Chapter 10

Amelia

The following weekend, I step onto the platform and feel the cool metal of the SkyTrain station railing under my fingertips. I scan the crowd for Kent, and he emerges, his grin a beacon in the sea of faces. As our eyes meet, a wave of relief washes over me, rinsing away the residue of a week marred by deadlines and Rose's incessant pressure. I didn't have any real information for them after the sailing trip. And they ignored me when I suggested their intel about Kent being on the decision-making committee was incorrect. I shared a few of the tidbits Kent has told me about the pressures of the ED, but they're laser-focused on me finding an opportunity to ask their questions.

Kent and I haven't seen each other since we went sailing last weekend, but today, we've agreed to meet for our own private pub crawl. It seems Adam had something to do, so we got Saturday off. He's so generous that way.

"Hey," Kent calls out, closing the distance with easy strides, and as usual, he's disarmingly handsome.

"Hi." My voice wavers slightly, betraying the flutter in my chest.

As we board the train for Port Moody, our shoulders brush, an electric current sparking at the contact. We find seats by the window, the world outside blurring into streaks of color as we settle into our own cozy bubble.

"So, I had this guy come into the ED yesterday," Kent begins, and I lean in, eager for distraction. "He's dressed head to toe in a monkey costume, wheeled in on a stretcher."

My eyebrows shoot up. "A monkey costume?"

"Yep, and get this," he continues, eyes twinkling, "two other monkeys followed. They were street performers doing the whole ‘See no evil, Hear no evil, Speak no evil' gig."

"Let me guess, ‘Do no evil' wasn't part of their act?"

"Exactly." He laughs. "The guy tried some acrobatics, swung from a store awning, and it collapsed."

I can't help it; laughter erupts, loud and uninhibited. It's the kind of laugh that is a release of everything pent up inside. The absurdity of life in the ED, as told by Kent, is the perfect antidote to my week of advertising-presentation pandemonium.

Kent's smile widens, fueling my amusement. But then he shifts gears, his tone growing solemn, though his eyes still dance with humor. "There was also this biker—"

"Hardcore Harley type?" I interject, playing along.

"Ah, so you'd think!" He shakes with suppressed laughter. "He rolls in, road rash from shoulder to leg. Tells me this dramatic tale of being clipped by a car downtown."

"Sounds intense," I say, nodding.

"I was furiously taking notes for a police report, and ready to call…until he admitted he was actually on a moped and took a spill."

It's too much. I snort, and then my laughter peals through the train carriage, a carefree sound I barely recognize as my own. Kent joins in, his own chuckles rich and warm.

"Almost peed my pants when he confessed," he says, still grinning. "Told him he should stick to the Harley story. It's got way more street cred."

"Definitely," I agree, wiping a tear from my eye. "Sounds like you really love your work."

"I do most of the time. This stuff balances out the crappy side of my job. The moped story kept me going through the mother who overdosed in front of her child—a seven-year-old. Her daughter called the ambulance and saved her life, but what kind of person does that to a kid? What's next? Is she going to share the heroin with her daughter?" He looks out across the water and waves to a passing speedboat. "We lose patients from time to time, but drug addiction is hard to watch, particularly when it affects more than the addict."

I nod. He's right. Watching someone waste away in addiction is the worst.

The platform of the SkyTrain station is a distant memory once we step out into the crisp air of Port Moody. Kent's hand finds mine, our fingers weaving together with an ease that sends a warm ripple up my arm. We're connected, literally and figuratively, as we meander toward the first stop on our brewery adventure.

"Your laugh," Kent says, his voice rich with affection. "It's like music I never knew I needed to hear."

I blush, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment and delight. He looks at me as if I'm the only one in the world who can produce that melody. It's silly, really, but also incredibly sweet. And intoxicating.

"Thank you," I manage, squeezing his hand.

Moody Ales Co looms ahead, an industrial-chic sanctuary promising respite for thirsty souls. We slip inside, and together we navigate the blend of rustic wood and polished metal until we find a table that feels like it was waiting for us—cozy, secluded, just right.

Kent pulls out a chair for me, and I sink into it, grateful for the chance to rest my feet. He takes the seat across, his eyes never leaving mine. The menu lies between us, a paper promise of hoppy delights and savory treats.

