8. Kara
Kara
I stand on the sidewalk outside the main hospital entrance, my coat buttoned up against the breeze, holding my leather tote bag in one hand. It’s four-thirty on Friday. Shift change is starting, and the usual stream of weary nurses and residents is trickling out toward the subway station.
A sleek black sedan pulls up to the curb, the passenger window rolling down smoothly.
Leander is behind the wheel. He’s out of his surgical scrubs, wearing a dark charcoal wool-blend coat over a black crewneck sweater, his dark hair damp around the temples like he just stepped out of the staff shower.
"Get in," he says simply.
I open the door and slide into the passenger seat, the smell of dark espresso and clean leather filling the cabin as I pull the door shut behind me. The seat heater is already running, warming the leather beneath my legs.
"Good afternoon to you too, Dr. Sartori," I sass, setting my bag on the floorboards and pulling off my gloves. "Where are we going?"
"To fix your attire for tomorrow," Leander mutters, pulling out into the avenue traffic with effortless, one-handed precision on the steering wheel.
I tilt my head, looking over at his profile. "My attire? I have formal dresses in my closet, Leander."
"Do you have a floor-length gown that satisfies the idea of appropriate high-society decorum?" he asks, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror as he changes lanes.
I pause, my fingers coming to a rest over my lap. No. Everything in my apartment closet was bought on a junior attorney’s salary, meant for bar association dinners or courtroom appearances, not a billionaire mob patriarch’s annual flexing contest.
"I was planning to buy something off the rack near my apartment after my shift," I reply instead, keeping my voice level.
"And you would spend three hours walking past fifty dresses, trying on six that don't fit right, and arguing with a sales associate who doesn't know the difference between silk and rayon," Leander drawls. "I don't have three hours to waste on shopping, Kara. And neither do you."
"So where are we going?"
"A private atelier in the boutique district," he replies. "The owner knows my family's account. You pick one and we're out in twenty minutes."
I lean back against the headrest, looking out the side window at the passing streetlights.
So his family has money then. Interesting.
"You're very opinionated about formalwear for a man who lives in navy scrubs eighty hours a week," I remark softly.
"I grew up around people who spend five thousand dollars on shoes just to judge everyone else in the room," Leander murmurs, his voice dropping into a quiet, raspy register.
"My father’s guests look for weaknesses in everything, including how your dress falls.
You don't need to give them easy ammunition. "
"I don't care about their ammunition, Leander," I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. "I'm there to drink your scotch, sit through ninety minutes of tedious speeches, and leave."
Leander glances over at me, his gaze lingering on my face for two seconds before returning to the road. "I know you don't care. That's why I'm paying for it."
Ten minutes later, he pulls the car into a quiet side street lined with brownstone facades and high-end art galleries.
The boutique is tucked away behind a plain dark door with no sign out front, just a small brass doorbell beside a heavy iron knocker. If you don't have an appointment or know the owner, the door doesn't open.
Leander cuts the engine, steps out, and comes around to hold the glass door for me as we step inside.
The interior is quiet, smelling faintly of lavender, dried eucalyptus, and expensive leather. White marble floors stretch under low, warm recessed lighting. Two racks of tailored silk gowns are spaced far apart along the far wall, looking more like museum exhibits than retail inventory.
A tall woman in her fifties wearing a tailored beige pantsuit steps out from the back lounge, carrying a flexible tape measure over her shoulder.
"Dr. Sartori," the woman greets, bowing her head slightly with a polite, familiar smile. "Everything is set up in the private suite."
"Thanks, Claire," Leander responds. His hands rest easily in the pockets of his dark trousers, his broad shoulders filling out the space near the entrance. "We need something simple. No extra beadwork, no long trains, nothing flashy."
Claire gives a single, knowing nod and gestures toward the arched corridor leading to the back rooms. "Right this way."
I walk beside Leander, my heels making a muted, quiet click against the thick wool rug lining the hallway.
I glance over at him out of the corner of my eye.
He looks entirely unimpressed by the luxury around him—bored, even.
He moves through this high-end world with the same cold, practical detachment he uses when walking into a surgical bay.
Claire returns carrying three silk gowns over her arm, one navy with structured lapels, one deep emerald green with long sleeves, and one burgundy silk that catches the warm lighting of the suite.
