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Tobias

I love the adorably cocky grin she flashes my way. I love that she's fully embraced my situation and made it hers. She makes me feel less alone with my problems than I was before I met her.

"Park over there." She points to a public lot as she gets busy on her phone again.

After I pull into a space, I start to read the sign about how to pay through an app.

"What's the deal with paying at this lot?"

"It's all done on an app. I took care of it. I'll set you up with the app on your phone. You'll need it to park around here."

"You're very good to have around."

"Why, thank you. Let's walk."

We stash her purse in the trunk before she leads the way to a boardwalk that runs the length of the Beach.

"My parents honeymooned here in the early eighties," I tell her.

"Where did they stay? Do you know?"

"The Pier, I think."

"Let's go check it out. It's changed a lot since they remodeled it. Personally, I don't love it. I liked how it looked before when it was more in keeping with the art deco feel of Chicago and the beach. Now it just looks like every other modern, sophisticated hotel. But it's still a cool spot to grab a drink and people-watch."

To our left are dunes and lush vegetation that block our view of the beach on the other side. I catch sight of bits and pieces of the ocean as we make our way to the pool deck of the Pier, which is hopping with mostly young people. Skimpy bikinis are everywhere I look, not that I want to look at any woman other than the one I'm with.

She's got me completely captivated, especially since she admitted to being as attracted to me as I am to her. The disaster with Lauren might've never happened for all it matters to me now that I've met Tris and managed to catch her interest.

I understand it's a big deal for her to admit that she's attracted to me. I'm honored and humbled to be spending this time with her. We take seats at a bar called Glow, located in the middle of the action at the vast network of pools and bars. Dance music plays loudly—too loudly for my liking—over speakers positioned for maximum coverage.

One of six bartenders puts drink and food menus in front of us. I peruse the offerings, noting the prices are in line with what I'd expect to see in Manhattan. "I can't picture my parents here."

"It was nothing like this when they were here. When I was younger, my parents would take one Sunday a month off from work, and we'd play tourist in our hometown. We'd take turns picking what we were going to do, and my mother always wanted to come out to the beach. We'd have lunch here and play in the pool. They had this cool winding slide that was one of my favorite things to do. After a while, we'd end up at the beach, playing in the surf. Those were some of my favorite days."

She catches herself and offers the shy smile I'm becoming addicted to. "Sorry. Don't mean to ramble on."

"You're not rambling. I like hearing your stories."

She orders a Chicago cocktail, which is Brandy, lemon juice, orange curacao, maraschino liqueur, while I go with a Preacher Man, made with Four Roses bourbon, lime juice, simple syrup and ginger beer.

"Let me get a picture of you enjoying the local flavor." She holds up her phone and takes several pictures of me mugging with the fancy drink and then taps away at her phone to post it.

"What did you say with that one?"

"Enjoying the local flavor at the Pier."

"Any more snarky comments?"

She scans her screen for a minute, her brows furrowing as she taps away at her screen. "Nothing to worry about."

That means yes, so I decide to change the subject. "If I drank Tropical Red Bull, I'd be up for two days."

She laughs. "Nothing keeps me awake. When I'm done, I'm done. I fall over and crash. My friends make fun of me because I can't 'hang' with the rest of them at night. I make it until about eleven on a good night. I've always been that way. They call me Abuela."

"That's cute."

"No, it isn't! At my age, I'm supposed to be partying the night away, not acting like an old lady in a recliner falling asleep watching Golden Girls reruns."

I lose it laughing at the indignant way she says that. She's so damned adorable. Everything new I learn about her only makes me like her more. And the more I learn, the more I want to know. I stir my drink with the paper straw and take a sip of the tasty concoction. "I can't stop thinking about the story you told me about your great-grandmother escaping Cuba with five children and nothing but the clothes on their backs."

"I've heard that story all my life, and it still gives me goose bumps."

"I can see why. Did she ever remarry?"

