13.

Roman

The clock seems to mock me, its hands moving at a glacial pace. Four days—ninety-six hours since Ava’s skin was against mine, since the air between us crackled with heat. I’ve texted her, but her answers are short, abrupt, and all business. Each attempt is like pressing on a fresh bruise, the pain sharp and disheartening.

She’s running scared. Maybe she’s decided jumping into bed with me again after all these years was too much, too soon. The silence is crushing, but there’s a silver lining.

We still have the fundraiser to plan, a shared goal that forces us back into each other’s orbit. We’re scheduled to meet this afternoon for a late lunch at the café across the street from the hospital so we can discuss where we are in our preparations. I’m already here, ready and waiting. I have a lot riding on this meeting. My phone buzzes on the table in front of me, but I ignore it. This will be a chance for me to understand what went wrong, to see if there’s anything left to salvage between us.

The bell above the café door chimes, and she walks in, a vision that accelerates my pulse. Ava. She’s clad in jeans that fit just right, a fluttery floral-print silk blouse, and those damn low-top Converse sneakers that somehow manage to look both adorable and sexy on her.

“Hey,” she greets, her voice a familiar cadence that’s always been able to unravel me. She places a big binder on the table as she sits down.

“Hi.” I stand, nearly knocking over my chair in my haste. Focus . “You look…great.” A massive understatement.

“Thanks.” She smiles, but her eyes are guarded, like steel shutters hiding whatever storm brews behind them.

The server is on us, pouring glasses of water and taking our order.

“Been busy with the transition to the new electronic medical records system?” I ask, desperate to fill the space as the waiter departs. I need something, anything that isn’t charged with tension.

“Isn’t everyone?” She laughs, a short, clipped sound. “It’s a mess, but we’ll get there. Eventually.”

My mind flashes to the last time we were together, the sounds she made when she climaxed, raw and unrestrained. My body responds immediately, a swell of desire that tightens my pants uncomfortably. Shit . Not now. I cross my legs under the table and pray for composure. “Have you, uh, seen any improvement with your patients’ files? Any missing data, or…” I fumble for words, trying to steer my thoughts away from the edge they’re teetering on.

“Nothing major. Some hiccups here and there, but the EMR integration team’s on top of it. Michael won’t let the system fail.”

There’s admiration in her tone when she mentions Dr. Khalili, who represents the physician perspective on the integration committee, and I feel an inexplicable twinge of jealousy. “IT’s good at what they do,” I admit grudgingly, then clear my throat. “So, the fundraiser?”

“Right, the fundraiser.” Ava pulls out a notepad.

“Let’s start with where we are so far.” I lean forward, elbows on the table, eager to focus on something that isn’t the curve of her lips or the scent of her perfume.

We discuss the steps we have left to successfully launch this fundraiser. Last year, the event raised two hundred thousand dollars, and we aim to surpass that amount this year.

We agree it’s time to pull together the committees that members of the hospital staff have signed up for and write out our plans to keep our fundraiser on target.

The server delivers our lunches, and I pick at my chicken dish, steamed vegetables neatly arranged on the side. Ava’s across from me, chopsticks maneuvering through her Chinese chicken salad. The tangy scent of sesame oil wafts over, mingling with the subtle notes of her floral perfume. It’s a sensory cocktail that makes it hard to think about anything but her.

“Looks good,” I comment, nodding toward her plate.

“Healthy choice,” she says with a wry smile, then takes a bite. “So, let’s talk about the silent auction.”

“Right.” I take a sip of water, buying time to gather my thoughts. “We’ve got a few items lined up, but it’s not enough. We need more variety, some things that’ll really grab attention.”

“Agreed.” She scribbles in her notepad, brow furrowed. “Any ideas on how we can beef it up?”

“Actually, yes.” I lean back, trying to appear more relaxed than I feel. “I was thinking of talking to Cordelia Johns. We should reach out to the vendors who donated last year.”

Ava pauses mid-chew, considering this. “Last year?” Her tone is cautious, but there’s a flicker of approval in her eyes.

“Yes. I think there’s a letter in there that she used to solicit the items.” I gesture to the huge binder. Here’s something tangible I can contribute, a way to bridge the distance between us. “I can take that on. I might not even need to talk to her, actually.”