"Try the burgundy first," Leander mumbles, his gaze stopping on the fabric for a second before meeting my eyes. "The cut works."
"You're quite bossy when you're off-duty," I remark, taking the silk dress from Claire.
"Go put it on." He responds, resting his shoulder against the doorframe.
I step through the velvet curtain into the private fitting room. The space is larger than my living room at home, lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a plush leather bench, and warm recessed lights that eliminate every shadow.
I unbutton my coat, set my bag on the bench, drop my trousers, and step out of my work clothes.
The burgundy silk feels cool as I pull it up over my hips. The tailoring is exquisite, structured tightly through the waist, falling in a clean straight line to the floor, with a low open back that stops just above my lower spine.
I reach around behind my shoulders to pull up the hidden zipper along the spine, but the metal runner gets caught on the inner seam halfway up my back.
I tug at it twice, but the silk fabric hitches tight against the track.
"Is everything okay?" Leander's voice comes from the other side of the velvet curtain.
"The zipper is caught on the lining," I reply, tugging at it again with both hands behind my shoulders. "Give me a second."
The velvet curtain pulls back softly.
Leander steps into the fitting room. He pulls the curtain completely shut behind him, cutting off the soft jazz music playing in the main salon outside. The room immediately feels smaller, the air thicker, the warm light reflecting off his broad frame.
"Hold still," he mutters softly.
He steps up right behind me. His reflection appears in the large central mirror in front of us, his chest practically brushing against my bare shoulder blades. His hands are warm as his fingers touch the skin of my back, finding the stuck zipper near my shoulder blades.
I hold my breath as his knuckles brush against my spine.
"Don't pull hard or you'll tear the silk," I tell him, watching his dark eyes in the mirror.
"I know how to handle delicate materials, Kara," he mumbles quietly, his raspy voice vibrating faintly against the back of my neck.
He shifts the fabric with his thumb, applying a firm, steady pressure until the metal runner slips cleanly up the track, pulling the dress tight around my waist and ribs.
He doesn't step back. His hands stay resting on the exposed skin of my lower back. His palms are warm, rough around the edges from years of surgical soap, his grip solid and grounding. In the mirror, I can see his chest rising and falling slowly, his gaze locked onto mine.
We're supposed to be keeping our distance, I remind myself, my pulse giving a rapid bump against my ribs. We agreed in the trauma bay that the condo was a mistake.
Except standing here in the quiet warmth of the dressing room, with his hands on my skin, that agreement feels entirely irrelevant.
"Satisfied?" I ask, my voice dropping an octave.
"The dress is fine," Leander mumbles softly.
He turns me around slowly by the hips until I'm facing him. He looks down at my face, his dark eyes scanning my features with that intense, unblinking focus that always makes my stomach turn over.
He raises one hand, his thumb lightly tracing the line of my lower lip.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Dr. Sartori," I whisper, leaning into his touch despite myself.
"I'm not playing anything," he replies.
He steps forward, closing the remaining inch between us, pressing my back flat against the cool glass of the mirror.
Before I can say another word, his mouth comes down on mine.
Oh God.
The kiss is fast, hard, and desperate. The restraint he maintains during the day completely shatters the second his lips touch mine. I let out a low gasp against his mouth, my hands shooting up to grip his shoulders, pulling him closer until there is no space left between us.
His hands slide down my back, catching the hem of the heavy silk dress, gathering the fabric in his fingers, and pulling it up past my knees to my waist.
"L-Leander..." I breathe out, pulling back half an inch, my chest heaving as his lips move down my jaw to my neck. "Claire is outside."
"The door to the suite is locked," he mutters against my skin, his hand sliding up my bare thigh, his warm fingers pressing into my skin. "And the curtain is thick."
"Are you safe?" I ask quickly, my fingers digging into the fabric of his sweater as his hand slides higher between my legs. "I'm on the pill, but—"
"I'm clean," he replies, his voice rough and immediate, looking straight into my eyes. "Tested last month. You?"
"Clean," I pant out.
He doesn't wait another second. His hand slips under the thin lace of my underwear, his fingers finding me instantly. I'm already wet, hot, and slick against his palm. He lets out a low breath against my ear, dipping two fingers inside me with a firm, steady stroke that makes my knees go weak.