Page 6 of Code Red Chemistry

I swing open the door to find Libby balancing two cups of coffee and a brown paper bag.

“Spill,” she demands, sweeping past me into my tiny apartment.

“Good morning to you, too,” I mutter, accepting the steaming-hot brew she thrusts into my hands.

“You know what I mean,Ms. I didn’t want to talk about what happened at the bar last night, so I ordered another round and zipped my lips about the crazy run-in with an ex.”

“He’s not an ex.”

“Well, he sure as hell is something, now, isn’t he?”

I wrinkle my nose. Libby has a point, but I didn’t want to get into it last night at our celebratory party, and I’m not sure I’m ready to this morning, either. I stall by digging into the bag of fresh bagels with schmear from H&H she’s plunked on the kitchen counter.

The song fades, andAt Lastby the one and only Etta James comes on. I risk a glance at my friend. Sure enough, she’s eyeing me as if I’ve gone mad.

“Whatcha listening to this morning?”

I twist the cinnamon-raisin bagel and use the paper wrapper to scrape off half an inch of cream cheese before moseying over to my phone and hitting pause. There’s no way in hell I’ll admit I spent ten minutes this morning searching for the playlist my sister-in-law, Kristina, put together for the DJ at their reception.

Fortunately, Libby is distracted by the organized chaos of my miniscule living room as she plops down on the couch. “Love songsandmanically reorganizing your apartment before nine am? Man, this is worse than I thought.”

It’s worse than I thought, too, but again, I’m not going to admit that.

I lift a shoulder and take a sip of coffee. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been meaning to box up these textbooks. You remember how we passed our boards and don’t have to study like crazy anymore, right?”

“Oh, I remember,” she says, smugly. “I’m just more certain by the minute that this combination of behaviors is directly correlated with the appearance of a certain firefighter at The Flatiron last night…”

“I didn’t realize that besides internal medicine, you also specialize in psychoanalysis.”

“Zoe,” Libby heaves, shifting sideways on the couch to face me. She stills as she unwraps an everything bagel with cream cheese.“You hit Levi with the ‘no, thank you,’ when he asked you out and then practically sprinted to the bar after the guys headed out.”

“I didn’t sprint,” I protest, but my declaration sounds weak, even to my ears. “I just…needed some air. And it’snota good idea for me to see him again, even though I’m worried he’ll crash the dinner Alex and Kristina are having for me a week from Friday.”

“Zoe Meyer,” Libby says, leveling me with alook. “I’ve known you since our first day of residency. I’ve seen you handle everything from projectile vomiting to that hemorrhaging trauma patient who coded three times in the ER, all without breaking a sweat. But one blistering exchange with an ex and you bolt? And you don’t want to see him again? There’s a story there.”

“It wasn’t blistering,” I insist, though the descriptor isn’t too far off. Especially after Levi leaned in and I caught that whiff of smoke and spicy aftershave. “And I told you, he’s not an ex. Plus, it’s not a story. It’s ancient history.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, holding up her bagel as if it, too, is innocent.

I breathe a sigh of relief until she continues, her tone suspiciously casual. “But I also came by this morning to confirm our plans for that NYFD charity gala on Saturday. You’re still good to be my plus one, right?”

“You had me from the wordshot firefighter auction. The fact they’re raising money for the children’s burn unit at Central Park West is just the cherry on top.”

As I shoot off my response without a thought, I suddenly realize Levi is a hot NYFD firefighter. Surely, there’s no way he’s one of the handful of probably thousands across the city who’ll be sold to the highest bidder. But as I snatch a bite of muchneeded carb, I catch a glimpse of Libby’s face and the bagel lodges in my throat.

“No,” I croak. “He can’t be…”

“Sure is.”

What. The. Hell?

I pound my chest and reach for my coffee.

“Brock told me just last night that apparently, your brother’s best friend—you know the guy who couldn’t take his eyes off you at the bar and who you turned down flat but also apparently doused in mojito at some point in yourancient history—is one of the men being auctioned off.”

Damn.

My hands shake as I take a long swig of coffee and process this announcement.

---