My morning starts with a frequent flyer who hasn’t been able to find his pulse for over a week. His previous visit was for chest pain during masturbation after smoking crack, so I suggested he give up either the crack or masturbating. Next up, removal of a rotten tampon, followed by an examination for “chicken pox on a penis.” Hello herpes! Finally, while everyone else is actually saving lives, I’m given the old guy complaining of a tick on his butt, which turns out to be a Brach’s butterscotch stuck in his ass hair. The funny part … I’ve seen this patient numerous times and he has the most timid personality—a real “candy ass.”

I crack myself up!

The truth: I love my job. Puzzles for me over TV any day, but none have ever been as challenging and addictive as the mystical human body. My nana has an old cedar chest she calls the graveyard. It’s filled with baby dolls and stuffed animals that look like they’ve been maimed by a pack of wolves. Limbs that were cut and torn off then sewn back on, eye patches, bandages, toilet paper casts, and red fingernail polish aka dried blood—I received my calling early on.

As the piercing sirens draw near with a gunshot wound victim, my senses heighten. I feel stronger and faster while my vision sharpens and my skin tingles, like a numbing that makes me feel invincible to pain. I’m nearly panting like a dog waiting for its dinner; it’s possible I’m even drooling a little. Adrenaline: It’s my favorite drug.

“I’ve got this.” Dr. Ellis shoves two charts into my chest before strutting his authoritative, pompous ass toward the ER entrance like God has crowned him king for the day. “Abdominal pain in room one; sutures in three.”

Even in the adult world, bullies pop balloons. If I were a guy, I’d be grabbing my crotch looking for my balls. Yep, they’re there, shoe marks and all.

“He’s just pissed you’re with Ashby and not him. His shift ended ten minutes ago.” My straight-talking nurse, Jade, hands me a pen to sign off on a chart.

I huff out a fiery breath of evil contempt for all men. “Cute hair.” I glance up, forcing a small smile. She fluffs her short, bouncy, black curls.

“I decided to embrace my African-American heritage.”

I laugh, walking past her to the sutures in three. “That or you decided to try a new look for Doctor … What’s his name? Oh yes, Dr. I Buy Coffee For All The Nurses In Exchange For Blow Jobs. Please tell me you’re not falling for Creepy Creighton.

“You’re just bitter because you don’t drink coffee.”

“Well even if I did, it would never be that flavor. Sutures?”

Jade clears her throat. “Yeah, about that …”

I turn, a cliff’s edge away from the door to room three. “What about it?” Flipping open the chart, I read the medical history of Patrick Roth, age twenty-eight.

“He cut his hand, working on his bike.”

I glance up from the chart. “And?”

“He’s … intense.”

“Are you sweating?”

Jade swipes her fingers across her brow then looks at them. “No. Well maybe.” She steps closer, glancing around as if we’re surrounded by spies. “He’s a squirrel.”

I pull my head back, reclaiming my personal space. “He brought in a squirrel?”

Jade shuts her eyes, shaking her head. “No. He is a squirrel. Seriously, Darby? You don’t know that a hot-ass guy is called a squirrel?”

I close the chart. “What moron came up with that?”

“I’m getting you an Urban Dictionary for Christmas. How can you work in the heart of Chicago and not be well versed in streetwise lingo?”

Jade receives my best stink eye as I open the door.

Oh hell!

Jade walks on my heels like an unexpected speed bump, nudging me a step farther into the room than what my legs would voluntarily go on their own. She pinches my arm. “Told ya,” she whispers.

“Good—”

Good what? Good morning? Good afternoon? Good evening? Good God!

“Day … good day, Mr. Roth. I’m …” This is that moment, the one when you’re jogging down the sidewalk with a strong stride feeling fit, confident, and then it happens—trip. Maybe no more than a quarter inch crack that catches the toe of your shoe sending your legs into a flailing panic to keep your body vertical. That’s all it takes. One second to go from dauntless to dazed.

This “crack” and its colorful collage of ink canvasing skin over lean muscled arms holds my gaze captive, stopping time for a few awkward seconds. He’s just so …

“Ahem!” An elbow rams into my arm, jerking me out of my reverie—okay, flat out gawking. “Patrick, this is Darby Carmichael. She’s going to stitch you up and get you on your way.”

Dark, that’s the word. Dark hair strategically styled in at least a dozen conflicting directions. Dark brows and lashes, dark stubble, and hazel eyes pinning me with a piercing dark look.