"Black and tan," Kent declares when the server arrives, a shadow suddenly at our elbow. "And a lobster roll to go with it."

"Sounds hearty," I comment. My stomach growls, betraying my attempt at casual conversation.

"Go big or go home, right?" Kent winks, nudging the menu toward me.

"Orchard Pale Ale for me," I say, pointing at the description that promises a fruity undertone. "With the grilled cheese and tomato bisque." A childhood classic with a grown-up twist, exactly what I crave.

"Perfect pairing." Kent nods. The server scribbles on her notepad and vanishes as quickly as she appeared.

While we wait, my mind wanders to the contrasts between us—his life-saving urgency against my calculated campaigns, his nights in scrubs to my days in skirts and suits. Yet here we are, finding common ground over craft beer and comfort food, the distance between our worlds shrinking with each shared smile and intertwined finger.

"Have you always been into stouts?" I ask, curious about this man who has so swiftly become a respite in my chaotic world.

"Only when the mood strikes," he replies. "But today, after hearing your laugh? I feel like celebrating the little things."

His words echo inside me, stirring something warm and hopeful. In the din of the pub, with the scent of malt and hops hanging in the air, I revel in this moment, this simple, fantastic slice of life with Kent. Here, where the future is just another sip away, and laughter is the best appetizer of all.

The server drops off our beers, and the golden hue of my Orchard Pale Ale catches the light as I tilt it up for a sip, the fruity notes dancing on my tongue. Across from me, Kent savors his black and tan with a contented sigh.

"Your work," he begins casually, wiping a trace of foam from his upper lip. "What's it like at Creative Seed Marketing?"

I pause, the glass halfway to my lips. Do I tell Kent about the pressure to quiz him, the secrets I'm supposed to unearth? No. Not right away, at least. Instead, I opt for the surface truths. "Well, right now, I'm knee-deep in the Mercy Hospital account."

"I still can't believe they have an advertising account." He frowns slightly. "Isn't that a bit unusual for a provincial health hospital?"

"Well, maybe a little." I laugh, the sound lighter than I feel. "But some people are still reluctant to go to the doctor—you should understand that—so these days many hospitals have to advertise." I pause, weighing how much more I want to say. "We don't know for sure, but since you have a new advertising manager, there's rumor that the account is under review a year before the contract is up. We were caught a little flatfooted by that news, and things have been busy as we try to figure out what we can do to keep it." I shake my head. "Honestly, I'm just glad you're not involved in the decision-making."

"Me?" He chuckles. "Yes, you're safe from my influence. I'm far better at suturing wounds than marketing strategies."

"Thank goodness for that." I shift the hem of my skirt to show off my barely visible scar. My smile is genuine because his distance from my professional chaos is comforting. Still, I should do my due diligence. "Could I pick your brain a moment?" I ask.

When he agrees, I ask him a bit about life in the ED, and he gives me his opinion on the strengths of the emergency procedures at Mercy. But for the most part, to him it's all medicine. There's nothing to sell. So, it's not that I've been shirking my duties gathering intel from him; it's that he doesn't have much to offer—or at least not what Adam and Rose are looking for.

Then his cell phone pings, and he glances at it and turns it toward me. "One of my best friends, Leah. We're part of a group chat. There are five of us. Be warned, my phone is about to blow up."

"Your best friend is female?" I ask, not sure if I should be impressed or cautious so I've got a foot in both places.

"There are four women, actually. They come to me for all their guy advice."

"Do you work with them?"

"Ah, well, Joanna is a nurse up in pediatrics, and these are friends of hers. She's pretty much the ringleader."

He doesn't mention me meeting them, but I suppose for now that saves me from having to introduce him to Stella and Isla. I'm not sure I'm ready for that just yet.

We linger at Moody Ales Co longer than intended, our conversation meandering through lighthearted banter and soulful confessions about growing up with only one parent. The original plan for brewery-hopping fades, as it seems neither of us wants to dilute this experience.

As we ride the train back, nestled in our newfound intimacy, Kent shifts closer. Our brief kiss after the sailing date held promise, and now there's purpose in his movements. When his lips find mine, it's like the first drop of rain after a drought—hesitant, then all-consuming. My hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, as if I could merge our souls with the fervor of our kiss. Heat that ignites every nerve ending makes me forget where we are, that we're not alone in this traveling vessel of city lights and passing scenery.

