by J. Saman
I stare at her, trying to see through the thick layer of bullshit she wears like makeup. “Is that why you’re here? To apologize?”
“Yes. Partially.” She shifts on the table, uncrossing and then recrossing her legs, her hands ringing in her lap like she’s actually nervous. Only when she’s genuinely nervous, she doesn’t do that. She taps her nails. “I also had to see you. I miss you. I know you don’t believe me because I’ve given you no reason to, but it’s true. Seeing you at the reunion, seeing you with Amelia, it was torture. It made me realize all that I gave up. All that I want back.”
I stand abruptly, so disgusted I can’t stomach to be in the room with her a second longer. “That ship sailed away years ago, Nora, and no matter what, it ain’t coming back. Your appointment is officially over and I have actual patients to see. Best of luck with your pregnancy and the baby.”
“She’s using you, Oliver,” she cries out in desperation as my hand hits the doorknob. “You’re not stupid. You have to know that’s what she’s doing. She doesn’t actually love you. Think of who she is. A charity case who got her hands on the winning lottery ticket. She’ll get what she wants from you and then she’ll be gone.”
I blaze with fury, vitriol dripping from my every breath. “You know nothing about Amelia. Or me, for that matter. You and I ended a long time ago, sweetheart. Something I should actually thank you for. Stay the fuck out of my life and I’ll do the same with yours.”
She folds her arms defiantly over her chest, giving me that self-satisfied grin again. “You think I don’t know you anymore, but I do. I know you better than anyone else. Your heart is too big, Oliver. It always has been. You give up so much of yourself for other people and you’re doing it now with her because you want to help her. You can’t even see the reality right in front of your face—”
The door slams shut, cutting off her words as I storm angrily down the hall, back toward my office. I have patients to see, but they’re going to have to wait. Ripping my stethoscope from around my neck, I chuck it against the wall, kicking my door shut so hard it rattles on its hinges.
I don’t know why I’m so upset. Why Nora’s words cut a little too deep.
I don’t give a shit that she claims to want me back. That’s her warped, I don’t want him, but I don’t want anyone else to have him crap. It’s the same reason she still calls me to tell me all her bullshit. No, it’s the stuff she said about Amelia that’s eating at me.
I do give up so much of myself for other people. I always have. It’s how I made so many mistakes with Nora in the first place. And I do want to help Amelia. It’s why I took all those extra steps to ensure Layla will get exactly what she needs.
It’s true, after Amelia gets what she wants from me, she’ll be gone. She is using me just as I’m using her, because it’s the fucking agreement we designed.
But… I’ve also started to like her. Seriously like her.
And now she’s ghosting me. We had that amazing night out together, an amazing week before it, and now she doesn’t call or text or respond. She’s placing distance between us when I seem to only want to be closer. I’m using her to help me, but suddenly, it feels like I’m getting played instead.
The way Nora once played me.
I fall into my chair, my hands running over my face and through my hair. My heart was too big. Too trusting. Nora cured me of that, but did she? Am I already falling into old habits with Amelia? Getting swept up in a woman who views me only as a means to an end?
Amelia and I are using each other. It’s a business arrangement, as she said. I know this. So why does the idea of her getting what she wants, and then walking away make my chest feel like it’s caving in on itself? And what the fuck am I going to do about it?
15
AMELIA
I’ve spent the last three days completely and totally avoiding Oliver. And feeling like shit for it.
We had a best date ever Saturday night at that restaurant. I mean, once we got past our shaky start, it was everything. We didn’t stop talking. We didn’t stop laughing. To the point where we actually closed the restaurant down and didn’t realize it had gotten that late.
He bared his soul to me. I did the same with him.
Then Sunday morning happened.
The headlines came.
And there we were, splashed front and center across Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and even TikTok as well as local Boston press on our best date ever. Only now they know exactly who I am. The mystery girl has been discovered and there it was, my life in print with a hint of an unflattering spin.
The poor girl likely taking advantage of their favorite prince.
Layla and I spent more than an hour scrolling through it all and with each swipe, I felt a little sicker.
I know that’s why Oliver and I are doing this. So he doesn’t lose face with the media after our reunion blunder. So his mom can see us and smile and feel good that her son has met someone to love and is happy while she’s going through the hardest thing she’ll ever go through.
I know all this, but that date…
That perfect, best date ever…
I wanted it to be real so bad. And it wasn’t. It was an act. A charade.
I haven’t liked anyone in a very long time. And the last time I did nearly destroyed me. I was not okay for longer than I care to admit.
So imagine meeting this guy. This perfect, perfect guy. Smart, sexy, funny, charming. Everything you’ve always wanted in a man. But he’s a player. A man just as broken as you are. And then you end up trapped in a situation that has you straddling the line between real and fake. You don’t know which end is up. What is a lie and what is real. Plus, you start to develop feelings—intense feelings—for the guy when you absolutely positively know you shouldn’t. That doing so will certainly lead to heartache and ruin. Again.
