His Forbidden Love (Manhattan Billionaires #2) - Ava Ryan Page 0,30

if you’re seriously injured or not, Ally,” I snarl, relishing her startled look as I loom over her. “That’s why.”

She stiffens and gapes at me. I can’t tell whether it’s because of my tone or because of my first-ever use of her first name, and I don’t care either way.

I just know that I can’t—I literally cannot—keep pretending that this woman is a standard hospital colleague to me.

“Let’s go,” I snap at my sister when the prickling tension between Ally and me becomes overwhelming. “I don’t know what a guy has to do to get a taco around here.”

As I walk off, I catch Ally and Mia exchanging a bewildered look out of the corner of my eye. I ignore it.

The same way I’m determined to ignore my roiling emotions and the memories of that harrowing night with Ally.

9

Michael

But that’s the thing about memories, isn’t it? They stubbornly refuse all our efforts to sink them to the bottom of our consciousness. They rise, like dead bodies floating to the surface of a lake, much to the dismay of the unlucky murderer.

Don’t think about it, moron, I tell myself that evening as I throw on my workout gear and hit the crowded park for what I hope will be a head-clearing run. And I don’t think about it. For thirty good seconds, while I pick up the pace, start pumping my arms and find my rhythm, I notice things that have nothing to do with Ally Harlow. Like the unexpected crispness of the breeze as it ripples through the leaves and across my skin. And the number of Frisbee-catching golden retrievers visible at a single glance—three. Hell, I even decide it might be nice to stop by the bar for a drink and maybe some nachos and chicken fingers on the way home. God knows I’m not going to cook myself dinner in my high-end but woefully underused kitchen. For thirty whole seconds, I solidify my plans for the evening.

And then…

“What’s the issue, Harlow?”

“It’s nothing.”

I brush her away once. Maybe even twice. But she keeps coming. That’s one of the most infuriating things about Ally. Her ruthless persistence when it comes to commandeering every thought in my head. She’s never happy until she blocks out every other freaking thing in my life.

I see everything that happened that night with the same immediacy and clarity that I’m seeing a teenager rollerblade up ahead of me right now.

I round a corner in the ER and come upon Ally standing outside a room looking lost and forlorn, like an abandoned duckling. She watches as they wheel out a crash cart. As a couple more people file out of the room, including Dr. Smith from neuro, who grimly heads to the waiting area, probably to notify the family. As they wheel out a sheet-covered body and head for the service elevator that runs down to the morgue. I note the paleness of her face and her shell-shocked expression. I’m not close enough to see her chin trembling, but I bet it is.

I’ve seen this movie before, from beginning to tragic end. I’ve lived this movie myself. It’s the story of life for surgical interns working in level I trauma centers. She had a patient. She didn’t expect the patient to die. The patient thoughtlessly died anyway. Now Ally is grappling with all sorts of hairy life-and-death questions, and probably also questioning her own skills, when the bottom line is simple: even when you’re at the top of your game, you can’t save everyone. People are going to die sometimes. For no good reason.

Nothing you can do about it. Life as a surgeon, folks.

I absorb the entire scene and quickly lapse into an existential crisis right there in the ER. Ally’s upset is not my problem. She’s not on my service today. I’ve got my own shit to deal with. I came down to the ER to consult on a motorcycle accident patient with a nasty scalp laceration. That’s my priority.

More importantly, I’m a married guy who knows that he’s way too attracted to some other woman. I’ve got an issue with Ally. She’s an open jar of honey and I’m a hungry bear. That being the case, it’s important for me to avoid her whenever possible. To keep all the appropriate barriers up and reinforced so I don’t get myself jammed up. Which is exactly what I’d expect my wife to do if she found herself in my situation. Ally equals temptation. It’s an easy