"She did, about ten years later. She married a man fifteen years older who'd never been married. He owned a chain of car dealerships here and adored her and her children. Treated them like his own."

"That's really great." I'm incredibly moved by this story, for reasons I can't begin to fathom.

"By all accounts, it was a good marriage, but Abuela would tell you her mother never got over the sudden, violent loss of her first husband."

"How would you get over something like that?"

"You don't. You learn to live with it, but you never get over it."

I tip my head to study her more intently. "Are we still talking about your great-grandmother?"

Her small smile conveys a world of understanding. "Grief is a very strange journey, and no two people follow the same path. I'd heard the story of what happened to my great-grandfather all my life, but until I lost Al, I didn't really get it, you know?"

"No, I don't know, but I hear what you're saying. It gave you perspective."

"Yes, exactly. Then compound the loss by having to leave your home and your country while consoling five grief-stricken children in a country where you don't speak the language or have a source of income or a place to live, and you wonder how she survived. Her struggles make mine look simple by comparison."

"And yet there was nothing simple about it."

"No, there wasn't. There still isn't. It's like this ache that just stays with you. Even on really good days, like this one has been, the ache is always there. It becomes a part of who you are now."

I take her hand, link our fingers and look into her beautiful brown eyes. "I think who you are now is every bit as admirable as who your great-grandmother was."

"That's nice of you to say, but I'd never compare my loss to hers."

"I have to believe she'd be proud of the way you've put your life back together and figured out a new path for yourself, the same way she did."

"I'd like to think she would be."

"How could she not be? You're a very impressive young woman, Tris."

"That's high praise coming from a brain surgeon."

"Don't do that. Don't use my accomplishments to diminish yours. I've never been through anything remotely close to what happened to you, not to mention at such a young age. I'm allowed to think you're impressive for the way you've survived it."

"Thanks," she says softly as amusement overtakes her expression. "It does mean a lot coming from a brain surgeon."

I smile and roll my eyes at her. "This music is annoying me. Let's go find somewhere quieter." I hand my credit card to the bartender, who runs it through and returns it to me. After I sign the slip, we take a walk into the hotel. She shows me photos of how it looked when my parents were here.

"That seems more their speed than the jet-set vibe it has now. I saw a sign for luxury car rentals. Want to rent a Lambo?"

"Nah, my friend has a Porsche. What do I need with a Lambo?"

Laughing, I put my arm around her as we walk through the fancy, upscale, contemporary hotel to the exit that leads to the beach. We kick off our shoes and walk along the water's edge. It's a warm, sunny late afternoon, and I feel a sense of peace come over me that reminds me of before scandal exploded my life. Not that I had a lot of peace or quiet in that fast-paced life, but it suited me.

Tris' hand brushes against mine, and I take hold of it, wanting to touch her now that she's let me know I'm welcome to. After a long walk down the beach, we find a place to sit and watch the sunset.

"Let me get a picture of you on the beach," she says. "Give me pensive and contemplative."

I make faces that have her laughing before I get serious and give her what she needs.

When she's seated beside me on the sand, I can't wait any longer to address what she shared with me outside her family's restaurant. "What you said before . . . I want you to know, it means so much to me."

"Ever since Al died, I've wondered if that was it for me. If he was it, and after a couple of years, I decided if that was it, I was lucky, you know? Some people never get what I had with him."

"I've never had it."

"I thought I was being greedy to hope it might happen again. But the downside is that once you've experienced the real thing, it's hard to settle for anything less." She laughs and looks out at the vast ocean. "I don't mean to be making this into some big heavy thing the day after we met. It's just that there hasn't been anyone else who truly interested me, so I'm glad to know I can still feel that. I don't want you to think I'm turning this into something—"

I kiss her because I can't wait another second to do what I've wanted to do almost since I first saw her. I take it slow and easy, holding back to give her time to catch up, fully aware that this may be the most important first kiss of my life. Raising my hand to her face, I wait for her to join the party, and when she does . . .

