Her words land sharply and are so unwarranted I forget my friend wants to tap that. I tilt my head, smiling without warmth. “You’re right. My ex-boyfriend wassointimidated by Julian he couldn’t handle it. Makes you wonder what else Julian and I have done that got him so insecure, doesn’t it?”
Marisol’s smile falters. I look away before I say something I can’t take back, like calling her abitch.
Daniel chuckles beside me, low and easy. “Don’t take it personally, Marisol. He’s probably at home staring dramatically through the window. Classic surgical resident.”
I grab my drink, pretending I don’t care that my pulse has gone sharp, and push away from the table.
Daniel follows, his hand brushing the small of my back aswe pass the crowd. “Come on,” he says. “Foosball table’s free. Bet I can still destroy you one-handed.”
“You wish.”
He grins wider, the kind meant to provoke. As he stretches his shoulders, the sleeves of his Henley ride up his forearms. “Let’s see if you’re as good at foosball as you are at darts, yeah?”
“I’m not,” I admit.
He flashes a crooked grin. “Perfect. I’m excellent at losing. Let’s do this.”
The table sits under a striped umbrella near the bar’s edge, lit by a string of fairy lights that flicker every few seconds. The handles are sticky, and the ball is scuffed from years of use. Daniel takes his position opposite me, spinning one of his defenders with mock seriousness.
“Ready?” he asks, grinning.
I nod, and the game starts with the sharp clack of plastic against metal. The ball ricochets wildly, and Daniel manages a perfunctory save.
“Okay, that doesn’t count,” I say, reaching to reset.
“Everything counts in foosball,” he says. “House rules.”
Smiling, I roll my eyes.
We fall into an easy rhythm—play, banter, a little too much trash talk for the level of skill either of us has. He leans in close when the ball jams near midfield, and I catch a hint of his aftershave.
“You’re pretty competitive for someone who claims to be bad at this,” he teases.
“I’m just highly motivated by injustice.”
He laughs, and the air between us goes taut. The game slows, then stalls, the ball trapped between two plastic players. We reach for it at the same time, our fingers brushing on the edge of the table.
My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my denim skirt, soI check it and find an email from Kelly Rogers, one of the people I’ve been in touch with about the position I interviewed for earlier today.
Subject:Onsite Visit – Neurology Position, Bend, Oregon.
I skim it. Interview. Facility tour. Travel arrangements. They want me therethis weekend.
It’s the out I didn’t know I wanted. In a few seconds, it goes from possibility, to appealing, to necessity. Miles of space between me and being the girl whose boyfriend made out with someone else. No more awkward jabs from bitchy nurses—not about my love life at least. Just… a fresh start.
A low whistle sounds behind me. Daniel leans in, his breath warming the back of my neck. “That’s a great facility,” he says. “You should totally go.”
His front is plastered to my back, and when I turn, my side brushes against his chest. His green eyes have darkened, and I know it has nothing to do with the lighting. Because what I’m feeling isn’t about Daniel either. He’s right here, so close his breath fans my lips, and I have the urge to lick his. I could step away, but I don’t want to. I want the world tilting, the feel of his skin, taste of beer, and the scent of his cologne. I want to kiss him.
Leaning closer, I give him time to pull away; I want him to know what this is. And it’s not about starting something with him. When our lips touch, it’s not a clashing of mouths, but there’s certainly aggression. I press my tongue against the seam of his mouth, then he opens on a groan, and I don’t feel conflicted. I feel in control.
Daniel’s mouth is still on mine, his tongue failing to call the shots on this kiss, as we stumble down the short hallway toward the bathroom. The music swells and blurs, laughterand glass against glass fading behind us. Then the door clicks shut, and it’s just the thrum of the bass and our breaths mingling.
He reaches for me, but I smack his hand away and grab his belt buckle. While he fumbles for his wallet, I slide his pants halfway down his thighs. He rolls on a condom, and I lift my skirt, tug my underwear off one leg, and spread my thighs.
“Fuck me?—”
I press my index finger to his lips. “No talking.”
