Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“I don’t even own a fucking record player,” I say under my breath.
I did have one. I inherited it from Dutch, but when Berk wanted an in with Astrid, I gave it to him. He bought some records from her, gave them a listen, then showed up back at this shop to buy more.
It was a move that a high school kid might make to get the girl he likes to notice him. It paid off in spades for Berk.
My phone chimes so I tuck the album under my arm and tug it out of the pocket of my pants.
I read the text on my screen.
Evan: Chloe dumped me for girls’ night with her cousins and their kids. Want to meet up for Greek food?
I take one last glance at the building where Eloise lives.
Gaines: That depends. Do you know who Cupid Karma is?
His response is quick and not totally unexpected.
Evan: Hell, yeah, I do. I heard them at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen about a year ago. Do you know how hard it is to get your hands on a copy of their album? They’re not on any of the streaming services.
I use that admission to my favor.
Gaines: You’re buying me a steak tonight. Meet me at Nova in an hour.
As expected, my phone rings.
I step out of the pedestrian traffic in front of the store and head toward the curb to hail a cab, as I answer. “Evan.”
“Why the fuck would I buy you a steak?” He laughs. “Beyond that, there is a waiting list for Nova. Everyone knows that.”
“Not everyone knows the owner.”
“You know Tyler Monroe?”
“I do,” I say with pride.
Tyler is an old friend, and the current co-owner of one of the best restaurants in this city.
“Impressive, Morgan,” he drawls. “Explain the part where I’m the one buying you a steak.”
I lower the phone to take a picture of the album’s cover and then shoot it to him in a text.
“What the actual fuck?”
I laugh. “It’s all yours for a good steak dinner.”
“I’ll throw in dessert for that.” He chuckles. “You know the way to this man’s heart. You also know your way around it since you’re a…”
“Cardiologist,” I finish his sentence. “I’m the best in this city.”
“In the country, Morgan,” he says. “I’m not just saying that because of the album. You’re a great doctor, and an even better friend.”
“Meet me at Nova in a hour.”
“You’re not giving that to someone else if I’m late, are you?”
“Don’t be late and you won’t have to worry about it.”
He ends the call without another word.
I end my night where I began my day with my hand wrapped around my cock and visions of Eloise dancing in my head.
More aptly, visions of her fucking me are invading my thoughts so fully that there’s no room for anything else.
I’ll never be able to erase from memory how she looked when she was riding me.
I never want to forget that.
I stroke myself slowly as the water from my shower beats down on me.
I close in on my release, picturing the beauty with the brown hair biting her bottom lip as she does when she’s about to come.
I’m almost there and then…fuck… my fucking phone rings.
I shut off the shower, push open the door, and tread naked across the bathroom floor to where I left it siting on the counter.
The name of a man I can’t stand flashes across the screen.
I’d ignore it but my job is my life, and if I want to keep that I have to answer the call.
Since the jerk has an affinity for speaker calls, I take a breath and drop back into doctor mode as I answer, “Dr. Sexton? What can I do for you?”
“It’s not for me,” he bites back with a tone most at the hospital would attribute to all the stress he’s under.
I get that being a trauma surgeon comes with its own unique set of challenges, but Logan’s pissy attitude toward me has nothing to do with his job.
“I have a patient who needs a cardiac consult.”
“Dr. Whitman is on call,” I inform him.
“The patient requested you.” He exhales harshly. “Make it quick, Dr. Morgan. He needs surgery on his back. He’s suffered third degree burns in an apartment fire. His heart isn’t in great shape.”
“Name,” I spit out. “What’s the patient’s name?”
If he requested me, he knows me, or he knows of me because of my reputation. I want to walk into the ED with his name at the ready so I can offer him the comfort I sense he’ll need.
“Brokenshire,” he says. “Bart Brokenshire. Seventy-nine-years-old.”
“Fuck,” I whisper. “I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Eloise
A rattling noise stirs me from sleep.
I’m reasonably sure I was in the middle of a dream about riding a whale with Stevie. That has to be because we played one of her favorite games during dinner.