“Good idea.” For a moment, her guard seems to drop, and there’s a hint of the old warmth in her voice. She shuffles through the binder until she finds what I need, handing it over.

“Thanks.” I try to sound casual, but my heart leaps in response to her praise. “I’ll send those out today.”

“Let’s hope her letter has the magic touch.” She gives a half-smile. “Because right now, we need at least fifty-thousand dollars in items.”

“Trust me,” I say with more confidence than I feel, “Cordelia’s got connections that could turn any event into gold.”

“Then I’m glad you’re on board,” Ava replies, and we fall into a companionable silence.

I realize again just how much I want to fix things—not just the auction, but whatever rift has formed between us.

After a moment, Ava’s fingers, slender and sure, slide over the glossy surface of an invitation as she pulls it from her satchel. “Just over four months out,” she says, laying the card between us. “Feels like time is sprinting past.”

I pick up the invitation, thumb gliding over the embossed lettering. An Evening Under the Stars—A benefit for King George House.

“Looks great,” I reply. “The design is very elegant.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs. “Took forever to decide on the final look.”

“Your effort shows.” I set the card gently on the table. “We’ll make this a night to remember.”

“Hopefully for the right reasons,” she quips. It’s Ava at her core—sharp but not unkind.

“Speaking of making memories,” I say, “I was thinking about getting some stories together for the event—about the hospital, the patients, the community. You know, really drive home why we’re doing all this.”

“Okay…” Her brow furrows, curiosity piqued.

“Yeah, like a slideshow or something.” I can almost see her mental gears turning. “My sister, Lila, she’s amazing with that kind of stuff—Power Point wizardry and all. She could put something together that’s both professional and touching.”

“Your sister?” She sounds surprised. “Does she have time with her law school classes?”

I chuckle. “She’s got a knack for visual storytelling. And she’s told me she would love a distraction. It could really give the party that extra emotional punch.”

Ava nods, lips curving into a cautious smile. “That could be good. Really good, actually. Adds a human touch to the evening.”

“Exactly.” My pulse quickens with the prospect of delivering something that might soften the space between us. “I’ll talk to her tonight.”

“Good.” Ava scoops up the invitation again, her gaze lingering on the date printed in bold letters. “You handle your sister and the silent auction, and I’ll make sure everything else falls into place.”

“Deal.”

She checks over her list again. “We need a master of ceremonies. Who do you think can pull this off?”

“Master of ceremonies,” I murmur. “We need someone with charm, obviously. So Charles Johns is out.”

We both chuckle. “What about Jack Flash? He has charm in spades,” she counters, her eyes gleaming.

“Flash? The rock star?” I furrow my brow but can’t help a begrudging nod. “Dr. Khalili did save his wife’s life. That could be our in.”

“Exactly.” She folds her arms, satisfied. “I’ll reach out to his people. It’s a long shot but worth a try.”

“Sounds good.” I agree, finding it increasingly difficult to stay focused on anything but the way her blouse accentuates her curves. I clear my throat, trying to banish inappropriate thoughts. Four days without her touch feels like an eternity.

“I should check on the venue,” Ava suggests, rising from her chair. “The Xenia hasn’t been returning my calls. Emily must have called me twice a day before she got our contract, and now it’s crickets.”

“Let’s go see them,” I say, standing quickly, almost too eager to have a reason to walk beside her.

We exit the café, side by side, and after a quick ride across town, we stride toward the Xenia’s reception desk. “Maybe she got busy after we returned the contract,” I suggest. “Happens sometimes, right?”

“Busy or not, this is important,” Ava counters. “She was all over us before the ink dried. I know the event is four months away, but we still have a long list of things to take care of—table settings, food, the setup for the silent auction.” Ava ticks them off on her fingers. “And I’m sure there are dozens of other things I’m missing.”

“True.” I hold back a sigh. “Hopefully she’s just occupied with other events.”

“Hopefully,” Ava echoes, though her tone suggests she’s bracing for battle.

“Excuse me,” I address the front desk clerk. “We’re here to see the head of sales, Emily Rhodes, about the King George House fundraiser.”

“Of course.” The clerk nods. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

“Thank you.” Ava’s voice is crisp, clipped.

