6:29 PM: The meeting with Bailon must have worked—they’re not going after Jace! Also, I got the new job!!! Things are looking up.

Lucy’s text is the first alert that greets me when I power on my personal phone Monday evening during my late lunch break. Grabbing silverware and a napkin from the break room counter, I return to my seat at an empty table by the water cooler and spear the plastic fork into my leftover lo mein. I re-read her text, and my features work into a tight frown.

Bailon. Again.

I wish I could say I haven’t given him a fleeting thought since we left his office last Thursday, but that’s not entirely true. For a good forty-eight hours after we met, his words played in a repetitive loop through my head. His knowing smirk had occupied my thoughts. And his gaze, amber brown and intense and almost … feral—his gaze filtered through my memory more times than I cared to admit. Still, over the weekend, I had convinced myself to move the hell along. When you have a history of dating the wrong people, and my history is paved in awful men, you get over encounters with the dangerous, no-good sort fast.

That’s why it’s a shame Lucy’s text brings him creeping back. There’s a link below her message, but I hesitate to click it. The only thing that matters is she’s not in trouble and Jace’s business is safe from a lawsuit, right? There’s no need for me to open some silly link that’s bound to give me another giant dose of Bailon.

I don’t have to think of him. I can and should focus on the things and people that are good for me. Like messaging Lucy back or texting Bella to see if she can meet me for dinner on Wednesday when we’re both free.

I tell myself all these things and run about twenty more excuses through my head, but my thumb still connects with the link. The picture that started this mess—the one from Bailon’s kinky party—fills my screen, and I draw in a shallow breath. Covering my phone with my palm, I make sure none of my co-workers are nearby to witness the full display of tits and ass, then I return to the website.

The official website of Victoria Gellert, the blonde bazillionaire from the photo.

While the edited version—the one with the silver stars covering her nipples and the word CENSORED blocking the outline of Bailon’s erection—has been the image widely used on gossip sites, Victoria went for the original. The one that was meant for my eyes only. Swallowing down the newest knot of guilt in my throat, I scroll down until I reach her official statement on the scandal.

She writes that sex is good—no, she writes that good sex is goddamn epic. I go back to the photo, studying Bailon’s hand on her breast and the teasing look he sends her way. Knitting my eyebrows, I force myself to return to Victoria’s piece. She says that while she doesn’t regret her lifestyle, she regrets that a dear friend of hers was trashed because of a photo that should never have been taken.

A dear friend.

I risk another glance at the picture, this time ignoring the placement of his hand in favor of their mouths. The way his lips are slightly parted as if he’s in the middle of saying something salacious. How her bottom lip is tugged between her teeth. It makes me wonder. Makes me give a damn I shouldn’t give. What was he saying to her? Was he speaking in soft Spanish, making sinful promises and turning her heart into a flurry of butterfly wings?

My lunch completely forgotten, I go to the bottom of the screen one last time to finish Victoria’s statement, which is summed up in the final sentence: If anyone has a problem with me or what I do between the sheets, you can kiss my ass.

Though I’m admittedly jealous of the way he’s touching her—the way he’s staring at her—I couldn’t agree more.

“You’re really into that, Jamie.” Jumping at the voice directed at me, I quickly flip my phone facedown. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nicole, one of the respiratory therapists, making her way from the refrigerator. She’s holding a plastic container of fruit and a bottle of water, her ponytail falling over one shoulder because her head is cocked so far to one side.

“Anything interesting?”

I flick my tongue over lips that suddenly feel hot because I have no clue if she saw the picture on my screen. “No, not really.” Sliding both my personal and my floor phone into my pockets, I grab the flimsy cardboard takeout box and power through chewing a mouthful of cold lo mein. “Just a text from a friend.”

Nicole places her fruit and water on the other side of the table and sits down. “A friend, huh?” Her sandy eyebrows—the same shade as her long ponytail, waggle suggestively. I swallow my food to choke down the groan. What’s coming next is the last thing I want to discuss in the break room—or in general. “Hart?”

Remembering the blind date she set me up on, I try not to grit my teeth. Hart is a pediatric assistant who works with Nicole’s husband. After she had sworn up and down he was the “sweetest guy” I’d ever meet, I agreed to go out with him. Hart, the “sweet” pediatric assistant, turned out to be a piece of shit and when I finally do settle down and have a baby, I’ll sure as hell pick a different practice.

He had started our evening together awkwardly by telling me he’d always wanted to be with a “black chick” and he had ended it by drinking too much sake and revealing he thought I had an “ass made for fucking.” Since that night, he’s texted and called a few times, and each time I’ve told him I’m not interested.

He’s yet to comprehend why I’m not tripping all over my daisy-print clogs to be with him.

