Page 19 of Sticky Situationship

Libby arches an eyebrow.

“Really,” I insist, tipping my head toward the Tupperware on the counter. “She even sent dinner for you when I left before we sat down to eat tonight.”

Her eyes twinkle. “In a rush to get somewhere, were you?”

“I’m just sorry it took so long for me to come to my senses.”

“Me, too,” she says, squeezing me tight. “But what’s in the other box?”

I return the hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “A chocolate cupcake.”

“My favorite.”

“I know.”

My stomach growls, the sound audible in the quiet. But before I can ask if I can fix her a plate, her hands slide south and grab my ass, tugging me against her. “Any chance dinner can wait?”

Epilogue | Libby |Two Months Later

Spring is in theair, thanks to warm sunrays filtering through the high rises down to the bustling streets of Soho as Zoe and I push through the heavy wooden door of The Flatiron, a neighborhood bar just around the corner from Manhattan General. The place, which has been around since the 1800s, is full of old wood and worn leather booths. The smell of beer and aged whiskey lingers in the air, mingling with the faint scent of polished brass.

“There they are!” Zoe squeals, grabbing my arm and pointing toward the back of the bar, where our fellow residents are clustered around a cobbled together collection of tall tables.

I cradle a box of homemade cupcakes in both hands as Dr. Hanson lifts a glass to wave us down as we weave our way through the Friday happy hour crowd.

“Dr. Bauer, Dr. Meyer,” he says in greeting, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.

“So you do own clothing other than lab coats and three piece suits,” Zoe says, eyeing his black polo as we settle in and exchange grins and high-fives with our colleagues.

Before Dr. Hanson can respond, a striking blonde bartender with a full-sleeve tattoo approaches, balancing a tray of champagne flutes.

“Compliments of a Dr. Novak,” she announces, setting down the tray with a flourish.

“Who knew they served champagne here?” Zoe says, plucking a flute off the tray as I glance around for Brock’s mom, who is nowhere in sight.

“What’s the special occasion?” the bartender asks, distributing the rest of the glasses among us.

“We passed our medical boards,” Zoe informs her, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Congratulations!”

A warm glow spreads through my chest. A feeling like I've been floating on air that's taken over ever since we got the official results earlier this week. It's over and done. Of course we're facing ongoing PD for the rest of our careers, but this phase, this test, is behind us. And I passed. We all did.

I wish Brock were here to join in the festivities. But he’s in the middle of a twenty-four-hour shift at the station and maybe out saving a life as we speak.

Zoe raises her glass. “To us! For surviving residency, acing our boards, and proving that sleep is totally overrated.”

Laughter erupts around the table as we clink glasses. The cold, crisp champagne bubbles tickle my nose and dance on my tongue. This moment is great, of course, but I wish Brock were here to share it. He’s been a rock these past few months, and once we worked through the miscommunication about his ‘girlfriend’ and confessed our true feelings, I was able to put in the hours of studying I needed to and spend time with him, too.

I pull out my phone and snap a selfie with my champagne, shooting it off to him with a quick text.Wish you were here.

Just as I hit send, a hush falls over the bar. I turn to see what's caught everyone's attention only to find a firetruck pulling up to the curb outside and an entire crew piling out. Led by a very familiar firefighter.

Seconds later, the bar’s front door swings open, letting in a gust of fresh air. My jaw drops as every eye in the place focuses on my man. Because there, framed in the doorway like some firefighter daydream come to life, stands Brock, backlit by the sun's long late afternoon rays. His navy shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and suspenders hold up his turnout gear pants over work boots. He’s holding an enormous bouquet of flowers and searching the crowd. For me.

I've never seen anything sexier in my entire life and my body responds in kind, my thighs clenching as desire pools in my low belly.

Three more firefighters, all three equally decked out, enter behind Brock and flank his sides while I nearly snap the champagne flute's stem in half.

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