Thresholds Read online

  Aside from the woman of my unattainable dreams, I only knew Hartshorn and Acevedo, and the GI hottie's boyfriend. I didn't exactly know him. We just traded glares in the hallway.

  Hartshorn rapped his knuckles on my locker in the attending surgeons' lounge. "Let's get a move on," he said. "Emmerling will catch up with us later."

  "Forgive me," I started, gesturing to him. The guy was like a goddamn boulder. I didn't understand how he had the dexterity to work on hearts. "But where the hell are we going? And who are these people?"

  He moved his shoulders in the type of shrug that clearly communicated his disinterest in replying. "Acevedo's in-laws. Basically," he said. "They're good people and they always have good food and drink." He gestured to me, indicating that I was to finish dressing. "It'll be fine. Come on."

  I figured the guy was going to be Chief of Surgery soon enough, and I'd better do as I was told. I didn't have it in me to fuck up another gig, and as much as I hated the cold weather, I tolerated this hospital.

  Tolerance was as close as I could come to enjoying anything these days.

  No. No, that wasn't right. I enjoyed the hell out of that GI surgeon. That woman knew how to wear a pair of scrubs, my god. And she was fucking nice to me. Nice. To me. No one had been intentionally nice to me since Christ was a carpenter.

  But since the world hated me, the GI surgeon had a boyfriend, and that guy made a point of stabbing me with his eye daggers every time our paths crossed. He knew what I was thinking when I looked at her, and he didn't appreciate those thoughts. That should've given me pause. Forced me to reflect on my behavior. It didn't.

  "You're sure about this?" I asked as I shoved my arms into a shirt. "Seems strange for me to crash a family event."

  He stared at his pager, frowning. "They won't mind. It's a big group."

  "Yeah, sure," I murmured. "I'll just blend in. That always works."

  "They won't mind if you sit in the corner feeling sorry for yourself all night," he added.

  It wasn't clear whether he was speaking from experience or commenting on my general demeanor. Probably both.

  "Uh," I murmured, holding my hands out as I feebly gestured to the jeans and plaid shirt I'd worn to the hospital before changing into scrubs this morning. I wasn't one of those docs who could wear a suit under my white coat. A day didn't go by without getting a considerable amount of bodily fluids on my scrubs. That was the nature of trauma and emergency work. If it wasn't messy, it wasn't my service.

  "They won't notice," he said. He was decked out in a red flannel shirt that made him look like Saint Nick's hipster brother.

  "Am I supposed to bring anything?" I asked. I was desperate now. Any reason to bail, I was taking it.

  "I was supposed to bring Emmerling," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But she was called into that septic gallbladder."

  "Maybe we should wait for her," I suggested. "How long is a septic gallbladder going to take anyway? She'll be done within twenty minutes. Out of post in thirty."

  "You don't see many septic gallbladders, do you?" he asked, pulling a scarf around his neck. I shook my head. "She'll be in there for an hour. Maybe two. She said to go on without her.”

  "You're sure? Really? I don't think we should show up to a family thing empty-handed and missing Emmerling."

  I sounded like a whiny bitch. I am a whiny bitch.

  "We're good," he said, waving toward the door. "They won't mind. Come on."

  We headed from the hospital toward the neighborhood where this party was taking place, the North End. I didn't know much about this city or how to navigate the impossibly narrow one-way streets. I had no problem with walking, either, but it was too damn cold for this shit.

  Cal pointed us in the right direction, occasionally stopping to explain the significance of one location or another. Monuments, squares, memorial bridges. I wasn't here for the history lesson but I nodded along as if I was studying up for the final exam.

  We procured a nice bottle of champagne at the Public Market since I kept harassing Hartshorn about bringing something. We agreed champagne was universally appreciated, but Cal made some snarly noises when I tried to pay. He got over it pretty quickly and resumed with his tour guide routine.

  "You really like this city," I said after a long speech about a molasses flood that happened a hundred years ago. I shoved my hands into my pockets, searching for a corner of warmth to fight off the fucking horror of this wind chill. I had few happy memories of Los Angeles at this point but I didn't appreciate the weather while I had it. Even the crazy-hot days when it seemed like the LA Basin was going to melt right into the ocean.

