"Fireball?" Alex repeated. "Where did the fire come from?"
"And the balls," Riley added.
"Sounded cool," O'Rourke said with a shrug. "I'll workshop it some more this week."
"Ahhh. Dr. Hartshorn, right on time as usual," Nick called as the cardiothoracic surgeon stepped through the back door with his wife Stella in tow. "What can I get you two to drink?"
Hartshorn was good enough to give a bashful smile as he and Stella joined the group in the kitchen.
Stella gestured to the pitcher Nick was mixing. "I see a bottle of tequila and a whole bunch of limes. Whatever that's about, it looks good."
"That looks like I'll be on the floor tomorrow morning," Hartshorn replied, shooting a grin at Erin. "I'll have whatever the very tolerant and very kind Dr. Acevedo is having."
Erin, the volcanologist with a pair of doctorates to her name, lifted her beer bottle, saying, "Coming right up—but it's Walsh when I'm Doctor."
"How did I not know that?" Hartshorn asked.
"Because you're always late to the party," Nick muttered.
"Walsh earned the doctorates," she replied, handing him the beer. "I'm Acevedo on evenings and weekends."
"Unless she's on a volcano that weekend," Nick added as he squeezed another lime into the pitcher. "All bets are off when she's on a volcano."
"Now that's an actual fireball," O'Rourke muttered.
"I'm with you on the maiden name," Stella said to Erin. "Stella Allesandro built a reputation in sports publicity and communications. Stella Hartshorn is someone else entirely."
"Oh, for sure," added Alex. "Dr. Emmerling survived a brutal, soul-crushing residency and then a beast-mode fellowship. I won't care if my kids' teachers or friends call me Mrs. Walsh but I sure as hell won't erase Dr. Emmerling because he put a ring on it."
"But I didn't put a ring on it," Riley murmured. "You didn't want a ring. Do you want a ring? I'll get you a ring."
"That's not the point of this convo, babe," she replied.
For no rational reason whatsoever, my gaze drifted to Sara. She glanced between Erin and Stella as they groaned over the obstacles they'd face if they ever changed their names professionally. Her features were stiff and fixed, like she was working very hard at presenting her best idea of a neutral expression.
Worst of all, she looked hot enough to start fires with her fingertips. Her jeans functioned as a vicious reminder of exactly how thick and perfect her thighs were, and the pale gray sweater she wore only furthered the torment. I wanted to run my palm over the wool-covered contours of her body, and I wanted to be a little cruel about it. I wanted to curl a finger through one of those belt loops and drag her to me. Wanted to pinch and twist those nipples until her eyes watered. Wanted her hair wrapped around my fist and the helpless cry that always came when she knew I had her.
I always had her, at least for those rare, secret minutes we shared before one of us fucked it up.
With a stifled groan, I rolled my eyes at myself. I was such a fucking moron to stand here thinking about this woman. It didn't matter what happened when we were alone because it never lasted. It was one mistake after another. The visiting professor could pull her hair and twist her nips for all I cared. He could be my fucking guest. Hope he liked croutons and ceaseless shrieking.
I set my beer down on the countertop and headed for the doors leading to the backyard. Beckoning to O'Rourke, I said, "Come on. There's a basketball hoop out back."
"Does this mean you've decided to teach me today?" he asked.
This kid was such an douche. I liked it too much. "If you're lucky."
Hartshorn wanted to talk blood clot protocols while we ate and that was a fine introduction to the man and his mind. On the upside of this, I was too busy arguing with him over the reality of treating critical care cases as opposed to his fantasies of trauma surgery to adequately glare at the visiting professor.
He was seated diagonally across from Sara but it was far too loud at this table for them to carry on an intimate conversation with that much distance between them. Still, I wanted to throw a fork at the guy every time he gave her another aw shucks laugh-shrug. Did he not realize she would eat his soul? Didn't he see that evil in those big hazel eyes or the hell-branded fury in that sweet little mouth? She'd verbally castrate him in four seconds flat and she'd make him thank her for it. He was blind if he didn't see this. The woman was lethal and he did not have the stones to roll with her.
I nodded to Hartshorn—who was still on about clots—and gnawed a chunk of ice as I shot a glance down the table at the professor. This poor bastard didn't know what was good for him. As for Sara, well, she had to know this was a disaster in the making. This guy was not on her level. Maybe she'd have fun brutalizing him for a bit but he'd serve as nothing more than a snack to her. She had to know he'd never satisfy her. He'd never know her or what she needed.
"So, you can see why this is a priority to me," Hartshorn said, nudging my arm with his elbow. "And it would be great if you could—"
"Where the hell did Shap go?"
Hartshorn scanned the table with a frown. "I don't know. Is she on call this weekend?"
"No." I glared at the professor again. A snarl rattled in my throat. This was his fault. I didn't know what this was but it was his fault. "She's not."
"Bathroom, maybe," Hartshorn said. "Anyway. I could really use your support on this protocol—"
"Hold that thought," I said, reaching for the vibrating phone in my pocket. "We'll catch up on this later. Okay?"
A weird splash of surprise hit me when I realized it was a hospital number and not Sara calling me. But that was dumb. Why would she call me? She wouldn't. That wasn't something she did, and she definitely wouldn't do it from somewhere in Acevedo's house. She didn't want— No. I wasn't going to entertain any of that bullshit. We weren't going to—well, we only did that on Thursday nights.
Since I was surrounded by surgeons—I was ignoring the existence of the visiting professor on principle—and their significant others, no one needed an explanation when I pushed away from the table with a finger pointed to my phone in explanation. I wandered down the hallway to the front of the house, tapping my screen to accept the call as soon as the group's noise was behind me.
"This is Dr. Stremmel," I said automatically.
The typical rapid-fire jumble of patient data came across the line in a manner exclusive to interns. I was more surprised when they knew how to report correctly at this point in their rotations. I nodded to myself while mentally reorganizing but my focus—not that I'd admit it to anyone—was finding Sara. This place was three floors of old-as-hell house and I knew there were loads of strange little rooms and hidden closets. She could be anywhere.
But she wasn't. She had a shoulder leaned against the wall in a shadowed corner of the front entryway, her back to me and her head bowed. It seemed like she was reading something on her phone. I stared at her for a moment, willing her to turn around or acknowledge that she knew I was right here.