Before Girl Read online

  "Stella." Her name was delicious on my lips. It was meant to be moaned, gasped, fucking howled. "Stella."

  She giggled against me, driving her fingers into my hair. It was cut close—Army habits weren't meant to break. Her nails on my scalp were whittling away the very last of my civility, my hands gripping her hips as if I had a mind to mark them, and her little sounds—the laughter, the sighs, the hums—were the only thing in my universe.

  The barista called out several orders like the bang of a drum—tall Americano for Barry, tall coconut milk capp for Serrai, short half-caff macchiato, extra foam for Linus, tall extra shot non-fat latte for Tayla—and those shouts brought Stella's attention away from the thorough inspection she was giving my mouth.

  "Oh," she breathed, pressing her fingertips to her lips.

  She knew. She knew, she felt it—and not just the erection throbbing against her rear end, begging for her attention. This was it, she was it.

  I needed my mother to meet her yesterday. I could have Mom on a flight from Oregon this morning and gushing over Stella before nightfall.

  By all accounts, I could get a ring on Stella's finger as early as this weekend.

  "Tonight," I murmured as I leaned into her, desperate to feel her skin beneath my lips again. "Stella, tell me I can see you tonight."

  "Not tonight," she said.

  "Tomorrow," I said. It was not a question.

  "It's the craziest time of my year. You know, aside from all the other super-crazy times."

  I tilted my head to the side, studied her. "What makes this so crazy?"

  She reached up, brushed a few loose strands behind her ears. Sucked in a shallow breath and blew it out. "It's signing season and the NFL draft day is next week. I can't even tell you how much I'd love to see anything other than the inside of my office tonight, but I'm barely able to take this hour in the morning without drowning in drama when I get to work. I'll let you in on a little secret."

  "You can give me your big secrets too," I said. "I'll keep them safe."

  She gifted me with a quick smile. No dimples this time. "Athletes tend to be nervous nellies who need their hands held and egos stroked when it comes to their place in the draft." She blinked twice, drew another short breath. "Give me some time to think about everything, okay?"

  "If not tonight, tomorrow morning, then," I said. "On the pond."

  "Will you return to your regularly scheduled stalking," she started, a sly smile tipping up her lips, "or will you be walking with me?"

  "Stella. If you're walking at the pond, you're walking with me now."

  She gazed at me, her eyes as wide as they'd been when I confessed to watching her for months. If not for those fast, shallow breaths, I might've mistaken her for a statue. "Oh, really? That's how it's going to be?"

  I gave her a quick nod. "Someone has to keep an eye out for that beaver of yours."

  6

  Stella

  There was a logic to it all. This man, this morning, this overwhelmed thrill coursing through me. Oh yes, most definitely. It made all the sense in the world when I squinted from the right angle.

  But when the man-brick—err, Cal—returned me to my seat, I was struck with an overwhelming shortage of warm, solid man beneath my buns, and the logic didn't feel too logical anymore.

  However.

  Aside from all that, I had a to-do list of epic proportions on my desk today and the draft next week, a genetically modified raccoon on the loose, and a man-brick growling all over me while he proposed marriage and promised an eternity of beaver protection.

  "Stella," he rasped, and that was the sound of a rumbly, grumbly bear. He snaked one arm around the back of my chair while he dipped his head in search of my eyes. He brought his free hand to my leg, squeezing just above my knee.

  Holy Hannah. Those…those were forearms. Thick, ropey, dusted with dark golden hair. For all his thickness, his fingers were long and—dare I say?—elegant. Yes, those were elegant man fingers. Nothing sausage plump here. I figured it made sense since those hands mended hearts. Actual human organs. They had to be elegant.

  "I'm going to need a minute here." I pressed my hand to my breastbone, gulping down a breath. An hour after running right into me, Cal had succeeded in knocking the wind out of me. "I need—just give me a minute."

  "Take two," he said. "Take two hundred. There's no rush. I'm not going anywhere."

  "I'm sure you have places to be."

  A warm laugh whispered over my ear. "Even if I wanted to leave right now, I don't think I should."

