Chapter 2

Corbin stripped off the latex gloves and tossed them into the biohazard bin. "You have a severe urinary tract infection," he said, turning his back to write on a prescription pad. "I'm prescribing a strong course of antibiotics. Get dressed."

He didn't look back as he walked out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

Hope scrambled off the table the second he was gone. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely manage the zipper on her skirt. She threw her clothes on, buttoning her blouse wrong in her frantic rush. She grabbed her purse and bolted out of the examination room like the building was on fire.

She kept her head down as she hurried through the plush lobby, terrified she might lock eyes with that devastatingly handsome doctor again. She pushed through the glass doors and hit the New York pavement.

The crisp autumn wind hit her flushed face. She let out a long, shaky exhale. She reached into her bag to grab her phone to check the time.

Her fingers met empty space.

Hope stopped walking. She dug frantically through the contents of her purse. No phone. And then it hit her-she hadn't grabbed the prescription slip either. They were both sitting on the metal tray next to the examination table.

A fresh wave of pelvic pain radiated through her lower back, a cruel reminder that she couldn't just walk away. Without that prescription, she couldn't get the medicine.

"No, no, no," Hope groaned aloud, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.

She turned around and dragged her feet back toward the clinic entrance. The walk of shame felt ten times longer.

She approached the marble reception desk. "Excuse me," Hope said, keeping her voice low. "I left my phone and my prescription in exam room two. Can someone grab them for me?"

The receptionist was typing rapidly, a phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. She pointed a manicured finger down the hallway. "Wait outside the door. A nurse will bring it out."

Hope swallowed her pride and walked back down the quiet corridor. She stopped a few feet away from the partially open door of room two. She wrung her hands together, her stomach twisting with anxiety.

Through the crack in the door, she heard Corbin's deep, resonant voice. He was speaking rapidly, using complex medical jargon to instruct a nurse about a surgical prep.

Hope peeked through the gap. Corbin was leaning over the counter, signing a chart. The harsh clinic lighting caught the sharp angles of his profile. The sheer authority radiating from him made Hope's breath catch in her throat.

The nurse suddenly turned and walked out, nearly colliding with Hope. The nurse, looking surprised to see her waiting, offered a brief, professional smile and held out the items. "You forgot these, Ms. Spence."

"Thank you," Hope whispered, clutching the items.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Corbin lift his head, his icy blue eyes shifting toward the doorway.

Hope spun around and practically sprinted down the hallway, fleeing the building before he could say a word.

Once outside, she tapped her phone screen. It lit up with five missed text messages from her mother, Belva.

You better not be late.

Beatrice worked hard to set this up.

He is a doctor. Don't ruin this.

Where are you?

Answer me!

Hope groaned, rubbing her throbbing temples. The blind date. She had completely forgotten. She looked at the address Beatrice had texted her-a high-end French cafe in Midtown.

She hailed another cab. Traffic was a nightmare. As the taxi crawled down Fifth Avenue, Hope pulled out her compact mirror. She looked awful. Her skin was pale, her eyes were red-rimmed, and her hair was a mess. She tried to smooth it down, but she just looked exhausted.

The cab pulled up to the cafe. Hope paid and stepped out, tugging at the hem of her wrinkled skirt. She took a deep breath, pasting a fake, polite smile on her face, and pushed the door open.

Soft jazz floated through the air. The smell of roasted espresso and warm croissants filled the room. Hope looked around, searching for the man Beatrice had described: Wearing a navy suit, reading a medical journal.

The hostess smiled at her. "Table for two? Name?"

"Spence," Hope said. "I'm meeting someone."

"Right this way."

The hostess led her toward a secluded, velvet-lined booth by the window. Hope walked behind her, her eyes landing on the broad, imposing shoulders of a man sitting in the booth. The navy suit he wore looked incredibly expensive, the fabric stretching perfectly across his back.

Hope mentally rehearsed the polite, generic greeting her mother had drilled into her head. Her feet felt heavy as she approached the table.

Hearing her footsteps, the man closed the medical journal on the table and slowly turned his head.

Hope's fake smile froze. Her lungs stopped working. The blood drained completely from her face.

Sitting across from her was Dr. Corbin Mullen.

His dark hair was slightly tousled. He wasn't wearing the white coat anymore, but the icy blue eyes were exactly the same.

Hope's knees buckled. Her leg slammed into the heavy wooden table leg. The impact rattled the table, causing the silver spoon in the coffee cup to clink loudly. A few people at the next table turned to look.

Her brain short-circuited. Her first instinct was to turn and run out the door, but her feet were glued to the hardwood floor.

Corbin stood up. His height immediately dominated the small space. He extended a large, masculine hand toward her, gesturing to the empty seat opposite him.

Hope stared at his hand. Her mind violently flashed back to thirty minutes ago-that exact hand, wrapped in a cold latex glove, touching the most intimate, vulnerable part of her body. Her stomach violently churned. She felt physically sick.

She didn't take his hand. She collapsed onto the velvet sofa like a puppet with its strings cut, her fingers digging into the strap of her purse with a death grip.

Corbin sat back down slowly. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his mouth. He leaned back against the velvet cushions, his eyes locking onto her terrified face.

"It seems New York is a very small city, Ms. Spence," Corbin said, his low voice vibrating with dark amusement.