Hitched (Hitched #1)(8)

Tate whistles. "This is what he sends you for your breakup dinner?"

"It's not a break up dinner. We were never together. Not really." But my voice lacks conviction because I'm now reading the note, and maybe there's a tear in my eye, but I refuse to admit that.

I tuck the card away, and Tate waits.

"I'm not sharing that part. It's personal."

"Too personal for me? It must be huge, then," he says.

And it is. It's huge because it's so simple. So tender. So unexpectedly pure. And I can't think about it or look at it or read it because it destroys my resolve, and tonight I will need all my resolve to finish this once and for all.





Chapter 5


One Summer


The rest of the day is wasted. We try to work; we get a few plans down for marketing and ideas for this summer season of parties. Business will take off soon. It always does this time of year, especially in Vegas, and we want to be ready to take on all of the clients we know will be coming our way.

I put off dressing for my non-date until the latest possible moment, my mind and body at war with what they want from the night.

The dress fits perfectly, hugging all my curves as if it had been made for my body alone. The shoes give height to my short frame, and I fall in love with them the moment I put them on. Damn that man.

When the doorbell rings, I know it's not a delivery, but the man himself, and I experience a case of serious nerves. I'm not the wilting flower type, if you hadn't guessed that by now. I can hold my own in most any situation, but right now I'm about to melt out of my dress, and I haven't even seen him yet.

I can hear Tate opening the door and letting him in, and I hurry to swipe my lips with Russian Red lipstick, grab my purse—which has all the important documents in it—and act like I'm not a basket of butterflies as I walk—gracefully, I like to imagine—down the stairs.

Tate is talking to him, and they are laughing, and I want to smack my brother and tell him not to bond with the man I won't likely see again after today.

Sebastian looks up and stops talking; instead his eyes eat me up, and he smiles this small, secret smile that makes me think naughty thoughts about what that mouth is capable of achieving between my legs. Instead of my usual witty retort, I pause. Struck by him. He's wearing a suit and tie, very high end, tailored to his muscular, tall body, his dark hair just a bit ruffled, like he recently ran his hands through it.

I remember his hair, thick under my palm, as I held his head while he licked me and made me come.

Argh! I want to scream from frustration, but instead I smile. "Hello, Sebastian."

He holds out a hand as I reach the last stair. "Ms. Michaels, you look stunning."

"Thank you for the dress and shoes," I say.

His eyes darken. "It's not the dress, or the shoes, that make you stunning, darling."

Breathe. Just. Breathe.

"You have a way with words, Dr. Donovan. A better bedside manner than most in your profession, I imagine."

Tate clears his throat. "I'll leave you two to your evening." He kisses me on the cheek and retreats upstairs to his own room, but not before turning and giving me a meaningful look. "Remember what I said, Kacie."

I scowl at him before turning back to my non-date. "Shall we go?"

***

I won't bore you with recounting the drive to the restaurant. Expensive car. Small talk. Hands brushing against each other once or twice. Blah, blah, blah.

I will say that by the time we arrived at the restaurant, my panties were expecting something hot because they were wet. Damn. That. Man.

Even in the evening, Las Vegas’s summers are scorching. It never cools off—just gets a bit darker. Fortunately, we only have to walk a few steps in the sweltering heat before the blast of air conditioning from the restaurant dries the sweat on my skin. Once we're escorted to our table, I sit and sip at the water immediately placed in front of me, grateful for something cold to drink.

Sebastian stares at me like I'm his dinner, and he hasn't eaten in days.

"You're making me nervous," I say, though that's only partially true. I can handle myself well enough, but something about him, about the way he looks at me, throws me off balance.

"I don't mean to. I just find you mesmerizing." He smiles. "Have you had any luck remembering more of our night together?"

"Some. The actual marriage part is still a haze, but I do remember meeting you and… other things."

"I want you to know, I wouldn't have married you if I'd known you were too drunk to consent. I would never take advantage of you that way. But I don't regret it either. "

His voice is intoxicating, but I need to change the subject before this goes too far. "I remember the tattoo, on your back. Of the stars. You said it was of battles lost. What did you mean?"

His face turns serious. "I'm an excellent surgeon. I'm not bragging; I've worked hard to become one of the best. But I'm not God. Sometimes… sometimes I can't save a child. When that happens, when someone dies on my table or in my care, I add a star to the tattoo. I need them to know they will never be forgotten. Not by me."

I can't remember how many stars he had on his back. Not too many, but enough. Each the life of a child he couldn't save. "What made you decide to become a pediatric heart surgeon?"