  His hand came to my back, resting between my shoulder blades for a second before moving in slow, soothing circles meant to calm this percolating panic, but it only solidified the fact that I was developing feelings—feelings!—for a man after nothing more than an eye blink in time. But this wasn't feelings. This was adrenaline. Shock from the scare, the fall. None of this was real. Couldn't be.

  This man had asked me to marry him and that wasn't even the crazy part. No, it was that, for one crazy minute out of all the crazy minutes in this crazy morning, it didn't feel crazy. My heart was burrowing straight out of my chest and into my throat, and there was a goddamn unicorn chasing butterflies around my stomach, and my head was full of fizzy bubbles like New Year's Eve, and for one tiny, tiny second in the middle of this crazy, I wanted him to mean it. To ask, to want me for always.

  Now that was crazy. I didn't want that. I didn't want any of that. I loved my life. I had everything I needed, everything I wanted. Cute, shy heart surgeons who kissed like that and made me feel like this were unnecessary.

  Stella. No no no no. No. No, Stella.

  "And it's not like I can walk out of here in this condition," he continued, the fine bristles of his chin scruff brushing against my neck and his thumb gliding over the tender spot behind my knee. He knew right where to find me at my most sensitive. "Or drive. Not without some, uh, rearrangement."

  I stared at him for a beat before glancing down at the erection trapped under his track pants. "Jesus," I rasped.

  "It's not a big deal, honey, but I prefer Cal," he replied.

  "And you went there," I said, mostly to myself.

  Cal shrugged. "That could apply to everything that's happened this morning."

  "You went there and I can't decide whether to laugh or—I don't know." I lifted my wrist, squinting at the freckles there because I hadn't worn a watch since my iPhone became my most essential accessory. "Thank you. For everything. Especially with that raccoonasaurus, even if you think it was a beaver. You're wrong but I still owe you for that one."

  "You don't," he replied, his fingers tight around my thigh. "You…you don't owe me anything, Stella."

  I murmured in disagreement. I wasn't done with this man-brick. It didn't matter how many times I silently screamed at myself, I wasn't done. "Another coffee maybe? A muffin too. What kind of muffin do you like? No, wait. Let me guess." I stared at him as I tapped my index against my lips. "You're a corn muffin kind of guy, aren't you? Maybe corn and jalapeño? Or corn and blueberry? Oh, yeah. Corn and blueberry all the way. That's you."

  "Tomorrow," he said, blowing right past my name-that-muffin trick. "I'll see you tomorrow, Stella."

  "You're very direct," I said. "When you're not busy being shy."

  "All I'm saying is the only muffin I want to bite is yours," he replied. "Forgive me if that's a bit forward."

  With that idea planted in my mind, I stared at his mouth, my own lips pursed together as I forced air in and out. Legs pursed together too. I thought about kissing him again. I thought about sending a group text to Stephen, Leif, and Harry, ending our color-coded arrangements because their come-and-go companionship was no longer needed.

  Stelllllla. No, dammit, no.

  Wait. I didn't want to do that. No, I liked my life just the way it was. I had good things going. I didn't need any of this. Early morning trail rescues and emotionally demanding scones and surgeons with cocks the size of cruise missiles weren
't part of the plan.

  There was an alarm bell pealing in the distance, urging me up, out of this coffee shop, into my car, away from this man, back to my chaos-but-I-love-it life. Because I controlled that shit. This? The man-brick and the raccoon and the feelings? Nope, I controlled none of this.

  But I ignored the unpredictable, saying, "Okay, sure. Tomorrow. The trail, not the muffin." Nodding as I granted myself permission, I brought my hand to the back of his neck and tugged him closer. Stelllllllla. "Would you—"

  "Yes," he said, that single word at once a twisted plea and gracious sigh. His lips crashed over mine, and he dragged me right into the deep end with this kiss. It was heavy and desperate and I didn't think I'd ever come up for air again, but then he retreated only long enough to lift me onto his lap. Where I belonged. He didn't have to say it. I knew what he was thinking. The hand that was once fixed on my thigh was now tucked between my knees and squeezing hard enough to tell me that he wanted to slide it higher just as much as I did. Just a bit more. Come home, Cal. Come to me. Come for me.