Holy shit.

The kiss goes from sweet to hot as hell in the span of a second when her hand curls around my neck and her tongue connects with mine. Dear God, she's adorable and sexy and smart and . . . I can't find the words I need to describe what it's like to kiss her, to touch her, to breathe in the rich, fragrant scent of her hair as the warm breeze washes over us.

We kiss for a long time, our bodies straining to get closer. I pull back from her only when I begin to worry about us getting arrested—again. Kissing her is almost worth the risk, but I don't think she'd agree.

"I feel it, too," I whisper against her lips. "In case you were wondering."

Her nervous laughter is the best thing I've ever heard. "I don't do stuff like this."

"Stuff like what?" I shift my attention to her neck, which is every bit as appealing as her lips.

She shivers and buries her fingers in my hair. "Make out like a teenager on the Beach."

I'm unbearably aroused by her, so much so that I feel even the most innocent of caresses everywhere. "You should do it more often."

"Spoken like the devil himself, leading me astray."

Smiling, I lean my forehead against hers, counting backward from one hundred as I remind myself to go slow with her, to respect what she's been through and to understand that it's a far bigger deal for her to be starting whatever this is between us than it will ever be for me.

She blinks and seems to realize quite a bit of time has gone by since we first sat in the sand. "We should go. It's not the best idea to be out here after dark."

I stand, brush the sand off my shorts and reach out a hand to help her up, releasing it only long enough for her to deal with the sand on her clothes.

We reach for each other at the same moment and then share a smile at how silly we are, two grown adults acting like teenagers in the throes of first romance. But that's how it feels, to me at least. There's an innocence about it, a throwback to a simpler time, maybe because I have to be so careful with her.

With any other woman, I might be suggesting we find the nearest horizontal surface after a make-out session of such epic proportions. But this woman is special. She's had her heart broken and managed to put her life back together. Nothing more will happen between us until she says so.

We ride back to my hotel in companionable silence. I'm not ready for our day together to end, but I'm resolved to proceed with caution so I don't scare her off by wanting her too much. It's amazing to me that Lauren might never have happened for all I care about her since meeting Tris, who has more substance and integrity in her little finger than Lauren has in her whole body.

With hindsight, I'm ashamed of the way I was taken in by Lauren, bowled over by how she looked and the way she seemed to want me so fiercely in bed. I wonder now if even that was part of her ploy, to pretend to be so wildly attracted to me that I'd lose my mind over her, which is exactly what happened. I was so deeply in her thrall that I didn't even realize someone else was in the room watching us until it was far too late.

I shudder remembering the horror of that moment and all the ones that followed, as the story blew up into a scandal within hours of the husband I didn't know she had discovering us naked in his bedroom. That he was also the chairman of the board of the hospital where I worked only made it that much more horrific, especially when I was called into the president's office and asked to relocate.

"What're you thinking about?"

Tris' question interrupts the disturbing path my thoughts have taken. "Nothing, really."

"If it's nothing, then why is your whole body tense?"

"I was thinking about things I'd be better off forgetting."

"Ah, I see. Don't you wish you could flip a switch and not think about that anymore?"

"More than anything."

"You're the brain surgeon. You should know where the switch is located."

When I find myself laughing, I realize how quickly she defused my tension and got me thinking about other things, such as when I might get to kiss her again. "Maybe you're the switch."

"What do you mean?"

"You're doing a very good job of making me forget something I thought I'd never stop thinking about."

"Clearly, I'm not doing that good of a job if you were thinking about it just now."

"You're doing a very good job. I was only thinking about how if that hadn't happened, I wouldn't have met you. That would've been truly unfortunate."

"I'm sorry you went through what you did, but I'm glad you landed in my city and that we had the chance to meet."

I reach for her hand and hold on to her all the way back to my hotel, where I'm forced to let go. For now.

When we're standing beside my car, I notice she seems reluctant to leave. "I'll be by around eight, okay?"

