Page 5 of Careless Whisper (Modern Vintage Romances #11)

Elias

I ’d now been in Seattle for two months. And it had been four weeks since Reggie had scrubbed into one of my cases—not that I was counting.

Cindy, following protocol after my formal complaint, had taken her off the surgical roster.

She’d been reassigned to more basic duties—pre-op vitals, post-op recovery checks, triaging consults, and float support on the cardiac step-down unit.

Work any competent nurse could do. Work an intern could do.

It was a waste of her skill, and Cindy made sure everyone knew that.

I ignored her.

Delaney, the nurse Cindy had slotted into Reggie’s rotation, was fine. She was a bit too aggressive at times and too passive at others. She didn’t anticipate. She didn’t think ahead. She didn’t know how to read a room mid-surgery or a patient’s vitals like a language like Reggie could.

In the few weeks I’d worked with Reggie, I remembered how careful she was, how good at her job. And, yet…

She was fucking with my head like she always had. I wanted her out of Harper Memorial.

If you did, Elias, why the hell did you take this job? You turned down Johns Hopkins for this, and you knew she’d be here.

I ignored my subconscious as I walked into my condo.

The lights automatically came on. They were programmed to a soft, ambient glow—no overheads, no shadows, just warm tones on expensive wood and imported stone.

Some designers had put it all together, and I’d nodded through the whole process, just as I had when some realtor had shown me a bunch of places, and I bought this one in downtown Seattle, sight unseen, because of its proximity to the hospital.

It looked good. Polished and somber like the homes I had grown up in.

Soulless?

I tossed my keys in the bowl by the front door, kicked off my shoes, and walked straight to the fridge. A glass container labeled “ Tuesday – Seared Salmon with Sweet Potato Mash ” waited for me like a silent reprimand.

I wasn’t hungry .

I shut the fridge door and leaned against the counter, staring out at the view.

Seattle was beautiful at night—moody.

The water shimmered beneath the clouds. The city lights sparkled. People romanticized this city, and I didn’t get it. Was it the foggy charm, like a secret always on the verge of revelation?

Christ! I was being maudlin.

I hadn’t come here for charm . I’d come here to lead one of the best cardiac programs in the country.

If you keep telling yourself that, you’ll eventually believe it, you moron.

Had I come here for Reggie? And if I had, why was I doing whatever I could to get her fucking fired? When had I become such an asshole?

I scrubbed a hand over my face and dropped onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island. My phone buzzed. I had it on silent vibrate. I almost ignored it, but when I saw who it was, I sighed.

“Dad.”

“You sound tired,” he said without preamble.

“It’s been a long day.”

“That’s what happens when you run a department. Harper Memorial is no joke. Though I still think Johns Hopkins would’ve made more sense.”

Of course, he did.

“I like it here.” I kept my voice neutral and went to the small bar at the other end of the living room. If I was talking to my father, I needed liquor .

“You’d have liked it at Johns Hopkins as well,” he replied. “Anyway, your mother’s wondering if you RSVP’d to the Foundation Gala. We’re expecting you.”

I pulled out a bottle of tequila, Cincoro Extra Anejo, and poured myself a small measure.

“Good sipping tequila is better than any scotch,” Reggie said as she handed me a glass of clear liquid.

“Neat?”

“Rocks will dilute the good taste. It’s sacrilege to ruin good tequila.”

Since Reggie, I drank tequila more than any other liquor. She’d impacted me in so many ways, I thought, my heart heavy.

Damn her!

“Dad, the gala is months away,” I protested.

“Yes, and it’s important. We have a lot of influential people who will be coming, and we need their checkbooks for the foundation.”

The foundation he referred to was the Graham Medical Innovation Fund, a glossy nonprofit my mother chaired with all the polish of a seasoned society wife.

While my father lectured at Harvard and racked up accolades in cardiothoracic research, my mother curated galas, donor dinners, and high-profile luncheons with precision.

The foundation’s mission—on paper—was to support emerging research in cardiac medicine.

In reality, it was a well-oiled PR machine designed to keep the Graham name synonymous with medical excellence and to make sure our family stayed at the center of every institutional advancement worth funding.

“I’ll be there.” I sipped the tequila and let the smooth fire of it soothe me.

