Chapter 1 - The Stranger Beside Me
After twenty-four hours inside St. Catherine's Medical Center, Manhattan looked less like a city and more like a watercolor somebody had left out in the rain.
Streetlights stretched across the wet pavement in blurred ribbons of gold. Red taillights smeared against black asphalt. Somewhere beyond the hospital entrance, horns screamed, tires hissed through puddles, and people hurried beneath umbrellas as though New York hadn't noticed that I was too exhausted to remain upright.
My name is Bianca Carter.
And on that particular Thursday night, exhaustion almost changed the course of my entire life.
I had started my shift the previous morning.
By the time I finally walked out of the emergency department, I had handled two cardiac arrests, a construction accident, a toddler with a dangerously high fever, three elderly patients who had fallen at home, and an intoxicated college student who repeatedly insisted that I looked exactly like his eighth-grade science teacher.
I did not.
At least I hoped I didn't.
My back hurt. My eyes burned. A dark strand of hair had escaped my bun hours earlier and now hung beside my face. There was dried blood beneath one fingernail that had somehow survived three rounds of scrubbing.
I didn't want dinner.
I didn't want a shower.
I didn't even want to speak.
I wanted sleep.
My phone buzzed.
Driver arriving. Black SUV. South Entrance.
That was all the information my exhausted brain needed.
I stepped through the hospital doors.
The rain had stopped approximately an hour earlier, leaving the sidewalk glossy beneath the city lights. Cool September air touched my face.
A black SUV waited at the curb.
Exactly where I expected it.
The rear passenger door was already slightly open.
That should have been my first clue.
It wasn't.
I climbed inside.
The leather seat seemed impossibly soft beneath me.
The interior smelled faintly of cedar, expensive cologne, and something clean I couldn't identify. The cabin was quiet enough that I could hear my own breathing.
I dropped my work bag beside my feet.
"Thanks," I murmured toward the driver.
He looked at me through the rearview mirror.
His eyebrows rose.
"Ma'am—"
But I'd already leaned against the window.
The cool glass touched my temple.
My eyes closed.
And the world disappeared.
I never heard the driver speak again.
"Sir," he apparently said several moments later, "there's already someone in the back."
I didn't hear the passenger-side door open.
I didn't hear footsteps.
I didn't notice someone sitting beside me.
I simply slept.
Completely.
Unapologetically.
For perhaps ten minutes.
What finally woke me wasn't a sound.
It was a feeling.
That strange instinct everyone has experienced at least once—the unmistakable awareness that somebody is looking at you.
My eyes opened slowly.
For several seconds, I had no idea where I was.
Then I saw him.
A man was sitting beside me.
My brain stopped.
He looked around thirty-two or thirty-three. Maybe older. It was difficult to tell because everything about him carried a kind of controlled confidence that made age seem irrelevant.
Dark, slightly wavy hair.
Sharp jaw.
Light stubble.
Broad shoulders beneath a perfectly tailored navy suit.
A white dress shirt.
Dark tie.
Expensive watch.
And dark eyes that were studying me with an expression somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.
There was a subtle tattoo disappearing beneath his collar.
He wasn't smiling.
But he wasn't angry either.
For one horrible second, neither of us spoke.
Then my exhausted brain finally connected all the pieces.
The smell.
The leather.
The stranger.
The driver.
The fact that my rideshare driver definitely wasn't supposed to have another passenger already inside.
"This isn't my car," I whispered.
The man's mouth moved slightly.
"No."
His voice was low and calm.
"It isn't."
I shot upright.
Too quickly.
My neck cracked.
"Oh my God."
He raised one eyebrow.
"I'm so sorry."
"It's all right."
"No, it absolutely isn't."
I grabbed my bag.
My stethoscope caught around the handle.
I yanked it loose.
"I finished a double shift—actually more than a double shift—and my app said black SUV, south entrance, and there was a black SUV at the south entrance, and the door was open, and apparently my brain decided checking the license plate was an optional part of survival."
His eyes flickered with amusement.
I wanted the earth to open beneath the vehicle.
"I'm sorry," I repeated.
"You were asleep."
"That doesn't improve the situation."
"It explains it."
That faint amusement became a nearly invisible smile.
Which somehow made everything worse.
Because now I noticed something else.
He was impossibly handsome.
Not magazine handsome.
Not movie-star handsome.
Something quieter and more dangerous than that.
The kind of face that made you immediately wonder whether the universe had been unfair when handing out genetics.
I grabbed the door handle.
"Please forget this happened."
"I'll try."
"You don't sound convincing."
This time he almost smiled.
I opened the door.
The SUV wasn't moving.
Thank God.
I stepped onto the sidewalk.
My bag slipped off my shoulder.
I caught it.
Barely.
Then I turned around.
"Again, I'm incredibly sorry."
The man simply watched me.
"It's fine."
I nodded rapidly.
"Good."
Then I ran.
Actually ran.
I didn't wait for my real rideshare.
I didn't check whether the stranger was laughing.