  "I do," Hartshorn agreed. He didn't seem to notice the weather. Maybe he didn't see a reason to complain about everything in the entire world the way I did. "It was an adjustment for me, too. But after I stopped adjusting and started living, I found this is a nice place to call home."

  I grunted out something that sounded like an agreement and kept my head down. Part of me couldn't believe I'd been conscripted into this friends-of-friends holiday catastrophe. I did not do this shit. I didn't meet up with people from the hospital for a few beers or join the department's kickball league.

  Then again, I wasn't invited to join those events with any frequency.

  But the other part of me knew that I would've been sitting at home, alone, alternately eating beef lo mein and jerking off to the college cheerleading championship on ESPN. That sounded infinitely better than socializing. Those chicks were so fucking flexible. Tough, too.

  "Are there going to be any women at this thing?" I asked.

  Hartshorn bobbed his head. "Yeah, of course. There's always a big group."

  "Okay. Good. Good to hear." I nodded several times and forced myself to feel better about this. "So, you're the head of cardio-thoracic surgery and you don't get the holidays off? That doesn't motivate me to advance," I asked, aiming for jokey and collegial but sounding like a prick.

  I am a prick. The biggest fucking prick.

  "I take long weekends here and there," he said. "I'd rather work the holidays and let the surgeons with kids and families have the time off. Doesn't bother me."

  This guy was a fucking saint. I couldn't even stand it.

  "My mom's a physician," he continued. "She's the only doc in something like two hundred square miles. Rural Oregon. Her practice is mostly clinic hours and house calls. The holidays aren't a sacred day when that's your life, so it doesn't bother my family that I'm not home." He shot me a quick glance. "What about you? Are you from California originally?"

  I jerked my shoulder in response, but the bulk of my coat obscured it. Fucking winter. "I'm from central Florida. That boring part, not the touristy part."

  He glanced over at me. "Do you get back there often?"

  "No."

  "Can't imagine the holidays in Florida are much like this." Hartshorn waved at the icy patches on the sidewalk.

  "They're not."

  I left it at that. This guy was a saint and he'd be my boss one of these days, but I didn't need to drop my dirty laundry and daddy issues at his feet. Just because he gave me a glimpse into his complex inner life didn't mean I had to return the favor. I didn't do that kind of heart-to-heart shit with anyone.

  People said that made relating to me difficult. That I was defensive and unapproachable. I said I didn't give a fuck. Pediatricians and dermatologists needed to be approachable. The only things people really wanted from their trauma surgeon was an ability to think fast and keep them alive, and since I did both of those things with success, I was sticking with unapproachable. Defensive, too. Anyone who had a problem with it could go fuck themselves.

  "Is that where your family lives?" he asked. "Florida?"

  "Some," I grunted. "I don't see much of them or the Sunshine State anymore."

  My parents split when I was little. Before kindergarten. My father invented as-seen-on-TV shit, and was on the never-ending hunt for his next big thing. That was his fir
st and only love, and that was fine by me. My mother remarried when I was a teenager. A rich, real estate dickhead. Aside from the fact I could count on him to snag Super Bowl tickets on the regular, I had no use for the guy.

  "I could go for some warmer weather," Hartshorn said with a chuckle. Seriously, Saint Nick's brother. "But, hell, I like it here. Acevedo and Emmerling are family to me."

  "That's nice." I meant it amiably but I couldn't say anything without broadcasting my status as the city's biggest douche.

  "It is," he agreed. If he noticed my prick tone, he ignored it. "None of us get much time together outside the hospital but I'm thankful for them. And Acevedo's wife, and her family. They're good people, good friends."

  "Mmhmm."

  I didn't make friends. I was the bull in the china shop, breaking everyone and everything until someone got the tranq gun and took me down. They always kicked my sedated ass to the curb. I traded on my surgical skills, and not much else. It was a goddamn blessing that I was exceedingly capable in the operating room.

