My attending had started lobbying for me to take a position at his practice before the end of my first quarter in the fellowship.
I’d never imagined myself calling Boston home but it was my dream practice and Dr. Sowelby had all but guaranteed me the job.
I’d be attached to a world-class research hospital.
I’d have a cutting edge clinic and access to all the newest tools and technology.
And I liked Sowelby’s team. The vibes were immaculate.
No one drunk off their own egos, no one jockeying for proximity to Sowelby or the other partners, no hostile energies to speak of. Except for Acosta.
Save for that singular annoyance, everything was perfect. My stars had aligned. I’d worked hard and I believed it was all starting to pay off for me.
I’d been so naive to think it could be that easy.
Naive enough to watch excellent job opportunities pass me by while I waited on Sowelby to extend an official offer.
Naive enough to lurk outside my attending’s office and listen when I heard my name dropped. I was naive right up until the moment I heard Jay Acosta say, “I’ll burn this place to the ground if you hire Spivey.”
To make matters so much worse, he acted like he had nothing to do with vetoing my job offer. Every single time we bumped into each other at the hospital or professional events over the past six or seven years, he had the nerve to be friendly.
He’d mention a paper I’d co-authored or a talk I gave about Mohs surgery outcomes in women under thirty, and he’d ask damn good questions.
He’d want to discuss my cases if we crossed paths at the hospital or suggest a medical podcast I might find interesting.
He sent a gorgeous succulent bowl to my office when my father passed away.
He’d hold the elevator if he noticed me heading that way.
He’d shut down colleagues when they wandered into mansplain-y territory.
Not just collegial or polite. Fucking friendly. He had the audacity to be kind to me, after everything he’d done. I didn’t have the time to hate anything but I hated that guy and his games.
“As you wish, Dr. Spivey.” He smiled though he looked disappointed. Probably just another ego-starved power play. “You have my number if you change your mind.”
I did not have his number but I kept that to myself. The gods only knew I’d have forty sad, sloppy apology messages from Grant by morning and that was enough mess for me.
I took a large step away from Jay Acosta. “Thank you again.”