“Uh … huh.”

The most kissable lips twitch, not a smile—more of an amused acknowledgment of me … Yes, me staring and using sounds like “uh … huh” instead of real words that an educated medical professional should use. Then I notice a pearly faded scar above his eye, one of those perfect imperfections that give character and story to a person.

“Darby?” Jade holds up a pair of blue nitrile gloves, ticktocking in front of my face.

Her voice muffles like an echo from underwater, the eerie world of submersion when you feel like you can hear blood running through your veins against the cadence of your heart. I suck in a breath, more like a gasp. Scrubbing my hands at the sink with thorough intensity, I try to find my stride again—my voice. If there is a God, I pray he will grant me a small shred of dignity to go with it. “Tell me what happened.” I dry my hands.

He holds up his hand wrapped in a blood-soiled towel. “Cut my hand … tightening a bolt.” Yep, his voice is just as dark as the rest of his suffocating sexiness. It’s deep with a slight raspy edge that allows me to actually feel it, not just hear it. He might as well have said, “I just dropped by to suck on your nipples.” Either way, I’m Frosty on a warm day—a guaranteed puddle on the floor by the time he leaves.

Fuck the threat of measles … I’ll take spots over this nasty case of stammering poppycock. Give me a vaccine for that!

I unwrap his hand then glance up to see his reaction to the deep cut. He cannot pass out. I’ve already reserved that right and it has nothing to do with his hand, just self-preservation. But he’s not looking at his hand; he’s looking at me.

Shit! Breathe, Darby, breathe.

He smells good. Is it his soap or cologne? Or is it just sexy? I didn’t think sexy had a smell—until now.

Shit! Don’t breathe, Darby, don’t breathe.

Patrick is not my first squirrel, but my professionalism has never wavered. Patients are puzzles waiting to be pieced back together, nothing more. But dear God, all I want to do is nuzzle my nose into his neck and inhale like I’m taking my first breath.

“I’m going to clean the wound then you’ll need a few stitches.”

“You’re the doctor.”

Jeez! That voice …

I look down and get to work putting him back together. “I’m not actually a doctor. I’m a PA—a physician assistant.” Voilà! With those words, my hands takeover what my brain has struggled to remember. I’m a physician assistant. I’m a professional and this man is nothing more than my patient.

His hand becomes just that—a hand. It no longer matters that it’s attached to a body that … that … God, there are no words, not even in my head. I convince myself it might as well be a cadaver hand. I’m not sure what my glitch was a few moments ago. Maybe Jade’s ridiculous squirrel comment messed with my head. But I’m back.

Good mental pep talk, Darby!

“Change the bandage every twenty-four hours and try to keep the wound dry for forty-eight hours. You can set up an appointment to have the stitches removed in eight to ten days. I noticed on your chart that you can’t remember the last time you had a tetanus shot; I recommend one before you leave. Jade can get that for you.” I peel off my gloves and wash my hands. “Do you have any questions?”

He shakes his head, I hope in response to my question and not my cringe-worthy behavior. My dignity sure is shaking her head as she frees herself from my smothering libido. It took years to get my degree and only minutes for my brain to melt into a pile of mush. I restrict my gaze to the sink, the floor, then his chart—anything to keep from looking at him. “Okay then, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Roth.”

I risk a glance with a nervous smile. Those eyes flick to mine then fade along my body like a sheet being snapped over a bed, floating through the air until landing in its place. I wipe my brow with the back of my hand. Shit! Now I’m sweating.

I leave the room in desperate search of my missing confidence and professionalism. It was with me before I entered room three, so it has to be around here somewhere. From the computer at the nurses’ station, I take a quick look up as Mr. Roth saunters out, leaving a wake of self-combusting females along his path. Sure enough he’s staring at me, no smile. Ducking my head, I swipe my tongue along my teeth. Do I have something in my teeth? Why the look?

“Is it wrong that I gave him his tetanus shot in the butt?”

My head whips up from the computer. “What? You gave him—”

Jade giggles and plops the chart down in front of me. “Kidding. But holy hell, did you see the tats on that guy? A body like that could leave you speechless. Oh that’s right … you were speechless.”

Focusing back on the monitor, I shake my head. “I was just distracted by the GSW that Ellis stole from me, that’s all.”

“Mmm hmm,” Jade hums with a smirk that matches my own.

