Page 35 of Careless Whisper (Modern Vintage Romances #11)

Elias

I n another life, I would’ve kept count—how many times she smiled at me, how often we touched, whether she called me Eli or Baby. But here, in San Miguel de Allende, the me who was learning to be a better version of myself didn’t need the data. I felt the shift between us in my bones.

We weren’t what we used to be—we were new, and yet our foundation was old.

The days fell into a rhythm—early mornings at the clinic, sun spilling across the red-tiled floors as Reggie handed out assignments.

I watched children laugh as they left with lollipops and clean bandages, and listened to old men joke about my gringo Spanish.

Some afternoons, we’d break for lunch in the Mercado, eating chile rellenos wrapped in wax paper and cold horchata, her ankles brushing mine beneath the table as we talked about everything and nothing.

In the evenings, we went on long walks through cobblestone streets strung with papel picado, past street musicians playing soft boleros, and lovers pressed into shadowed doorways.

We’d stop for pan dulce and coffee or sit on the edge of the square, watching stars above the Parroquia like the sky was celebrating.

She let me in, inch by inch. I didn’t push. I didn’t ask for more than she offered.

But I stayed as I had promised I would, as she had asked me to.

We had dinner with Anna and Ignacio a couple of times a week.

Ignacio cooked. I brought the wine and Mezcal.

Dinner at the Sanchez house was warm and noisy, with a table crowded with food: Ignacio’s roasted chicken with lemon and rosemary, black beans simmered all day with bay leaf and garlic; and Anna’s salad of fresh jicama and oranges.

We ate on the terrace under strings of lights, the night balmy and still.

Laughter floated in the garden as Ignacio told a story about Reggie’s childhood attempt at running away—with only a flashlight, a granola bar, and her stuffed otter who she’d named Ignacio Junior.

“I made it four houses down,” Reggie said dryly. “It was a personal best. ”

“You told the neighbor you were fleeing injustice.” Ignacio’s eyes twinkled at the memory.

I couldn’t stop watching her. The way she tipped her head back when she laughed. The way she leaned into her mother when she brought out dessert. The way she fit here—with them . And, somehow, the way they had made room for me—not judging my past behavior but accepting me as I was now.

Later, over café de olla , Mexican spiced coffee, Anna told me how Reggie hadn’t told them about what happened in Boston until recently. “She let us think she made a mistake. We, of course, could never believe that.”

“Of course,” Ignacio agreed. “ Mi reina is perfect!

“Why didn’t you tell them?” I asked since it was obvious that they’d support her no matter what. I’d known them a few months, but I could see the Sanchez-Lancaster family were not the Grahams, where silence passed for approval.

“Because some part of me believed it too,” Reggie revealed sadly.

My breath hitched. “You carried all that alone?”

She hesitated before responding. “And it got heavier…until finally I just couldn’t carry it anymore.”

“You should never do that again,” Anna admonished.

I wrapped an arm around her and kissed her temple. “You never have to go through anything alone again, Gigi. ”

That night, she walked me home—which was code for spending the night—though we still hadn’t had sex. And yeah, I was walking around with a permanent case of blue balls, but that wasn’t the point. I didn’t want to muddy the waters with intimacy before we were truly together.

What happened between us in the on-call room all those months ago wasn’t just sex. It was real—and still, we fell apart after it. This time, I wanted her with no confusion, no regrets—just us, with everything finally in the right place.

“Why did you become a nurse?” I asked, the thought coming suddenly to me.

“I love the work. I wanted to be a caregiver. I like the urgency of it. I like…taking care of people, helping surgeons like you save lives.”

“You didn’t want to be a doctor or a surgeon?”

She chuckled. “G’Mum flipped when I said I wanted to be a nurse. You know how she is—‘ We’ve given so much to the Harvard endowment, they’ll grab you in a heartbeat .’”

“My career was never a choice,” I told her then as we walked in the warm night.

“It was destiny pre-written in Harvard alumni directories and Ivy League donor rosters. Ultimately, it was easier to do what was expected than figure out what I actually wanted. You are so much braver than I have ever been.”

We stopped in front of my building under the lazy glow of a streetlamp.

She linked her hands around my neck and went on tiptoe.

“Bravery is not a contest. You are here . You had the courage to come find me. I ran from love and from you, too scared. If you hadn’t fought for us… there would not be an us .”

Her generosity, as always, baffled and humbled me. “Thank you, Gigi.”

“For what?” she asked, looking up at me.

“For letting me see what I never let myself imagine before.”

She looked at me, her expression serious. “You want to thank me?”

“Yes,” I replied sincerely.

“Well, Dr. Graham”—her eyes danced with mischief—"I’d like for you to pay up in orgasms.”

The second my apartment door clicked shut, I had her against the wall.

We’d been all over each other the whole way up—three flights of stairs, and neither of us was out of breath because of the climb . Her breath was rising fast, lips parted, eyes locked on mine like she was daring me to keep pretending I could take this slow.

I stepped in close, hands on her hips, gripping tighter than I meant to. She didn’t flinch. Just leaned into it.

“Eli,” she breathed out—barely a word, more like a challenge .

I kissed her hard. Not the gentle kind, not the kind with questions.

Her hands were in my hair, under my shirt, tugging me closer, like she wanted me inside her already. And I wanted the same.

I got my shirt off, and she didn’t waste time.

Her fingers were on my chest, tracing over skin like she was relearning it.

I grabbed her wrist and pinned it above her head, letting her feel the weight of me.

She arched up, pressed tight against me, nipples peeking through that dress that was hanging on by a thread.

“Fuck, Gigi,” I muttered, my voice rough.

Her dress came off. Black lace panties underneath, soaked through. I dropped to my knees, hooked my fingers into the waistband, and dragged them down.

She was already shaking.

I didn’t hesitate. My mouth was on her before she could think, before I could. She tasted better than I remembered. And I remembered too damn well.

She moaned my name, one hand in my hair, the other gripping the wall. I flicked my tongue over her clit until her knees gave out. I caught her, held her through it, until she was panting into my shoulder.

Then I stood, kissed her slow this time, and asked, “Bed?”

She nodded breathlessly.

We didn’t say anything else. I pulled her into the bedroom, stripped the rest of the way, and watched her eyes go dark with want .

When I slid inside her, everything else dropped away. She clenched around me so tight it stole the breath from my lungs.

“Jesus, Gigi,” I groaned.

She wrapped her legs around me, urging me deeper.

I found a rhythm. Fast. Hard. Us . It clearly said we’d been apart too long, and I wasn’t letting go this time.

Her nails dragged down my back. Her breath hitched in my ear. I felt her come—tight and shaking beneath me—and I didn’t stop. I chased mine until I hit it hard, hips stuttering as I emptied inside her.

Afterward, I lay on my back, catching my breath, her heartbeat echoing against me.

“That’s two,” I said quietly.

She chuckled, breathless. “Two thank yous.”

“Yep.” After all she had said she wanted to be thanked in orgasms.

She laughed airily, happy, whole, content. “We’re not keeping score, Eli.”

“We absolutely are.”

She kissed the edge of my jaw. “Then you’re behind.”

“Guess I better fix that.”