I didn't care.
I walked—then practically jogged—three blocks through wet Manhattan streets before stopping at a crosswalk.
My heart was pounding.
I bent forward, hands on my knees.
Then, despite everything, I started laughing.
A woman beside me moved several inches away.
I couldn't blame her.
"Pull yourself together, Bianca," I muttered.
Across town, the black SUV remained parked for another moment.
The man inside looked toward the door I had disappeared through.
His driver, Marcus, glanced into the rearview mirror.
"Should we continue home, sir?"
Tristan Bellamy didn't answer immediately.
He looked at the empty seat beside him.
A single strand of dark hair had caught against the stitching in the leather.
He noticed it.
For reasons he couldn't explain, he picked it up.
Marcus pretended not to notice.
"Sir?"
Tristan slowly opened his fingers and let the strand fall.
"Drive."
The SUV pulled away from the curb.
Twenty minutes later, I finally reached my apartment.
My roommate, Natalie, was sitting on our couch eating cereal from a mixing bowl.
She looked up as I entered.
"You look terrible."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
I dropped my bag.
Natalie squinted at me.
"Why are you smiling?"
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
I touched my mouth.
Apparently I was.
I immediately stopped.
"I got into the wrong car."
Natalie slowly lowered her spoon.
"What?"
"Wrong black SUV."
"And?"
"And fell asleep."
Her eyes widened.
"Inside somebody else's car?"
"Yes."
"Bianca."
"I know."
"Was there somebody inside?"
I removed my coat.
"Eventually."
"What does that mean?"
I sighed.
"A man got in."
Natalie stared at me.
"And you were sleeping?"
"Apparently."
"Was he creepy?"
"No."
"Old?"
"No."
"Married?"
"I have no idea."
"Hot?"
I stared at her.
Natalie gasped.
"He was hot."
"That's irrelevant."
"That means extremely hot."
"Natalie."
She dropped her spoon into the bowl.
"Describe him."
"I'm going to bed."
"Bianca."
"Good night."
"Was he billionaire hot or firefighter hot?"
I stopped halfway toward the hallway.
"Billionaire hot."
Natalie screamed.
I pointed at her.
"Never mention this again."
I disappeared into my bedroom.
But long after I showered and crawled beneath the blankets, I couldn't completely erase the image of those dark eyes watching me wake.
It was ridiculous.
I didn't know his name.
He didn't know mine.
New York had more than eight million residents.
Statistically, the chance of seeing him again was microscopic.
That thought finally allowed me to sleep.
For three days, life returned to normal.
Then Sunday morning arrived.
I walked into room 814 at St. Catherine's carrying a chart and a cup of terrible hospital coffee.
My new patient was Eleanor Bellamy, sixty-eight, recovering beautifully after hip surgery.
She had silver-gray hair, sharp blue eyes, and the mischievous smile of a woman who clearly considered hospital rules personal suggestions.
"Mrs. Bellamy?" I said.
"Absolutely not."
I paused.
She pointed at me.
"If you call me Mrs. Bellamy, I'll age ten years before lunch."
I smiled.
"Eleanor, then."
"Much better."
"I'm Dr. Carter. I'll be checking on you this morning."
"Bianca?"
I glanced at my badge.
"Yes."
"I already know I like you."
"That's unusually fast."
"I'm an excellent judge of people."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It has been."
We both laughed.
I checked her incision, reviewed her vitals, and adjusted the pillows behind her.
Her recovery was progressing well.
The morning sunlight filled the private room, catching the white flowers somebody had arranged near the window.
"Your family should be able to visit whenever you're ready," I said.
"My son will arrive eventually."
"Running late?"
"Always."
There was affection beneath her complaint.
"Busy job?" I asked.
Eleanor made a dramatic face.
"My son believes civilization will collapse if he stops working for more than thirty minutes."
I laughed.
"Sounds stressful."
"It is for everyone except him."
The door opened behind me.
I didn't turn.
"Good morning," I said automatically. "I'll be right with you."
Silence.
Something about it made me glance over my shoulder.
My entire body went still.
There he was.
The man from the SUV.
This time he wore a charcoal suit and carried a wool coat over one arm.
Those same dark eyes locked onto mine.
Recognition flashed across his face.
Then amusement.
Tiny.
Controlled.
But unmistakable.
My stomach dropped.
Eleanor brightened.
"My son."
I couldn't move.
"Bianca," Eleanor said warmly, "this is Tristan."
The man stepped inside.
Slowly.
"Bianca."
Hearing my name in his voice was somehow more embarrassing than waking beside him.
I straightened my coat.
"Mr. Bellamy."
His eyes briefly moved toward my badge before returning to my face.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted.
"I guess this time," he said quietly, "you're in the right place."
Eleanor looked between us.
Her eyes narrowed.
And then she smiled.
Not kindly.
Not innocently.
She smiled like a woman who had just discovered the most interesting secret she'd heard in years.
May you like
And suddenly, I realized surviving the wrong SUV might have been the easy part.
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