The five mile commute to my condo in Lincoln Park takes twenty minutes to navigate in the massive crush of people, cars, and busses. Keeping with my normal routine, I strip then pull on my shorts and sports bra while listening to phone messages.

Darby, Cal wanted me to remind you about the fundraising dinner this weekend. I’ll send over your dress, and I can also arrange to have your hair and makeup done. Will Steven be picking you up, or shall I send a car for you? Call me, darling.

“Call me, darling!” Sarcastic contempt leaks from every cell in my body. Darling? Seriously, at forty-one, Rachel, my “stepmom,” is closer to my age than my father’s. I think that’s why she refers to him as Cal instead of my dad or father. She’s caught in the middle—not quite old enough to be my mother but young enough to be Calvin Carmichael’s daughter. What can I say? My father has Hugh Hefner Syndrome. He had it when he married my mom. She was twenty-two years his junior. He’s my father and genetically I’m programmed to love him, but Calvin Carmichael doesn’t have a monogamous bone in his body.

I hop on my bike and spin out my legs because I love exercising! Who doesn’t? It’s good for my heart and I love the neurogenesis, mood enhancement, and endorphin release. Just kidding! I do it because I love food as much as boots and skinny jeans.

To take my mind off the sweat and burn, I channel surf. Dating Naked is on; I roll my eyes at the stupidity of it. Speaking of stupid relationships, I remember to call Steven.

He answers on the first ring. “I’ve got thirty seconds, Darb, go.”

Yeah, that’s our sex life too—lucky me!

“Are you still planning on going this weekend?” I ask like I actually care … which I don’t.

“Oh crap! The fundraiser. I’m on call so I might have to miss it or leave if there’s an emergency. Is that a problem?”

I laugh. Fifty-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner that your parents are paying for … Nah, it’s no problem for me. “Hey, you’re saving lives.”

“You know it, babe. Gotta go.”

Dr. Steven Ashby, sole heir to Ashby Communications, drives a yellow convertible Corvette and calls himself a metrosexual. That pretty much wraps up his personality. Our relationship is convenient and approved by both his parents and mine—well, my father and evil stepmother.

“Hey, Rachel, sorry I missed your call. Steven is planning on attending the dinner this weekend, so I’ll ride with him. However, he’s on call, but I have the know-how and resources to figure out my own transportation. I look forward to seeing the dress you picked out for me. Tell my father ‘hi.’ See you Saturday.”

I press End on my phone and crank up the resistance until my legs feel the fire. Skinny jeans, skinny jeans, skinny jeans. I hate lying, but with my family it’s necessary for survival. The truth? I’m not sorry I missed Rachel’s call, and I’m not looking forward to seeing the dress she picked out for me.

Rachel Hart founded Hart Designs in her mid-twenties. She has the look and the money my father likes. He has the clout and connections she likes. I may be bitter, but I’m not blind. She has insane talent and celebrities around the world flock to have her design one-of-a-kind gowns.

I have a closet full of them, mostly in hues of green. Rachel says purple, blue, and red are other suitable colors for my ginger hair and fair skin, but green is “stunning on me so why mess with perfection?” The problem is it feels too perfect. I have a Saint Paddy’s Day birthday, and I’m not sure if it’s because or in spite of it … I don’t like green.

After an intense, sweat-dripping workout and a shower, I inspect the reflection in the mirror with a scrutinizing eye, then I call Gemmie.

“Is this a 9-1-1 emergency?” she answers with her usual snarky attitude.

I laugh. “Yes, Gemmie, it is.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the ritzy fundraiser this weekend, now would it?”

“You know me so well. I was going to do my—”

“Yeah, yeah, you were going to do your own hair until you took a break from saving the sin-filled city of Chicago one stab wound at a time and looked in a mirror. Then you realized there’s only one person who can transform your flaming mane into a work of art. Enter, yours truly.”

“I hope all that gibberish is your way of saying you’ll do my hair on Saturday.”

“Ask nicely.”

I sigh. “Please.”

“Please will get you on my schedule in two months.”

“Pretty please.”

“One month, twenty-nine days …”

Another sigh. “You’re amazing.”

“One month … keep going.”

“I need some help here, Gemmie—”

“Gemmie, you’re a goddess … an artist, and true creator of miracles. I need you like my next breath and—”

“You name the price and I’ll pay it.” She’s going to break me.

“I’ll see you at one o’clock. Who’s doing your makeup?”