"I'll be here. Take some of these leftovers."

She takes a few of the containers her parents packed up for us. They'd included one of those plastic ice packs to keep them cool.

"Don't get coffee in the morning. I'll take you to my ventanita for cortadito, which is Cuban espresso topped with steamed milk."

"Okay . . ."

"Trust me. You'll love it."

I place my hands on her hips, bringing her closer to me. "I have no doubt. Today was fantastic. Thank you for sharing your family, your restaurant, your hometown, yourself with me." I kiss her gently, or that's the plan anyway, until she winds her arms around my neck and kisses me back with all the desire and need I feel for her.

Pulling away from her is one of the hardest things I've ever done. I want to take her by the hand and bring her with me when I go inside. But more than that, I want to do the right thing by her. So I walk her to her car and hold the door while she gets in. When she's settled, I lean in and kiss her one more time.

"Text me to let me know you got home okay."

"I'll be fine."

"Text me."

"If you insist."

"I do." One more kiss and then another. I can't get enough. I force myself to step back, to let her go, to wave her off as she drives away. I take several deep breaths of the warm, humid air before heading into the icebox lobby and up to my room, where I immediately turn down the air. There doesn't seem to be a happy medium when it comes to temperature in Chicago. I'm either sweltering or freezing.

Of course, it doesn't help that Tris has my blood boiling from her sweet kisses.

As I'm stashing leftovers in my minifridge, my phone rings. My heart skips a happy beat, as I hope it might be Tris, and then falls just as quickly when I see MOM on the caller ID. I take the call, dreading what I have to tell her. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself. What's happening?"

Everything. Everything is happening. "Not much. Just getting acclimated to Chicago while I wait to see if the board at the hospital is going to extend privileges." I cringe as I say those words, knowing what her reaction will be.

"What do you mean waiting for privileges?" My mom is a general practitioner in the Milwaukee area. The proudest day of her life, or so she always says, was my graduation from medical school.

"Just what I said. They aren't sure they want me after what happened in New York."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I wish I was." One of the most difficult moments in a nightmarish month was calling my mother to tell her what happened with Lauren so she wouldn't hear about it somewhere else. The two of us have been a team since my dad left. Disappointing her crushed me. "The board has asked for two weeks to consider the request, and in the meantime I'm working with one of the hospital's public relations professionals to change the narrative. She's helped me land a pro bono gig at a local free clinic and is working on other publicity that we hope will help to sway the board."

"Dear God, Tobias. How can this be happening? You're a board-certified pediatric neurosurgeon. They ought to be rolling out the red carpet."

"Well, they're not. I guess they're afraid I'll sleep with their wives—or their husbands."

"How can you joke about this? Your entire career is on the line."

"If I don't joke, I'll lose my mind. I know what's on the line, Mom, believe me. I'm doing everything I can to win them over. I'm not sure what else I can do besides hope for the best."

"You could apply elsewhere."

"And abandon my research? I can't do that. It's not just about me but everyone else who's been involved."

"This PR professional who's helping you? She knows what she's doing?"

"She's outstanding." And brave and smart and so beautiful she makes me ache. I can't say anything like that to my mother, who'll think I'm insane for getting involved with another woman so soon after what the last one did to me. Hell, I think I'm a little insane, but damned if I can stop this thing that's happening with Tris. I don't want to stop it. Nothing has ever felt as good as being with her does.

"Check out my new Instagram account." I give my mom the account name. "Tris is posting pictures of me getting to know Chicago. We've got permission from the clinic to post pics of me working there, with patient consent, of course, and there's a possibility of a local TV interview, too."

"The pictures are great. You look happy."

"It was a good day. It's nice to think about something else besides the disaster in New York."

"I'm sure it is."

"We're doing everything we can. I have to believe if it doesn't work out here, something else will pop."

"I hope that bitch in New York is proud of herself. All your years of hard work . . ."

"My credentials haven't changed, Mom. She can't take that away from me. Someone will want me, scandal or not."

