Page 46 of Wistful Whispers
I’m fascinated. She’s so much different when she talks about her family. All the rough edges smooth out.
“I should see them more,” she admits. There’s something heavy in her expression now, a weight that wasn’t there a moment ago. “I want to. Work always gets in the way.”
I know the feeling. Too well.
“You should make time,” I encourage. “Before you look up and realize you missed more than you meant to.”
She lifts her gaze to mine. Something unreadable flickers in her mesmerizing hazel eyes. Maybe it’s the atmosphere of the dimly lit restaurant. For a moment, it feels like we aren’t adversaries, or even uneasy allies. We’re two people, trying to navigate the choices defining their lives.
“Yeah.” She exhales, a slow, measured breath. “I should.”
The tension between us shifts, softening into something else—something more comfortable. Making her next question feel even more direct.
“So tell me, Doctor McGloughlin.” She swirls her wine like she’s a bit uncomfortable. “What’s with the extracurricular activities in the stairwell?”
I nearly choke on my drink. “Excuse me?”
“The women. The rumors. The, uh…apparent exceptional level of anatomical knowledge.” She flicks her gaze to mine.
I drag a hand down my face. “Jesus.”
“What? You’ve got to realize everyone is talking about it.” She tilts her head. “The lawyer in me worries you’re setting yourself up for a different kind of lawsuit.”
I push the wine glass away as I weigh my words. The truth feels too raw—too personal to lay out in a casual conversation over dinner with a woman I barely know. Marcella watches me with sharp, assessing eyes, and for some reason, I don’t want her to assume the worst about me.
“I’ve never analyzed it too deeply,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck.
She quirks an eyebrow, clearly waiting for more.
I exhale and lean forward, lowering my voice. “Look, I’m not an idiot. I know what people say. Hell, you brought it up in my deposition. I won’t lie—there’s a reason I’ve had my fair share of…experiences. Notexclusivelyin stairwells, for fuck’s sake, though they’re awfully convenient when you fucking live at the hospital. Definitely not in the way you’re thinking.”
“What do you mean?” Her brow furrows slightly.
I glance around the restaurant, feeling an unfamiliar wave of nerves tense in my chest. I don’t usually get anxious. Not in surgery and sure as hell not when talking to women. With her?
This is uncharted territory.
“It means,” I say carefully, “if you did your homework you’d know I never actually fucked anyone in said stairwells. Let me blow your mind. Technically, I’m still a virgin.”
Marcella’s lips part with shock. She says nothing. Stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“You can pick your jaw up off the floor.” I fight the urge to smirk.
She blinks, shaking her head slightly. “I’m sorry. I find it difficult to believe with your reputation—”
“A reputation I’ve never bothered to correct because my sex life is no one’s business unless I choose to share it.” I narrow my eyes.
She studies me and there’s a palpable shift in her demeanor—curiosity laced with desire? “Why do you do it then?”
“I got into medicine because my family has a history of alcoholism.” I gesture to my untouched wine. “I wanted to understand why some brains are wired toward addiction.”
Marcella moves the glass away. “I’m sorry for being presumptuous about the wine. Let’s order something else.”
“It’s fine. I’m good with water.” I hold up my glass and take a sip.
She nods. We look at each other for a beat.
She purses her lips and smiles. “Continue…”