“You have no idea how much he’s asked about you.” Nicole opens her water and tips it to her lips. “All Robbie and I’ve heard about since your date is how beautiful and funny and—”

“I don't think Hart’s right for me.” It's best to be honest. If I'm not, she’ll continue asking me about the man every other day. She’ll continue talking me up to an asshole who has the people skills of an undertaker.

“Hmm. But I thought he said it went great. And he really likes you…”

No, he likes the thought of getting me on my back. Just like Bailon. My fingers ball around the top of my fork so tightly the plastic comes close to snapping. I hate that my mind has once again, crept back to him when the conversation is on a different man.

“Maybe,” I say at last, shrugging. I take another bite of my lo mein, decide I can’t stomach the cold noodles tonight, and toss the fork into the container. “But I doubt we’ll go out again.”

And by doubt I mean there’s not a chance in hell I’ll sit at the same table with Hart—not without forking his hand.

“Well, if there weren’t fireworks...” She screws the top of her water bottle back on and fidgets with the transparent blue label. Oh hell, she has that look on her face—the same one she wore last month when I stupidly mentioned my latest dating disaster, and she suggested I go out with Hart, the ass man. I murmur a quick apology about having to return to the unit and push away from the table.

I’m on my way across the room, after tossing out my barely touched lunch, when Nicole tries to stop me—she knows a guy, a real winner—but I shoot her a regretful smile and dart out into the hallway. Pulling my personal phone from my pocket, I respond to Lucy’s text with Best news I’ve heard all day. Have you talked to Jace?

Just before I switch off my phone and return to my shift, I take one last look at the photo. Of Bailon. I still wonder what he was saying to the blonde to make her look at him like that. What he was promising her?

And, God, I can’t stand wondering about that man or his promises.

* * *

“Is my son… Is my son going to be okay?” Mrs. Lucero’s broken whisper stops me in my tracks the next night. My back is to her, so she doesn’t see how I squeeze my eyes tightly together. I’d learned from a former colleague—the hard way—that you don’t answer that question, that you leave it to the neonatologists and the residents. But when Mrs. Lucero repeats herself and I spin on my heels to face her, the walls of my chest feel like they’re caving in.

Her entire body is taut, her fingers hesitating at the entry of the incubator ports because she’s too afraid to touch her baby. Afraid he’ll break. Tucking the chart I’m holding under the crook of my arm, I join her beside the plastic bed.

“When my sister and I were born, this was me. I was Twin B.” At my words, she lifts her chin toward her daughter—who’s connected to a quarter of the equipment as her son and healing rapidly—in the next incubator. “I was a full pound smaller than Bella,” I explain.

“Bella and Jamie—beautiful names.” A tired smile touches her lips, and she twitches her fingers against the pink and blue bunny-print blanket lining the inside of the incubator. “How early were you?”

“Ten weeks.” The same as the Lucero twins and I can only imagine that my mother was just as terrified. Because I’m hopeful, I won’t tell Mrs. Lucero that nearly thirty years ago Bella and I had spent two months in the NICU. Although her babies have been with us for the last week, there’s a good chance they’ll be able to go home soon. “My sister and I—we turned out all right. Bella’s an ER nurse.” And a pain in my ass, but I don’t say that—I simply give Mrs. Lucero a reassuring smile.

“Your parents must be proud of you both,” she murmurs. “But I’m scared, Jamie. As a parent, I’m scared to see my baby like this. I … I know it happens all the time, but I don’t understand…”

When a damp gasp pushes past her lips, I clutch my clipboard closer and swallow hard. “It’s the machine and the tubes. It looks scary but—”

“Because it is,” she interrupts, her voice hitching. I take a step closer. Give her a moment to continue without interjecting. “If it’s not, then why can’t I hold him? Touching him through plastic is…” She releases a harsh breath, but the hold on my chest loosens as she slides her wrists through the port and skims the tips of her fingers gently over her son’s tiny legs. “It’s just frustrating.”

“I know it is.”

“Thank you. For being so kind since they were born. For being…”

Another lesson I’ve been taught since I started at this hospital is not to hug parents, not to wear your emotions on your sleeve, but I’ve never been the best at reeling myself in. I touch her shoulder. “I’ll be back to check on the three of you in a few minutes.”

While Mrs. Lucero is bonding with her twins, I make my rounds, eventually pausing in front of the baby who was brought in the night before. My stomach tangles into a web of painful knots that claw their way through my ribcage and into the back of my throat. Nothing—not the excited text from Lucy I received when I powered on my phone when I got home at three this morning or the two glasses of wine I downed a few minutes later—had taken my mind off this child.

There's so much joy that comes with my job. Like seeing a family go home together after days or weeks or months apart, or watching a new mother finally hold her baby for the first time. Then there are moments like this. Like Baby R. When I arrived for my shift this evening, I learned that his mother had quietly discharged herself early this morning as soon as someone uttered the word investigation.