"I hope you're right about that."

"Try not to worry. This, too, shall pass."

"I'm glad to hear you sounding better and more optimistic anyway."

I have Tris to thank for the attitude adjustment. She's giving me reason to feel optimistic, among other things. "I'm doing what I can to get the train back on the tracks. That's all I can do."

"Keep me posted?"

"I will. Watch the Instagram account for updates."

"I'll do that. Call me if you need to talk."

"Will do. Love you."

"Love you, too."

I grab a beer from the stash I put in the fridge last night and twist the cap off before sitting down to do something I've been avoiding—check my email. I've got messages from a number of people I worked with in New York, many of them deriding the "raw deal" I got from the board and asking me what I'm going to do now.

"Good question."

I write back to each of them, thanking them for their support and telling them the truth—I'm waiting to see if Chicago General will extend privileges so I can continue my research. If not, I'll be looking to start over elsewhere.

One of the residents who's been working on the tumor project with me writes that she sent messages to each of the board members, telling them they're crazy to let me get away, especially when we're on the brink of a major breakthrough that could bring international prestige to the hospital.

"I can't thank you enough for the support, Shauna." I write in my response to her. Please don't risk your own neck on my behalf. It is what it is, or at least that's what I tell myself. I have to believe it'll work out and we'll be back on track before too long. In the meantime, keep monitoring our patients and inputting the data.

I scroll through other messages from friends and colleagues before stopping dead on one from Lauren.

Tobias,

I don't know what to say other than I'm sorry. I know you won't believe me when I tell you I have genuine feelings for you or I enjoyed every minute we spent together, but both those things are true. I've appealed to Eric not to retaliate against you for my sins. I told him you had no idea who I am to him. Everything that happened was my fault, and I hope someday you can forgive me for the mess I made of something so wonderful. I would love nothing more than to have another chance with you, to pick up where we left off and to move forward from here. You have my number. Call me anytime.

With love,

Lauren.

I read the message twice, the first time in complete disbelief and the second time with rage boiling inside me. She fucked up my entire life, and she wants me to forgive her for that and pick up where we left off? Is she for real? I block her, delete the message and empty the trash so there's no chance I have to see that bullshit again.

Disgusted, I get up and step away before I'm tempted to hurl my laptop against a wall. I take the beer with me to the small balcony that adjoins my room and look down over the hotel's pool area, which is still busy even at almost nine o'clock.

Goddamned Lauren. She had to make it even worse than it already is. After making a total fool of me and costing me my job and sterling reputation, she actually thinks I might want to get back together? Is she insane?

If there's one kernel of good news, it's that she appealed to her husband on my behalf, or so she says, not that I think that'll actually help. He's not going to have the man who screwed his wife and humiliated him on his staff. What's funny, if you want to call it that, is how she fucked with both of us. He and I ought to get together, have a beer and talk about the many ways she did us both wrong. We might even be friends after that, a thought that makes me laugh.

As if.

I'd never claim to have been a saint in my dealings with women, but married women are a hard limit for me. Not that good old Eric would ever believe that in light of what I did with his wife. I think about what he saw that night in his bedroom in the Hamptons and cringe. Sex with Lauren was always "energetic," and that night was no exception.

"Ugh." I down the last of the beer and go get another one, wishing I knew the location of that switch Tris mentioned, the one that could turn off thoughts we no longer wish to have. Maybe I should focus my research on figuring out that mystery. It'd be worth billions to people who'd give anything to be able to selectively forget upsetting or painful things.

I wish I'd never checked my email, even if it was mostly uplifting, with supportive messages from colleagues and friends. I didn't need to see the nonsense from Lauren, not when I've been making progress in trying to move on from that shit show.

Grabbing my phone, I sit on the bed and open a text to Tris. Talking to her makes me feel better. Why? Who knows? It just does.

I stare for a long time at the text that says she's safely home before I type a reply.

'I wish you hadn't left.'

Send.