I stare down at the poor excuse for a slice of birthday cake sitting on what passes for my equally poor excuse for a desk. The “cake” is really only a peanut butter sandwich with a half-burned little tea light-type of candle sitting on top of it. On some level it’s a pathetic attempt at normalcy, not that I remember much how normal feels anymore.

Rummaging around in the plastic tub on my desk, I try to find the box of matches I accepted a while ago. After a few seconds of searching, I find them, pull one out, and light the candle.

Make a wish Elle. I close my eyes.

I wish my prince would come so I can have my happily ever after.

I cringe as I blow out the candle. Does any girl over the age of ten even believe in fairy tales? Let alone wish for one?

Guilt bubbles inside me as I stand from the folding chair that is the only other piece of furniture in the tiny room serving as my office. I should have wished for that. An office. A real place to sit and do my work. Or for supplies for the clinic. Or for medicine for the kids I treat. Damn, for anything that a real medical clinic should have.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I came to work in South America at this charity pediatric clinic in Rio de Campo, but it didn’t include having to wish for supplies. It also didn’t include the less-than-ideal conditions of this place—and that’s putting it mildly.

I don’t even reach the door of my little office before my assistant Raul comes rushing in, breathless. “Doctor…Elle. Doctor—" He reaches out with one hand, his other hand on his chest as he gasps for air. “I… He…"

My brow furrows and I walk over to him, concerned he might be having chest pain again. I place a hand on his shoulder. “Slow down. Take a breath—”

He pushes my hand away, still clutching at his chest. “No." He straightens, slowing his breathing. “A…a man is here."

My brow wrinkles again, but not with concern for Raul this time. I’ve spent a lot of time over the last year worrying about the one employee at my clinic, but I don’t remember him ever looking so distraught.

He nods and gulps down the last of his breathlessness. “A man. An official man. He asks to meet with the doctor." He nods again, and the deep creases on his forehead tell me how concerned he is about this visitor. “He says he is from Montovia."

My heart races in my chest. My face feels like it’s on fire and I try to swallow my sense of dread. There is no official visit scheduled—no inspection. The country that founded this children’s clinic has never even been here to my knowledge. I’m only the second doctor who’s worked here since the clinic opened, but they haven’t been here at all in the almost-year I’ve served. I haven’t heard a peep from them—no emails, no calls. Nothing. It makes no sense that some official from Montovia would show up for an unannounced inspection. Central Europe is a hell of a long way from where we are in South America, and you’d think there would have at least been enough time for an email before they showed up at my door.

I suck in a breath and puff out my chest. I press my lips together, and I walk into the small lobby where a man is standing with his back to me. He’s tapping his fingers rhythmically on the counter, almost like he’s playing a tune on a piano.

He’s tall. Muscular. I can see the outline of his shoulders through his white dress shirt. He has his suit jacket folded over the arm that isn’t strumming out whatever tune he’s playing on my lobby counter. I wonder for a second who he’s trying to impress. We don’t see anyone in suits around here—even if they are official representatives from Montovia—and he would have to do a lot more than wear a suit to impress me. Besides, I have to wonder about his intelligence, wearing that outfit in weather like this.

I glance down at my clothes, which have probably been damp since I put them on. I don’t even notice it anymore, but I still remember how hot it felt when I first arrived here. Because of the constant heat and humidity, I stopped wearing makeup a long time ago. I don’t even do anything with my hair now other than throw it into a ponytail. There’s no point—makeup melts off when I wear it and if I leave my hair down, it curls into a frizzy, matted wad.

A hot mess. That’s what I am. A hot and sticky mess.

He’s going to be old. Something tells me that when this guy turns around, he’s going to be old enough to be my grandfather. Because that is how my luck is. Not that I believe in luck. I just somehow know. He’s going to be old and gross and a total dick, especially when he starts asking questions.

I clear my throat and the man turns. Our eyes meet and…holy shit.

He’s not old.

Not only is he not old or decrepit, but he’s also my age. And oh my fucking God—he’s not ugly, either.

He’s beautiful, to be honest. His hair is the same color as the sand on the beach where I lived before I came here. And his eyes—oh my God, his eyes. They’re like deep blue miniature oceans…

The heat rises in my face again—my whole body is on fire now. And this time, it has nothing to do with my fear of having an official visitor auditing my clinic. I’m almost embarrassed by how my body is reacting to simply having this man look at me. He hasn’t spoken a single word, and it seems like I’m about to melt into a puddle of warm goo.

Maybe I’ve been out of society for so long I’m having a psychological reaction. A very inappropriate reaction, judging by the way the heat in my body is coiling in places I should not feel while I’m at work.

Stop. This. Now.

I’m a professional. I’m a doctor, for Christ’s sake. It’s not like I’ve never seen a man before—it might be the mothers who usually bring their children into this clinic, but I’ve been around plenty of men in my life. I suppose it has been awhile, but the year I’ve been here has gone by quickly. And it’s not like I’m held prisoner—it’s been my choice to live like a hermit. Everything is easier that way.

I need to get it together since I know what’s coming next. I can guess why he might be here, but I can’t seem to make my brain think about that now. And I can’t help gawking at him—at what I’m imagining to be his perfect abs under the shirt clinging a little too much to his body because of the lack of air-conditioning. And his ocean blue eyes that haven’t left mine. And—

“Dr. Eleanor Parker?" He glances down at the file in his arm as his brows knit together. “You’re Dr. Eleanor Parker?"

“You can call me Elle. Everyone does." The words fly out of my mouth before I even have a chance to think them through—my mouth has somehow disconnected from my brain. And it’s probably more that my brain has disconnected from everything in favor of the electrical current overtaking my body. It’s his European accent. If I can just ignore that…

His mouth falls open a little. “I thought you were going to be older. Much older." He glances down again at the file he’s carrying on top of the suit jacket still folded over his arm. “Am I at the right place? The Montovia Children’s Clinic?"

I can’t seem to shake my sense of dread, wondering what he must think of the humble conditions of this place. But at least there are no chickens running around at the moment. And no one has brought a goat with them for a few days, so it doesn’t smell particularly bad today.

But I nod. It’s all I can do at this point. Even with my dread, I’m about to suggest some very inappropriate things to this man if I allow myself to speak much more. It isn’t like me to be like this, and my cheeks grow impossibly hot again. I am a professional. A doctor. And I don’t lose control of myself, my mouth, my body. Nothing. I am in control. Always.

I don’t know why I have to keep reminding myself, but I do. I am not this girl. Not anymore. And I’m not a girl at all. I’m a professional woman, and I do not let myself act like this.

“Right." His brow creases and he tilts his head. “Well, Elle. We need to talk."

* * *