“Me.”

She gasps. “Oh hell no!”

“Why not?” I lean closer to the mirror and look at my skin. It’s porcelain … ish. There may be a few minor flaws but nothing like the rutted surface I feared when I was going through the most torturous puberty ever. A little rouge, lip gloss, and mascara to accent my blue eyes should be all that’s needed. I’m not into the gaudy, caked-on look.

“If you have to ask, then that’s your answer. I’ve got a guy. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

“Gem—”

“Goodnight, honey.”

My emerald dress was delivered yesterday. Thankfully it fits. I’m not the runway giraffe Rachel is used to sheathing in the world’s finest textiles. With good posture I’m five-six, and my hip region, while somewhat slim and toned, suggests I come from a line of women built for child bearing. Some things you just can’t change.

“Is Dr. Drab accompanying you tonight?”

I peek out from under the foil because apparently I need just a dash of highlight around my face. “He’s not drab.”

“He is. That’s why he drives that hideous banana on wheels. He’s overcompensating.”

“Gemmie, you’ve seen him once, and it was just a quick introduction. How can you conclude from ‘Hi, nice to meet you,’ that he’s drab?”

She raises her penciled brows at me. “I don’t trust him.”

I laugh. “My stylist with half her head buzzed and the other half dyed blue doesn’t trust my date because he drives a yellow sports car. Please tell me you see the irony in this.”

She leads me to the sink and leans me back to wash out my hair. “You refer to him as Steven or your date, but never your boyfriend. Yet you don’t date anyone else, and he hasn’t put a ring on your finger. Please tell me you see the irony in that?”

“Steven’s nice and an excellent doctor.” He’s self-absorbed and a mediocre doctor, if I’m completely honest.

Gemmie massages my scalp with her nails; I release a shameless moan. I love having my hair done. What girl doesn’t? It ranks up there with facials and pedicures. If Steven could work a nice scalp massage into foreplay, I think I could overlook his unusual habit of talking in the third person during sex.

“He’s convenient, and you’re too lazy to find a better guy.”

“I’m busy, not lazy. I don’t need a guy, and I sure as hell don’t need a ring on my finger. You may not trust Steven, but I don’t trust any guys.”

She wraps a towel around my head. “I hear ya, sister. I’m the youngest of four girls. All my sisters have drained my parents’ wedding fund and showered them with grandchildren. I can’t make it past a third date let alone find a guy worthy of meeting my family.”

“Maybe your standards are too high.”

Pursing her lips, she rolls her head like letting a fine wine breath before tasting it. “Nah, men just aren’t made the same as they used to be—too much inbreeding.”

A snort hijacks my ladylike laugh, sending us both into a fit of giggles.

I sigh after the silliness settles into a simmering smile. “So where am I going for this unnecessary makeup application?”

Gemmie spins me around so I’m facing the mirror and jerks her head toward the front window. “Across the street. You can thank me later. The only place that’s possibly more difficult to get into on short notice than the chair you’re sitting in right now. They’re not as easily persuaded by the name-your-price offer.”

I glance out the window. “Rogue Seduction?”

“Yep. They’re not exactly listed in the phone book. In fact, you need a prominent referral to get an appointment.”

I look at Gemmie’s reflection. “You’re my referral?”

She laughs with a wide-eyed duh look. “Yes, and I only get to make a few a year, so you should feel special.”

My shoulders bob up and down once, unable to muster anymore enthusiasm. “It’s just makeup.”

“It’s ‘just makeup’ and the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is ‘just a painting.’”

I don’t argue. As much as it disappoints my father and Rachel, fashion and glamour, money and influence, are not my things. My father is “politician rich” meaning he does okay, but he lives like the rich and famous because of Rachel.

“So does this makeup guy know I’m attending a political fundraiser? I don’t want to look like a street-walking cake face.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she yells over the dryer.

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”

“It’s not about what you want; it’s all about what you need.”

I squint at her, hoping the pointedness of my gaze boring into her eyes will accentuate my words. “Well, I need to not look like a cheap tramp.”

She’s immune to my non-existent superpower. “That’s not your decision. Trick will decide what you need. Don’t worry, I promise you’ll get the high-class tramp look.” Gemmie winks.

“Trick?”

“Yep. Trust me, you won’t care what he does to you once you see him.”

My face holds an untrusting scowl.

Gemmie smiles. “No worries. He’s a guilt-free pleasure.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s gay.”