  "They're a little mad but the best ones are," Cal said, laughing to himself again. He stopped and glanced up at an old brick building. I still couldn't get over how old everything was here. "This is it. Pretend I didn't drag you here against your will."

  "Didn't you though?" I asked under my breath.

  "Call it mandatory team building," he replied with a grin. He was just too fucking jolly for real life.

  I heard the party as soon as we rounded the landing to the third floor. The door was propped open with an ice chest full of beer bottles. It was high quality beer, too. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad.

  "Cal," a man just inside the door called. "Good to see you, man. Wasn't sure you'd make it."

  He pulled Hartshorn in for a one-armed hug-back-clap move. "You too, Sam," Hartshorn replied. He gestured to me. "Stremmel, this is Sam Walsh. Sam, Sebastian Stremmel, our newest trauma surgeon. We stole him from UCLA."

  That was barely accurate but I wasn't saying shit about my last gig.

  "Los Angeles, huh," he said, studying my brand-new winter coat. "This cold snap must be killer."

  "You have no idea," I said as I turned and shrugged off the outerwear.

  "Wanted to ask you about qualifying for the Boston Marathon," Hartshorn said to Sam.

  "Are you thinking about running it?" Sam asked.

  "Hell no," Hartshorn replied with a deep laugh. "I max out on half-marathon runs. I have no interest in twenty-six miles, but there's a resident on my service who wants to give it a shot."

  I surveyed the space and stepped away, trying to drop out of their discussion without arousing notice. Music was playing low enough to keep the conversation flowing. Groups congregated near the fireplace, the tree, the bar where Emmerling's boyfriend was pouring drinks, and the wide doors leading to the dark terrace. Instead of merging into those groups or taking Hartshorn's advice and finding a corner in which to sulk, I moved toward the open kitchen.

  A dark-haired beauty stood at the island, her hands busy with an array of dishes spread out before her. She was gorgeous and graceful, and I should've snatched the champagne from Hartshorn before coming over here because I couldn't approach a woman this far out of my league without a sacrificial offering in hand.

  It was too late for that now. I was going in unarmed, but that didn't lessen my chances of success. I was fucking awesome when it came to situations with the worst odds. I was meant for that shit.

  "Merry Christmas." I sidled up to the island, smiling. "You must be the hostess."

  She glanced up at me, her eyebrow arched and her expression anything but merry. "I suppose that's accurate," she said, her tone cool. "And who must you be?"

  "Stremmel," I replied, holding my hand out to her. "Sebastian Stremmel."

  She offered my outstretched hand a glimpse but didn't stop whisking. "Hands full," she said, tipping her chin toward the stainless steel bowl in front of her.

  I didn't know what the hell she was making but I appreciated the force she put into the task. From the looks of it, she could bring me to my knees, kick my ass, and then demand I thank her for the opportunity. And I wasn't opposed to any of that.

  "You're living in Nick's old apartment, right?" she asked.

  Her words snapped me out of my filthy thoughts and I stuck my hand in my pocket. "Right," I murmured. Acevedo's apartment was sacred ground. The guy was some sort of legend. Twenty years from now, it would still be known as Acevedo's apartment.

  She held up the whisk, frowning. "These aren't stiff peaks," she announced. "Why aren't these stiff peaks?"

  I meant to look at the whisk. I really did. But I stared at her breasts instead. "Yeah, I—hmm." Her black v-neck sweater was heaven-sent, and the hint of cleavage at the apex was worth every minute of this friends-of-friends holiday catastrophe. "I don't know."

  She sprinkled something into the mixture and resumed her whisking. There was no way to watch this without dreaming of hand jobs. No fucking way.

  "You're a surgeon, right? What's your specialty?"

  "Trauma," I said. I sensed someone watching me and hooked a glance over my shoulder. Emmerling's boyfriend was doubled over laughing while a man I hadn't noticed until now was staring at me. He was scowling, his arms crossed over his chest. I didn't know what any of that was about and didn't exactly care. "Hey." I nodded at him. He didn't respond, so I turned back to my pretty new hostess friend. "What do you do, sweetheart?"

  "Architect," she replied, her attention fully tuned to her whisk and the uncooperative ingredients.