We wait in silence. I want to reach out, to bridge the gap with more than just talk of the fundraiser, but I hesitate. This isn’t the time or the place, and Ava seems miles away, despite standing so close.

“Roman,” she says suddenly, turning to me. “This event, it’s critical for my promotion. For my future. I’d like to run the fellowship program, and Dr. Johns decides that.”

“I know,” I assure her. “I won’t let you down.”

Her eyes search mine, looking for something I hope they find. Then she nods, just once, before facing forward again, her posture rigid as we wait in the opulent lobby of the Xenia.

I’m going to fix this. Whatever it takes. For the fundraiser, for her career—the promotion she seems to want, for us. Whatever us might still mean.

After a moment, Emily Rhodes descends the grand staircase, her smile as polished as the marble beneath her heels. “Dr. Winters, Dr. Quinlan,” she greets, extending a hand that Ava ignores while I shake briefly.

“About the King George House fundraiser…” Ava begins, her tone as sharp as the crease in her jeans.

Emily blinks. “I’m sorry, could you elaborate?”

I clear my throat, stepping slightly ahead. “We spoke last week about hosting our hospital’s fundraiser here in early June. I dropped the contract off on Thursday, and we haven’t heard from you to start going through the details.”

“King George House fundraiser in June? An Evening Under the Stars?” Her forehead creases, and the chill in her voice sends a shiver down my spine. “Dr. Quinlan, I didn’t receive any contract from you. We assumed your party had other plans when nothing was returned. Part of the space is now booked for another event.”

“Booked?” My pulse quickens, a bead of sweat sliding down the back of my neck. “No, that can’t be right. I left the signed contract with the front desk four days ago.” My words are firm, even if my confidence isn’t. I need to fix this. Ava’s promotion, her future, it’s all on the line.

Emily shakes her head, emphatic as a judge delivering a verdict. “If you had done that, Dr. Quinlan, I would have received it.”

The room spins slightly, my mind racing through the possibilities. Someone dropped the ball, and somehow it ended up in my court. Ava’s silence screams beside me, a siren of disappointment and disbelief.

I’m barely breathing as we exit the hotel, the sleek glass doors swinging shut on our stymied plans. I can feel Ava’s presence beside me like a gathering storm.

“Roman,” she says, her voice devoid of emotion.

“Yeah?” I manage, my throat dry as sandpaper. I absolutely dropped off the contract. I would never make that mistake. Too much is riding on this.

“Why did you volunteer to handle this if you weren’t going to see it through?” Her words are precise, clipped, betraying none of the anger I’m bracing for.

“I did see it through. There was a mix-up with the contract, that’s all. Kent was with me. He’ll tell you we asked for Emily, and she was gone for the day, so we left it in an envelope at the front desk.” I scramble mentally for a solution. “You were calling her, and she didn’t call you back. Something isn’t right. Let me fix this. I’ll go to Stanley Park now, talk to them about securing our second choice.”

“Fix it?” The hint of a scoff colors her tone, and when I glance over, her face is an unreadable mask.

“Please.” I step closer, panic rising. “Let me make this right.”

She looks away, and the distance between us feels like miles. “You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t just some party. This is my future. What could have happened? None of this makes any sense.”

I reach out, wanting to offer comfort, but she steps back, out of reach. “Ava, I—”

“Save it.” There’s a tremor now, the first sign of the devastation she’s holding at bay. “I should have known better than to trust you again. Every time I do, you just… You tear everything apart.”

Her words cut deep, as sharp as scalpel blades, and I watch helplessly as she turns on her heel and strides away. She doesn’t look back as the weight of her disappointment crushes me.

“Ava!” I call after her, but it’s futile. The silence that follows is louder than any argument we’ve ever had.

I stand there alone, the winter air biting through my jacket. My hands curl into fists at my sides. How could I have let this happen? How could I fail her again? I should go back inside and scour the front desk until we figure out what’s happened, but that won’t change the fact that the space is no longer available. So that’s not the best use of my time.

With nothing left to do but move forward, I turn in the direction of Stanley Park. I’ve got to find a way to salvage this, not just for the fundraiser, but for Ava. I won’t let this be the end of it. I can’t.