His Forbidden Love (Manhattan Billionaires #2) - Ava Ryan Page 0,1
still scorched, smoldering and throwing off occasional sparks. Plus, I’m in the middle of counting my new money and launching my new plastic surgery practice group back at my original hospital. I don’t have the time or inclination for anything other than the occasional hookups everyone needs to take the edge off his or her basic needs.
The bottom line?
There’s no logical reason why this woman is still on my mind. No explanation I can produce.
But she is.
Maybe that’s why I’m here. To see her again and prove to myself that she’s not the mythical and irresistible creature I’ve made her out to be in my mind. She can’t be. I’ve blown her up in my mind. You know the phenomenon. It’s like when you have a great dinner at a restaurant and can’t wait to go back to enjoy it again, only to discover, say, that it was saltier than you remember or that the restaurant has changed hands and the new chef doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing with a frying pan.
Disappointment is inevitable. But I need to know.
“There’s this, ah, woman,” I say, uncomfortably aware of Jake’s sharpening interest. I hastily down the rest of my drink, mostly to give myself something to do.
“And…?”
I try to look politely puzzled by the question.
“I think she’ll be here.”
Correction: I know she’ll be here because a) she also worked closely with Dr. Retirement during her intern year; and b) I scoped out her nametag on the reception table when we checked in for tonight’s cruise.
Dr. Ally Harlow.
I may as well confess that my surveillance efforts went a bit beyond nametag research. For example, the inter-webs revealed that she’s now a plastic surgeon, like me, and will soon be done with her residency. I also now know that, unfortunately, she keeps her social media private. Which means that I don’t know whether she’s married with two and a half kids or not. A possibility that feels as though it would ruin a lot more than just my evening.
Jake’s expression slides into amused incredulity, making my cheeks burn hotter than they already are.
“Pro tip: call her,” he says. “She probably has a phone.”
Like it’s that easy for me to cold-call her after all this time. Like I’ve got an outgoing or engaging personality with people I don’t know well. Please. My residents called me the Sphinx behind my back. They also used other, much more colorful descriptions, none of which I want to repeat here. My ex-wife once told me, and this is an actual quote, that attempts to communicate with me are like “watching a hostage video and trying to read between the lines.”
So you understand my dilemma and why I need moral support. I’m no charmer.
“You know I’m not good with people,” I say, exasperated. “Stop acting brand-new.”
“Well, that’s sadly true.”
“Pretend you’re a good wingman and—”
I catch sight of a woman walking through the crowd and stop dead, my heartbeat stumbling and stopping like a bike-riding kid who hits the curb and flips over the handlebars. She wears a coppery dress and has sports-toned legs, a deliciously curvy ass and a telltale tumble of sandy curls.
“Breathe,” Jake says wryly, clapping a hand on my shoulder for a supportive squeeze. “You don’t want to swallow your tongue.”
Now he tells me.
I keep one eye on her as I thrust my empty glass at Jake. I know I have a decent chance of tracking her down again unless she suddenly jumps overboard and swims for the shore. But I still don’t want to let her out of my sight.
“Be right back.”
“Go get ’em, tiger,” Jake calls after me, chuckling.
I weave my way through the crowd. The throng of people is endless, as though they’re all pouring out of a clown car hidden nearby and determined to block me. By the time I catch up to her, she’s settled at an out-of-the-way spot at the back of the boat, her elbows resting on the railing as she enjoys the view. The breeze sifts through her hair and carries her scent right to my nose. It’s something warm and inviting, with a hint of vanilla. Something that doesn’t help my equilibrium. At all.
By now, I’ve had a minute to gather my thoughts and cobble a few words together. I’m George Clooney or Will Smith in my mind, casual and charming for once as I slide in next to her and mirror her posture with my arms on the railing.