I just… I needed space. And time.
Which is why I’ve avoided him. I needed a few days after that night to rearrange my thoughts. To get my head back on straight. To focus my mind and shut down my heart.
Here we are on day three of Oliver detox and I haven’t stopped thinking about him. Not even a little. Not once. I can blame it on the press and the resulting comments and questions. On Sagginalls asking me a zillion questions all through our surgeries today. But my heart knows better. It’s saying, girl, is that really what’s kept Oliver Fritz front and center on your brain?
My foot presses onto the pedal, water shooting out of the faucet as I go about scrubbing out, our last surgery of the day over. A breast reconstruction, which of course also makes me think of Oliver. Of his mother who will likely have to undergo the same procedure in the not-too-distant future.
“Good work today, Amelia,” Sagginalls says, coming to scrub out beside me. “You really have a talent for surgery. It’s why I let you do more than most scrub nurses or surgical techs get to do.”
I beam at that. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“Is that what you wanted to be? A surgeon?”
“Yes. So this is the next best thing. Thank you for taking the time to train me and allowing me that sort of freedom in the OR.”
His head bobs gently as he focuses on washing his hands. “Once you marry Fritz, I hope you don’t plan on quitting?”
“What?” I startle.
“He’s a billionaire, Amelia. I read the articles on you two. How fast your relationship seems to have come on. Things like that have a tendency to burn fast and hot and die just as quickly. I’d hate to have you throw away a very promising career for something that might not last all that long.”
I should be angry at his words, but he’s more right than he knows. I meet his eyes. “I have no plans on quitting. I love my job.”
And I do. Sagginalls aside, I love what I do. Say what you will about plastic surgery, it’s not all as shallow as it seems. We do cleft palate repairs on babies. Scar revisions. Breast reconstruction. We also help people regain a piece of their self-confiden
ce they might have lost or not had to begin with. Even if that’s in the form of a different nose, a tighter tummy, or larger breasts.
I have no judgment with it.
We’re all just trying to get through the best we can.
“Glad to hear it.” He angles in my direction, his dark gaze piercing mine. “Listen, it’s no secret he has a reputation. Especially a reputation with nurses. I care about you. I know you already know that. The last thing I’d ever want is to see you get hurt.”
That goes for both of us. I swallow hard and jerk out a nod.
“Just be careful, okay? If you love the guy, great. Just make sure you’re doing this for the right reasons. The media is having a field day with the two of you, and I’m already reading some unflattering things. They seek out scandal, and you and Fritz are the perfect target.”
He finishes up, leaving me standing here, reeling.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I say absently. “Sure.”
By the time I walk out of the hospital, my feet automatically guide me in the direction of the T until I’m getting off at the stop for Oliver’s office. Layla is staying late at school to work on a project and has informed me that her teacher is ordering pizza for the group. It’s some big, end-of-the-year thing to go along with their graduation from middle school at the beginning of June.
Opening the doors of Hughes Healthcare, I glance from left to right. Boston is known for its stellar, first-rate healthcare and Hughes Healthcare is no exception in that. They have branches all throughout the city and the surrounding areas.
Spotting the registration desk, I head there first. Oliver texted me and I never responded. That was two days ago. The man has no idea I’m in his building.
“May I help you?” the woman behind the counter asks, ever the pleasant smile despite it being the end of what I imagine to be a long, busy day for her.
“I’m here to see Oliver Fritz.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. I’m not a patient. I’m his—”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she cuts me off, her eyes brimming with sudden recognition. “You’re his fiancée. I saw you in Boston Landing and TikTok the other day. So weird. So crazy. I mean, he’s our resident celebrity. You know, because he’s still a resident for another couple months and he’s most definitely a celebrity.” Her eyes widen as she holds up her hands in surrender. “As I’m sure you already know.” Her face drops to her hands before she laughs and then stares back up at me. “Okay, I’m just going to let you go through because I’m making a mess here.” She points to a door. “I think he has one last patient, but his office is at the end of the long hall, second on your right.”
“Thank you. And you didn’t botch anything up. Oliver always tells me how amazing the support staff is here.” I give her a wink, stealing moves from Oliver and she beams at the praise which was obvious my intent. Making my way through the door and down the long hallway as instructed, I get stares.
A lot of them. Some curious. Some in recognition. A few even in disgust.
But no one stops me, and I quickly find the office with the placard that says, Dr. Fritz on it. Entering his office, I quickly shut the door behind me, take in the meager surroundings and then decide on his chair instead of one of the two in front of his desk.
I sit in silence for a few very long, pointed moments, my thoughts starting to crash down on me. Thinking about the looks I just got walking in here. Sagginalls’ words. What the press wrote about me. Now that I’m not moving, I’m thinking rationally.
And with thinking rationally, I’m starting to realize, I likely shouldn’t have come.
“I should go.”
“Actually, I’m thinking you should stay,” Oliver says, and I leap out of his chair, my knees smash into the underside of his desk.
