Page 48 of Wistful Whispers
Seamus McGloughlin stands in front of me, wrecked and brazen, saying out loud every impossible thing he’s whispered to me in my dreams.
Time to shut this down. Protect myself.
I open my mouth to tell Seamus to stop. He doesn’t give me the chance.
“I can’t get you out of my head,” he grits out, his voice lower, rougher. “I can’t sleep. Or concentrate. It fucking kills me you think I’m some misogynistic asshole who’d treat you that way.” His gaze drops to my lips before flicking back up. “If circumstances were different, would you even give me the time of day?”
I can’t breathe.
I’ve spent weeks having vivid, explicit, orgasmic fantasies about this man. The way his hands and mouth worshipped me has felt so real, I wake up aching and desperate for something I never thought was possible.
This gorgeous, younger, hotshot surgeon who, apparently, has every woman in the hospital clamoring for him thinks I’d never givehimthe time of day?
What alternative universe am I living in?
My lips part. Still, no words come out. I’ve got nothing but shock, disbelief, and something dangerously close to hope clawing at my chest.
Until reality douses me with ice.
Or, maybe, insecurity.
Who thefuckdoes this little shit think he is? He’s suckered me into feeling sorry for him with his stories of virginity and complicated family dynamics. Now he’s pretending to be attracted to me.
I can see why the women of the hospital fell for his charm. He’sgood. A player. Earnest. Bold. Self-assured.
Insincere.
Right. Because, if he says he’s attracted to you, there’s no way he could be sincere.
My inner voice spears me like a sword. I’ll never believe him. Age difference or not, Seamus McGloughlin reminds me of men who—time and time again—have made me feel like I’m not enough.
I’ll never be enough.
I need to leave—reestablish the boundary I blurred the moment I asked him to dinner. What the hell was I thinking? I’ve let this veer too far. My judgment slipped when personal curiosity outweighed my professionalism.
This isn’t friendly conversation; it’s now something—dangerous. On all levels.
Focus, Marcella.
I need this guy for one reason—to take down Caldwell. Time to shove this personal shit back into the box and lock it tight before I make a mistake I can’t take back.
I curl my lip and a layer of armor slips into place. “If circumstances were different, I wouldn’t even be in your orbit, Dr. McGloughlin.”
“You’re wrong.” A muscle ticks in his cheek. His gaze stays steady on mine.
“No?” I arch a brow, willing my voice to stay steady. “You can have any woman you want. Youdohave any woman you want and don’t give any ofthemany part of yourself.” I tilt my head, giving him a once-over. “Do you really think I’d have such a low opinion of myself I’d fall for your BS? So what if I’ve never been with a man who takes the time to get me off. I’m not your experiment. Or problem to fix. I want more in my life than getting rubbed off by some fuckboy in a stairwell. Have a little respect.”
Oh. Holy. Fuck. What in the hell did I say?
I can feel my face redden.
His face crumbles for a second. He shifts in his seat like he’s incredibly uncomfortable. Seamus McGloughlin—the golden boy of neurosurgery, the too-good-to-be-true man who women practically climb over each other to get to—is at a loss.
I didn’t mean to slice him open, though. I just wanted space. Control.
God, I certainly didn’t want to see this hollowed-out look in his eyes. I should’ve taken the high road—held the line without making it personal.
We sit across from each other, both of us stunned—by what’s been said, what hasn’t, and wherever this places us now.