  His lips mapped my jaw and neck, and he said, "You can't work all night. You have to eat at some point, don't you?"

  "You've seen my ass. It is substantial proof that I eat," I replied.

  Cal leaned back, regarding me for a moment. He eyed my scraped chin, my undoubtedly messy ponytail, my kiss-swollen lips, my fingers tangled in his shirt. A low, hazy smile lit his eyes. It was as if he was taking stock of everything but my curves. It was nothing like the bold-faced ogling I got from most men. No, this appreciation was built on much more than standard-issue admiration for tits and ass, and if I never felt a man's eyes on me like this again, I'd still talk about it to anyone who listened. I'd start a new urban legend, the one about the man-brick who found a woman sexy without mentally molesting her.

  "Even more reason for me to keep you fed. Isn't that right, sweet thing?"

  Sweet thing. That wasn't supposed to sound like perfection in my head, but it did.

  As I nodded and agreed to meet him late this evening, I curled into his chest, listening to his heartbeat while he asked after my burgers and beer preferences. I felt dazed, nearly drunk, and even though he was with me now, I was counting the minutes until I'd have him again.

  I wasn't falling. I wasn't smitten. I wasn't lovestruck. Not at all.

  7

  Cal

  I marched down the hall, a burst of steam fueling every step. My residents were trailing behind me like always. Never had I sympathized with mother ducks until I had ducklings of my own. Most days, I enjoyed my ducklings. I liked teaching them. I liked learning from them.

  This wasn't most days.

  When I reached Nick Acevedo, I turned back to them. "Labs," I barked. "Get them."

  Like always, O'Rourke was quick to respond. "Already done." He waved his tablet.

  I liked the kid. I really did. He was meticulous about prep work and thorough in the OR. Two things I appreciated. But I didn't have it in me to reward him for his attention to detail this morning.

  "Get ready for rounds. If you're under the impression you're ready, you're not even close," I replied. "Now. Go."

  They snapped into action, my words a quick whip.

  "What was that all about?" Nick asked. He spared me a glance before returning to his phone. He was chained to that thing anytime his wife Erin was traveling for work. She was a climate scientist. The planet was keeping her busy these days.

  "I talked to her." The reality of that statement left me a little breathless. "This morning, I talked to her."

  "Talked to who?" he asked, his thumbs flying over the screen.

  "Her," I replied. "Her name is Stella Allesandro and I talked to her."

  He dragged his gaze up to meet mine. He stared at me for a long moment, disbelieving. Hell, I barely believed it. "The girl from the park? You spoke actual words to her? Not just in your head? Or out loud when she was half a mile away? Because we've talked about this, Hartshorn. It doesn't count if she can't hear you."

  I started to respond but dragged my hand over my head, rubbed my neck instead. "I bumped into her. She tripped. On the trail. She tripped because I ran into her," I admitted. "It wasn't my best moment but we did talk and…and yeah. We talked. A lot."

  The parts about kissing her and damn near dry humping her backside weren't up for discussion. Nick and I didn't get into the details like that, even though we'd known each other for years. Before he and his wife bought a house in Cambridge, we lived in the same apartment building across from the hospital. For as long as I could remember, surgeons had lived in the three apartments carved out of that old brownstone. A trauma surgeon lived on the third floor now, a surly guy from California. He didn't talk to anyone about much of anything.

  "You—ran into her?" He blinked at me for a second, his brows knit together. "How hard are we talking? Is she all right?"

  "Uh, yeah. She's okay. It wasn't that bad," I hedged. I rubbed the back of my neck again. I hated that I'd injured Stella. "A couple bruises. Some scratches. I took care of it."

  "And this didn't result in her calling the police? Because stories about strange men accosting women in parks don't usually end with polite conversation."

  "We got coffee and talked for an hour," I said. "It went surprisingly well, all things considered. I'm seeing her again."