“Ow.” That is most definitely going to leave a mark. I didn’t even hear the door open.
Oliver approaches, spinning the top of the chair until it’s facing him. Then he pushes me back down onto it while dropping to his knees in front of me. Quiet and still, his eyes searching, waiting for resistance, his hands gliding up the bottoms of my leggings until they’re up and over my knees.
“Just a little red,” he whispers, kissing the tiny red dots on the tops of my kneecaps.
“How long were you watching me?”
He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are cautious. So unlike Oliver. “A few minutes. You looked a little lost I wasn’t sure you were in the right place.”
Ow again. But only because of the hurt he’s trying to mask. I didn’t think he’d care that I was ghosting him, but evidently, I was wrong in that. It hits me right in the chest. So, I say the stupid thing. “I missed you.”
He glances over his shoulder, but no one is there. I didn’t say it for an audience. I said it for him. Because it’s true. I did miss him, and I tried not to. I tried not liking him either and look how well that’s turning out. This is precisely what I was afraid of. Exactly what I warned him against.
“I missed you too. I thought you were avoiding me.”
I grin, biting into my lip as I sit back, fixing my leggings. He stands up, perching himself on the edge of his somewhat cluttered desk. “I was. I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know?”
He shakes his head.
“Because I had a really great time on Saturday.”
His eyebrows knit together with so much confusion it’s almost comical. Oliver Fritz is not used to women ghosting him. That much is obvious.
“So,” he starts slowly, almost as if he’s testing the words on his tongue. “You had a great time with me and…” He shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m not getting it.”
“Come on, Oliver. You’re a smart man. Surely you can figure it out without my having to spell it out for you.” I giggle lightly at him, and he reaches out, pinching my side until I squeal with laughter, trying to force his hand away. “Stop. I’m ticklish there.”
“I know. I found that spot after the reunion when you were in my bed.”
The laugh dies instantly on my lips as a blush flows rapidly up my neck and across my face. His fingers track it, starting at the base of it and gliding up until they dive into my hair and he’s holding me steady by the back of my head.
This is it. This, right here. This is the reason I’ve avoided him.
Every time we’re together, we combust. Fire and water, we’re opposites in so many ways, but when we come together, it’s like the laws of nature no longer exist. We coalesce in the most perfect of ways as if this is how it was always meant to be.
The longer I stare into his eyes, deep and brilliantly green, the more I get swept up in him.
Sensing this, he leans in, his grip in my hair tightening until his lips land on mine. He kisses me faster until I let out a moan, my body begging for more as it does every time we do this. Only now it’s just us. No show. Rules breaking. Boundaries gone.
And I’m scared.
He kisses me until I’m breathless, tugging on the strands of my hair until my head is forced back and his lips latch onto the sensitive skin of my throat. I gasp as he licks down my neck, goose bumps exploding everywhere.
“Oliver,” I whimper, begging him to keep going and to stop.
He groans into me, and I know it’s because I said his name like that. It sends an irresistible rush of wet heat through my core.
“I’m cooking you dinner tonight. No cameras. No takeout.”
“No,” I tell him because I can’t go to his place. If I do, I’ll never want to leave. “I’m cooking you dinner. At my place.”
He chuckles into me as if reading my mind completely. “You think you’re safe that way?”
He pulls back when I don’t reply, a dirty and devious smile curled up his wet and swollen lips. His eyes search mine, reading my fear, and there’s a darkness that grows across them like an invading storm.
“Okay,” h
e finally relents. “Your place. But I’m buying the groceries and there are no fucking arguments about it.”
“I can buy my own groceries.”
“You can do anything. I already know this. But it makes me happy, and since you won’t come to my place and do all the wicked things you know I want to do to you, you have to surrender this to me. Just no more avoiding me. That shit really pissed me off.”
My heart quakes in my chest at that, my knees along with it, but I manage to rise out of his chair and take his hand.
“No more kissing me,” I say. “I can’t take the kissing.”
“What if I can’t keep that promise?”
“I need you to.” I nearly beg the words.
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”
“Yes.”
His eyes bounce back and forth between mine and without another word, he leads me out of the building to his car, parked in the garage. We drive toward the supermarket in between here and my place, music is playing in the background, but Oliver is quiet. He’s also not holding my hand, something he always does whether he’s driving or not.
“You okay?” I ask, no longer able to stand it.
He parallel parks into a spot, turning off the car before he answers me. “Not really. It’s only Tuesday and it feels like the longest week ever.” He pauses here, looking like he wants to elaborate on that, but doesn’t.
“I’m afraid of liking you.” As much as I do.
He blinks rapidly at me. “I know. But I like you liking me.”
“I freaked out over what the press wrote about me. About us.”
“That’s why you ghosted?”
“That’s one reason. The first thing I mentioned is part of that too. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“You did, but that’s definitely not why it’s been the longest week ever.”
“Is it because your mom has her surgery on Friday?”
Oliver hasn’t talked about this.