Growing up, I was fortunate. Sheltered. I never saw addiction or the horrible things that people do to themselves. I see it now. So much and so often that I should be numb, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the sight of a newborn suffering from withdrawals.

I’ll never get used to babies like Baby R, and I spend the early part of my shift checking on him as much as possible, the hole in my chest burning a little more each time I see how much his little body struggles.

* * *

By the time I take dinner at eight, the splitting headache that had taken residence in my skull last night has made its epic return. As I pass the nurse’s station, I see the bouquet of lilies waiting on the counter, but I think nothing of it. In this department, flowers are a common sight. I head to the break room where I pop an ibuprofen, eat my lunch in silence while I watch some medical drama on the mounted TV, and text my sister. Bella’s off tonight and tomorrow night, so she’s babysitting again. According to her text, she and Isaac are watching “that Disney movie about the dinosaur with the big head and little arms.”

For the first time in hours, a genuine grin tickles my lips, and I message my sister:

Meet the Robinsons? Just so you know, I’m terrified but in a good way. Have you told Mom and Dad about Leo? And when can I meet him?

She responds as I’m tossing out my trash with an evasive message—I’m terrified that you know what movie I’m talking about just from the description—and I roll my eyes. Knowing Bella, she and Leo will break up before I have a chance to ever lay eyes on the man. When I leave the break room and notice Nicole talking to the girls at the nurse’s station, I give her a small wave as I walk by. A few steps before I turn the corner, she calls my name.

Shit.

I twist on the heel of my foot and offer her a warm smile that belies the fact that I don’t want dating advice, but she’s not looking at me. Her focus is on the bouquet I admired before lunch. It’s a stunning arrangement—white Asiatic lilies and lavender daisies. Making a face like she’s about to explode from sheer excitement, Nicole points from me to the vase and then back to me again.

“For you,” she mouths and coldness hits at my core.

If she’s convinced Hart, the ass-loving douchebag, to send me flowers, I just might kill her. Strangulation by stethoscope.

“I’m so jealous,” she gushes the second I tentatively join her at the counter. “I thought your birthday is at the end of May, though.”

Tapping my fingertips on the countertop, I examine the bouquet. “You’re right, my birthday is next month. Are you sure these are mine and not the whole unit’s?” I can’t count the number of times new parents have sent flowers to the unit, but Nicole shakes her head.

“They have your name on them. New boyfriend?” She wrings her hands together anxiously. “I was hoping to introduce you to Robbie’s friend, Holden, but I would never do that if you have someone else.”

“No. Not a new boyfriend.” Though I should lie and tell her otherwise because I don’t think I can take any more of Robbie’s friends or acquaintances. Leaning forward, I breathe in the lily closest to my face. The velvety texture tickles the tip of my nose, and a ridiculous grin splits my features. I don’t give a damn who they’re from—when you get flowers, especially at work on a day when your heart is being tugged all over the place, you smile.

I pluck the envelope from the bouquet, noting that it’s addressed to Jamila Armstrong. Since my father is the only person I know who calls me by my whole first name, I shrug. “They’re from my dad,” I tell Nicole. “He probably wanted to surprise…” But my train of thought derails the second I slide the contents from the envelope. Not only is there the obligatory note, but there’s also a business card.

One I’ve seen before.

And judging by the uneven crease down the center, it’s the same card I tossed away when I left Mateo Bailon’s office last week.

I read the message carefully, slowly, a breathtaking burn sweeping across my chest.

Lesson 1: I hate waiting. You have my number again, Ms. Armstrong. I think you want to use it.

-B

“Are you okay?” Nicole’s voice cuts into my thoughts, and her attention lowers to my shaking hands as I stuff the note and the card into the front pocket of my top. Robotically, I move my head up and down.

“I—” I exhale a harsh breath. He sent me flowers. King Swing-A-Ling sent me flowers at my job. Which means he knows where I work. Knows my entire first name. Bailon knew the moment he sent the flowers I wouldn’t just be able to shrug them off—not without questioning him. I grit my teeth at the thought of calling him. Of letting myself play into his game. “An acquaintance sent them. Just an acquaintance,” I say, because I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want to admit how violently my pulse is throbbing either.

I can’t decide if it stems more from anger or from the thrill.

“Well,” Nicole drawls, giving the lilies another envious look as I grab the vase from the counter, “tell your friend to give my husband a pointer or two.”

“Flowers are overrated. Food is filling.” I go for light and teasing but fail miserably, even though she murmurs an “amen.” Tightening my arms around the vase, I glance up at the clock above our heads. I have seventeen minutes of my lunch left. Enough time to take Bailon’s “gift” to my car and to give him what he’s probably waited for all day.