  "Oh, this is gold." Nick pushed off from the wall, peering at me. "Where's Emmerling? She needs to hear this," he said, looking up and down the hall. "She should be done with the hot gallbladder that came through first thing this morning. I'm texting her right now. Prepare yourself to tell this story again."

  Alexandra Emmerling was the gastrointestinal surgeon who lived in the apartment above mine. She was one of the best surgeons I knew and a better friend. Within seconds, she jogged around the corner, her scrub cap in hand and red clogs squeaking against the linoleum floors.

  "What's going on?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

  Nick pointed at me. "He tripped the woman at the park so he could talk to her."

  Alex dropped her hands to her hips. "That's not normal, Hartshorn. Not normal at all." She shook her head. "Where are your residents? We need them to get you a psych consult."

  "That's not funny because they'll do it and I didn't intentionally trip her," I argued. "It was an accident. There was an animal on the trail and she stopped suddenly. It was a raccoon but she thought it was some kind of wolf, I think. I didn't notice she'd stopped and I ran into her. And then I was on top of her and that wasn't the way I wanted to start things."

  Nick shook his head at that. "Even better."

  "Let me get this straight," Alex said. "You didn't just trip her, you slammed into her and took her down to the ground. Is that right?"

  "Yes, but then we went out for coffee. The coffee was her idea. I was going to die of mortification or something but she insisted on coffee. With me. At a coffee shop. Where we drank the coffee and talked and, you know—" I hesitated. "Yeah. That's what we did. At the coffee shop."

  Nick and Alex exchanged a dubious glance.

  "Her name is Stella Allesandro and she's a sports publicist, and she's from Quincy and I'm seeing her again tonight."

  Another dubious glance.

  "Did you tell her you've been watching her for a short eternity?" Alex asked.

  With a grim smile, I nodded. "Yeah. That part didn't go over too well."

  "Imagine that," Nick said.

  "And she still wants to see you again?" Alex asked. "You're sure about that?"

  Of course I was sure. I pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes. I knew the taste of her mouth, the way her fingers felt on my scalp, how her backside was the sweetest agony against my cock. Of course I was sure. "We're meeting downtown at nine thirty."

  "I gotta get to post-op but I want the whole story over lunch," Alex said. "I'm expecting a minute-by-minute accounting of these events and I want to understand how this chick could survive you tackling her to the ground. If you did that
to me—"

  "Riley would kill you with his bare hands," Nick said.

  I didn't doubt Alex's fiancé would do just that. He was a deceptively chill guy but he would clean my clock if I harmed her in any way.

  Alex laughed, nodding. "Riley would kill you but I'd also be calling Shap to put my face back together."

  "Shap?" Nick asked.

  "Sara Shapiro," Alex replied. "The new reconstructive surgeon. The one we poached from Sloan Kettering."

  "Oh, I didn't hear about that," Nick said, mostly to himself. "When Erin gets home, we'll have to invite Doctor Shapiro over. A little welcome-to-the-surgical-wing dinner. I'd like to hear the details of this poach."

  "I love poaching," I said. "We don't do enough of it."

  "And low-key attacking women because that's easier than starting a normal conversation," Alex added. "But I think you've done plenty of that."

  "Wait a second," Nick said as he rubbed his knuckles down his jaw. "Did we ever invite Stremmel over? We said we were going to but then—then Erin was tied up with that report and then she was traveling again. I don't think we ever did it."

  I held back a groan but just barely. Sebastian Stremmel was a problem child. More specifically, my problem child. I'd championed his candidacy as the hospital's new trauma surgeon and I was thrilled when he moved his practice here from Southern California last fall but the shine wore off quickly. What I'd interpreted as a serious, to-the-point attitude during interviews was actually a persistently bad mood. He didn't like anyone or anything and he complained about Boston's weather like it was his calling in life.

  But he was a talented surgeon and an adequate teacher and I didn't want to see him shuffled out because he couldn't get along with anyone. And that was how he became my problem child. Not that anyone else knew about the arrangement. I took it upon myself to keep an eye on Stremmel, get him into Nick's old apartment in my building, and mentor him wherever possible. But he wasn't making it easy on me, not at all. His primary forms of communication were scowls and grunts.