There was a pause. “Have you talked to Maren?”

“No.”

“She said she reached out to you.”

If reaching out meant fifteen text messages, four voicemails, and ten missed calls, yes, Maren had reached out to me.

I knew she was struggling to get funding for a clinical study she was doing and was pestering me to hire her at Harper Memorial because we had more funding dollars than Stratford, where she was, where I used to be, where Reggie used to be with me.

I didn’t want Maren here. Working with an ex was complicated, especially if the ex wanted to become current . I had clearly told Maren I wasn’t interested in a relationship beyond friendship with her, but she was convinced we were a match made in heaven.

Which heaven?

I couldn’t imagine being in a committed relationship with anyone . I wasn’t celibate or a saint, but I kept my dating life casual. Some sex, some companionship, some dinners, some breakfasts…the end.

The last time…the only time I’d ever thought I could be with a woman and do the whole married with two and a half kids routine was Reggie.

“Gigi, am I too old for you?” We’d just made love. She was in my arms. We were sweaty in my bed, just having caught our breaths.

“You’re only eight years older, Eli,” she replied, amused.

“Is that too old?”

She raised her head and kissed me. “Well, only if it means you won’t be able to make love with such vigor, but I think we’ve got a few years to go before that happens—and by then, I’m sure we’d have topped sildenafil.”

I’d almost asked her if she’d move in with me, settle down with me before everything went to hell. But she’d just been twenty-four years old. A kid, while I’d been in my early thirties, a grown man.

“I’ve been busy, Dad.”

“Maren, as you know, is applying for a research grant, and your name would carry weight as a co-author. You two were a strong pair. It’d be smart to reestablish that.”

A strong pair? What the fuck did that mean?

“I don’t have an opening at Harper Memorial for her, Dad.”

I finished the tequila and looked at the bottle longingly. I wasn’t on call, but I didn’t like being drunk, being out of control. However, the longer I talked to my father, the higher the chance that I’d have another drink.

“You’re the head of the department—make room for her,” he thundered .

I poured myself another finger.

“I’ll think about it,” I said mildly, having no intention of doing so.

“I always thought you two had potential. You’ve known each other forever. She’s not impulsive. She’s sensible, smart, steady, and ambitious. Just right for you.”

You’d reconsider the sensible and steady part if you’d seen her lying naked on my bed in my apartment, demanding we get back together, and when I refused, screaming like a freaking banshee.

But you know who was steady, though? Reggie .

Cool under pressure. Surgical in her thinking.

Even when I kicked her out of the OR for what everyone thought was a bullshit infraction I’d called her out on—she’d been graceful. Cindy had told me she was disappointed in me but had left it at that. I’d joked that Reggie was probably badmouthing me.

“No, Dr. Graham, that would be the rest of the nursing staff…well, except for Delaney, who got a promotion she doesn’t deserve,” Cindy had told me without emotion. “Nurse Sanchez does not speak ill of any of her colleagues, ever .”

Reggie was a damn good nurse—even I could see that.

She’d seen tamponade even before the echo.

She’d called it and acted on it. If I’d arrived two minutes later, the patient still would’ve lived because of her.

And what did I do to reward that? Ripped her apart over a drape slip in front of residents.

Humiliated her for what she’d already corrected.

Why? Because it was easier to shame her than wonder if I’d been wrong about her five years ago?

I now had, as I had then, evidence of her professionalism and her skill—and yet…

My father was still talking—blathering on about an article in JACC and how Maren might be a speaker at the ACC conference—but I tuned out. It was white noise.

“I have to go,” I said, cutting him off.

“Fine. Don’t forget to RSVP.” He ended the call. I tossed the phone on the bar, staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The silence in my condo wrapped around me like a vacuum. There were no personal pictures on the walls—just manicured art. No laughter in the halls—just the ringing of a phone and the ticking of a clock.

I rubbed my chest, feeling a hollowness inside me, a hole that used to not be there.

I should never have come to Seattle. I came to build a future, not walk straight into my past.

Reggie ! She was everywhere now. In my OR. In my head. In the damn silence.

I thought I hated her. Maybe I still did.

But part of me hated me more; the part that missed her and ached for her, the part that still loved her.