His Forbidden Love (Manhattan Billionaires #2) - Ava Ryan Page 0,9
longstanding best friends. But I still remember the unholy mess he made back when we were freshman at NYU. He downed one too many lime Jell-O shots and yakked it back up through his nose. My philosophy since then has been that anyone who listens to that guy’s advice does so at his or her own peril.
But…could he be right? This one time?
The questions distract me all through dinner and the remainder of the cruise.
Even more distracting? The sight of Ally. Her presence again after all this time. Just knowing that she’s here. Close enough for me to feel the crackle of her electricity through the air, as though she’s a storm approaching on the other side of my horizon. The thunder and lightning haven’t fully geared up yet, but they’re coming. It’s only a matter of time.
I say my goodbyes to Jake and wander down the gangplank and over to the end of the valet line at the end of the night, thinking that she’s always had this effect on me.
From the very first time I met her.
4
Michael
“Harlow?” I glance up from my notes and wait for a response, but none comes. All I see are a bunch of eager but otherwise vapid faces that look as though they belong to twelve-year-olds who’ve all decided to dress up as doctors for Halloween. “Where the hell is Harlow?”
Running footsteps approach behind me.
“Here,” comes a breathless female voice. “I’m here.”
I turn, frowning.
To be fair, my mood was already shot before this first-year resident, a.k.a. intern, showed up two minutes late for work. Sure, it’s great to be chief resident, but the problem with the position is the younger residents, who are uniformly stupid, annoying and likely to kill any vulnerable patients who have the misfortune of crossing their paths. Plus, I had a fight with my wife last night because I fell asleep during our date-night Broadway musical and evidently snored through most of the last fifteen minutes of Hamilton. So I’m just looking for someone to kill, and that may as well be this idiot resident who’s not even smart enough to show up to work on time. No one will miss her anyway.
“Rounds start at five thirty, Harlow,” I say, turning so I can hit her with the full force of my ferocity. “Not five thirty-two. See the difference?”
“Sorry.” The voice is bright and utterly devoid of remorse. “Sometimes I get sick before big events. First day of medical school. Taking my boards. First day of residency. I’m good now, though. I just needed to find some mouthwash.”
The other interns titter.
I gape at her, trapped inside my multilayered stupefaction. First, because she’s so completely unbothered. The cutthroat world of surgeons in the making is inhabited by sharks, piranhas, pirates and anyone or anything else that would kill you as soon as look at you. People around here do not help each other out or admit to weaknesses. They do not laugh unless they’re making fun of their colleagues and competitors. On pain of death.
Second, because something about the situation (me?) seems to amuse her.
Third, because now that I get a good look at her, I see that she’s fucking gorgeous.
She’s got a fresh-faced, sparkly-eyed girl-next-door aura going on, the kind that guarantees laughter and mischief. The kind that makes you want to stick around so you won’t miss anything. On top of that, she’s rocking a bombshell body under her white lab coat and sunshiny yellow scrubs. I can tell. Surgical scrubs aren’t exactly bikinis in terms of highlighting the female form, but men are men, and we notice women. If you’re a married man like me, you do it discreetly and never follow up on it, but you still notice. I’ve already noticed the blond resident’s long legs, for example. The redhead’s ass.
Noted and dismissed.
But this one.
She’s got the boobs. The ass. The hair. The eyes.
The radiance.
This one makes the hair on my nape prickle and shows every sign of being able to get under my skin. Which is not what I’m about, in my personal life or my professional life. I’ll have to work a bit harder than usual to squash my budding attraction to her. Luckily, I’m a master of both compartmentalizing my feelings and icy disdain. Time to put both skills to work.
“Harlow.”
“Sir?”
“No one gives a fuck about your gastric habits. Barf earlier. Be on time.”
“Will do,” she says with an unmistakable gleam of amusement.
“Something funny?” I bark, watching her with unwilling fascination.