"Mommy, why are those people eating their faces?" The shrill voice cuts through our passion, and we break apart to see a little boy looking our way, wide-eyed.

"James, don't stare," his mother scolds, her cheeks tinged with a blush as she guides her son's attention away.

Kent and I exchange a look, a cocktail of embarrassment and amusement, before settling into a comfortable silence, our fingers entwined. The connection doesn't need words. We have a shared secret, a promise of more to come.

Stepping off the train, the din of the city closes in around us. The downtown lights casting shadows that dance across Kent's face as he turns to me with a question in his eyes.

"Want to come over?" he asks, his voice sending a thrill through my veins.

"Sure," I reply, trying to sound nonchalant.

We walk together through the bustling streets, moving toward both his high rise and my own modest apartment nearby. There's a familiarity in this route, a path I've taken countless times, yet tonight it feels entirely different with Kent by my side.

Soon, his building rises ahead, its glass doors reflecting the night sky. As we enter, the doorman gives Kent a knowing nod, and an older woman, draped in an elegant shawl, passes us with a polite smile. Kent offers her a quick "Good evening" but doesn't pause for introductions, his hand pressing gently against my lower back, urging me forward.

"Sorry about that," he murmurs as the elevator doors slide open. "I just really want to get you upstairs."

"Seems like someone's in a hurry," I tease, stepping into the elevator, the space feeling smaller with every second.

As soon as the doors close, Kent's hands find my waist, pulling me toward him with an urgency that stokes the fire in my belly. My back hits the cool metal wall, and I'm suddenly aware of how fast we are ascending, this tiny moving room catapulting us toward something inevitable.

His mouth crashes into mine, and I'm lost in the taste of hops still lingering on his lips, the warmth of his body pressing close. The soft ding of the elevator arriving at his floor barely registers as our kiss deepens, demanding and insistent.

My thoughts scatter like the twinkling city lights far below us. All that matters is the feel of his hands exploring the contours of my back, the way our breaths mingle and quicken, the desperate beat of my heart echoing in my chest.

"Kent," I breathe against his lips, part plea, part moan.

"God, Amelia," he groans.

The elevator doors have opened to the quiet of the hallway, but we're still locked in our embrace, reluctant to break away even for the sake of privacy. After a moment, our foreheads rest together as we catch our breath.

"Let's go," he says, his voice husky.

"Lead the way," I reply.

We step out of the elevator, our hands clasped. We walk to his door, and in seconds we're inside. The door shuts behind us, its thud a mere whisper compared to the thunder of my racing heart. We're a tangle of limbs and lips, fumbling hands tearing at fabric in a desperate bid for skin on skin. My fingers graze Kent's torso, tracing the hard edges of his abs, and I falter. "God, what do you do to keep so fit?"

"I run," he breathes against my neck. "And when the sky's too angry, there's always the rowing machine in the guest room."

I shiver as he walks us backward, navigating the path to his bedroom. The backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed, and I'm falling, sinking into softness as he towers above me. His gaze sears into mine, pure desire darkening the blue of his eyes.

With him helping me out of my clothes, I'm fully undressed in moments.

"Amelia," he whispers, and God, how I love the way my name sounds on his lips. "You're stunning. And I'm so going to enjoy making you come undone with my tongue."

A bolt of anticipation zips through me. I'm wet, ready for him, and when his fingers slide over my slick folds, I can't stifle the mewl that escapes. He smiles, devilishly handsome as he kneels before me like a worshipper at an altar. My legs drape over his shoulders, his breath hot against my most intimate skin.

And then he sucks in my clit. The sensation rockets through me, and my head lolls back. Every flick of his tongue, every caress of his fingers unravels me further. He's relentless, teasing, pushing me toward an edge I'm half-afraid, half-eager to cross.

Kent is like a drug coursing through my veins, addictive and intoxicating. His tongue laps, and his fingers stretch me wide, curling my toes. I'm clinging to the precipice, teetering, and when he reaches up to tweak my right nipple, I shatter.

"Kent!" His name is a keening cry torn from the depths of my soul, every muscle clamping down in spasms of bliss. My world narrows to the pulsing waves of my release, to the man who holds my ecstasy in his hands, to the connection that binds us beyond flesh.