  "That's interesting. Not a profession I hear about every day," I said, smiling. "Thank you for accommodating the last minute addition. I hope I'm not imposing."

  She tapped the whisk on the edge of the bowl, seemingly pleased with the peaks, and waved me off. "No trouble," she said, sliding the bowl in the refrigerator. "You know what they say. The more the merrier."

  I'd never known that to be true but I wasn't arguing with the pretty lady. The pretty lady who wore a grand total of zero rings.

  "What's your name, hostess?"

  There was a noise behind me, almost a growl, but I ignored it. She pinned me with another cool glance, the type that warned me off and reeled me in all at once. She was going to make me work for every scrap, and I respected that.

  "My fiancée's name is Andy."

  A riotous laugh went up behind me. I tore my gaze away from the hostess and watched a man—the one with the scowl—join her behind the island. A groan started in my toes and worked its way up, stopping at each vital organ to gain size and speed until I was muttering "Fuck" for a full minute.

  "Sebastian," Andy with the fiancé started, "this is Patrick." She gestured between me and the man who was planning how he'd kill me tonight. "Patrick, this is Sebastian. He lives in Nick's old apartment."

  "Welcome to our home," Patrick said, each word rougher than the one before. His hand moved from Andy's shoulder down her back. If the widening of her eyes was any indication, he was giving her ass one hell of a pinch. "Get a drink. Have a bite. Make yourself comfortable. Never speak to my fiancée again."

  Another laugh sounded from over my shoulder, and I shifted to find the guests watching with fascination. Emmerling's boyfriend was chuckling behind his fist and I'd never wanted to beat his ass more than I did right now. Beat his ass and then disappear because I wasn't used to getting shot down with a captive audience.

  "Put your ring back on," Patrick said, his forehead tipped against Andy's temple and his lips lingering over her ear. I wasn't meant to hear any of this but I couldn't stop watching them. "You torture me, Kitten."

  "I don't mean to," she purred, her lips pulled up in a grin.

  Oh, she fucking meant it. Meant every damn minute.

  "Yes, you do," he said. "Perhaps I should steal you away and explain it better."

  She shook her head. "I'm watching the paella. You'll have to save the lecture for later."

  He dragged the shel
l of her ear between his teeth. "You can believe I will."

  I needed to duck away from this exchange and get the fuck out of here. My bed and those cheerleaders sounded damn good right about now. Before I could calculate my next move, a whirlwind of a redhead blew in.

  "Oh my god, Andy, there was so much traffic," she said. "I thought I was going to waste away on the drive here. Where do you want these? Judy made them so they're amazing but I want you to keep them away from me. If I see them, I'll eat them all. I had ten on the ride here. Maybe twenty. I lost track. And don't let me near the paella either. I'm maxed out on spice and I can't stomach another chalky antacid tablet."

  She was talking a mile a minute and carrying a large platter of cookies but none of that caught my attention. It was cleavage on display like sweet holiday hams. I could get lost between those babies. Suffocate and die happy.

  "Hello," I drawled. "You have your hands full there. Can I help you with that?"

  I gestured to her platter but she only glanced to Andy and Patrick with a quizzical look. Andy shook her head, shrugging, and Patrick was still figuring out how he'd dispose of my body.

  "No, I've got it," she sang. "I know my way around a handful. Thanks, though. You're a peach."

  "We're calling this peach Sebastian," Andy said. "He's very special. I think you two are really going to hit it off."

  "What's your name, doll?" I asked, leaning closer to her. "I'm writing my naughty and nice lists. Wouldn't want to forget you."

  "Put me down for naughty. All the way." She smiled and there was warmth behind it, but it also scared me. She gave me the impression that she'd be amazing in bed but she might also snap off my dick in the process. "Shannon Halsted. The naughtiest. Number one naughty girl."

  "You're looking for so much trouble, Shannon," Andy said with a laugh.

  "You started the trouble," Patrick said to Andy.

  "The only trouble I have is with my whipped cream." She rearranged the dishes on the countertops around her. "Let me make some space and I'll take those cookies. We'll see what happens then. This can only get more interesting."