Page 155 of Dare to Love Me

I shake my head. “Perhaps. But it’s not like we can decide to leave work early when we’re halfway through a subtotal colectomy.”

She chuckles. “Fair point. Oh, and by the way, you owe me. I’m cashing in.”

“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow.

“I need a date for the charity ball. Strictly as friends, obviously.” Then, with a conspiratorial gleam. “But you knowthat famous TV presenter is going to be there—the chef. The stupidly attractive one. And I fully intend to meet him. Come hell or high water.”

I groan, already dreading the tux and the small talk. “You know how much I hate those things. I was planning on skipping it.”

She levels me with a look—one that says I’m going, end of story.

“Fine,” I mutter, exhaling defeat.

“Thank you.” She blows me a mock kiss, strutting out. “Get some sleep, old man.”

“Hey, you’re two years behind me.”

“Exactly,” she tosses back, already gone.

I slump deeper into the chair. What would Lucia say if she knew where I was six hours before surgery? A goddamn nightclub. Watching Daisy lead a conga line.

What would Millie have said? Her birthday’s in a few weeks. Every year I go to her grave and reflect on the year without her. I generally visit when I can, but that day? That day’s non-negotiable. What the hell do I say this year? “Sorry, love, I’ve been a bit distracted by a minx in sequins”?

I’m allowing myself to be carried away by this . . . attraction. And now it’s interfering with my work and with my duty.

Daisy is a whirlwind who fills rooms with light and laughter. She makes everything more vivid. More fun. More alive. And her sexuality . . . Christ, her effect on me is devastating.

But my work is my purpose. It’s not just a job, it’s who I am. It’s the very core of my being.

If I were a bloody accountant, or a plumber, perhaps a bit of distraction could be tolerated. A few late nights, a momentary lapse in focus, would be of little consequence.

But I am not. I am a surgeon.

I hold lives in my hands.

A single slip—one moment’s hesitation, one fraction of a second too slow—and someone’s whole world is gone.

Last night left a bad taste in my mouth.

I followed her to that godawful club because I didn’t want her to be with Hugo. Hugo who thinks she’s single and looks at her like she’s a piece of meat.

So I went. Like a fucking idiot.

I asked her to come home with me, and she refused. Too drunk to listen, her laughter slurring at the edges as she waved me off. She tried to drag me onto the dance floor, and I recoiled, mortified. I can perform microscopic surgeries, but I can’t bob up and down in time to a beat.

So I stood at the side of the dance floor like a fucking bull, watching her spin and sway and laugh.

Until I finally took off, leaving Lizzie with strict instructions to watch her. As if that could somehow make up for the fact that I was leaving her there.

And then I went home and spent the entire fucking night staring at my ceiling. Wondering if she got home safely. If she was warm enough. If somelecherous bastardtried to touch her.

I don’t blame Daisy.

She can do whatever the hell she likes. She didn’t ask me to take her to that club and she didn’t ask me to stay. She has every right to drink and dance and do whatever young women want to do.

Those decisions were mine, and mine alone.

I’m the issue.