The heat of our coupling lingers in the air, heavy like summer rain waiting to break. I'm still catching my breath when Kent starts a trail of kisses up my body. My skin tingles under his lips, goose bumps rising in the wake of his mouth.

"Was that okay?" he asks when his lips finally meet mine in a soft peck. It's a ridiculous question—okay doesn't even begin to cover the earth-shattering pleasure he's just gifted me—but it's so sweetly concerned that it makes my heart swell.

I try to speak, but words seem beyond me. I nod instead, emphatic and eager. "Incredible," I manage to gasp. The understatement of the century.

"Ready for more?" His voice is dark with desire and something else—a challenge.

"More than ready," I whisper.

He grins, and the devilish curve of his mouth tells me I'm in for a ride. Kent hands me a condom, and I struggle to roll it on. He laughs and puts it on himself before he shifts beneath me, pulling me up to straddle him. Our gazes lock, electricity crackling between us as if we're two storms about to collide.

He positions himself at my entrance, his hands gripping my hips with a strength that speaks of controlled power. I lower myself onto him, inch by excruciating inch. It's tight, and almost too much, but in the end, it's a perfect fit. I tuck my feet beneath his thighs, anchoring myself as I take him all the way in.

"God, you feel incredible," he groans.

He cups my breasts, teasing the sensitive flesh until I'm arching into his touch, desperate for more friction, more everything. I start to move, slow and languid, enjoying the drawn-out torture I'm inflicting on both of us. The grip of my inner muscles must be driving him mad because his eyes darken, turmoil brewing in their depths.

"If you don't pick up the pace, I'm going to flip you over and show you what a real fucking feels like," he threatens, his voice a low growl that vibrates through my core.

The idea sends a jolt of excitement straight to my sex, but I'm not done teasing him yet. I lean down to trail my tongue over the salty expanse of his chest, savoring the taste of him. Then I travel upward, lingering on his neck before capturing his mouth in a kiss that's all wet heat and raw need. All the while, I maintain the torturously slow rhythm, sliding him in and out of me, reveling in every gasp and moan I pull from his lips.

"Amelia…" He breathes my name like a vow, his fingers digging into my flesh, urging me on, begging me without words to abandon this maddening tempo.

But I hold on just a little longer, savoring the control I have over him, this powerful man who could easily overpower me but chooses instead to let me lead. It's exhilarating, knowing I can bring him to the edge with nothing but the slow grind of my hips and the vice-like grip of my body around him.

This is intimacy, this is power, this is us—unfettered and raw. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.

With each heartbeat, my desire climbs until even I can't bear the languid pace any longer. My muscles coil, and I rise up before slamming down, chasing the pleasure that's been simmering just beneath the surface. Kent meets my fervor, his fingers dancing over my clit with a dexterity that sends electric shocks through my veins.

"Amelia," he groans, his voice hoarse with lust. "Harder."

I comply, riding him with an abandon that feels both wild and absolutely right. The sound of our bodies colliding fills the room, a primal drumbeat that urges me on. His touch on my clit is relentless, drawing me ever closer to the precipice.

"Kent…" I pant, feeling my belly tighten to the breaking point. It's incredible how attuned he is to my body, as though he knows exactly how to stoke the fires within me.

"Come with me," he commands, his breath hitching as he nears his edge.

And then, like stars colliding, we shatter together. Our release is symphonic, a chorus of cries that meld into one. My channel clenches around him, and I'm stunned by the synchronicity of our climax. Never have I been with a man so perfectly connected to me, as if our bodies are singing the same soulful tune.

As the tremors fade, Kent's arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest. His heart beats strong and steady beneath my ear, grounding me after the storm of sensation.

"We could have so much fun in Hawaii, love," he whispers, lips brushing against my hair. "The wedding will be unforgettable. Please come with me."

I smile against his skin, the heat of his embrace still enveloping me. "I can't wait," I murmur, already counting the moments until we can escape together.

The promise of more adventures with this man—this incredible, intoxicating man who matches my passion beat for beat—fills me with anticipation. With Kent, every experience is heightened, every moment an opportunity for ecstasy. Hawaii won't just be a trip; it'll be another chapter in the thrilling narrative we're writing together.

If I can talk Adam and Rose into giving me the time off.