15. Frankie

FIFTEEN

Frankie

Saturday, May 25

The Florentine

2101 2nd Avenue North

7:12 pm

The grand ballroom is everything you'd expect from a high-society gala... right down to the opulent chandeliers sparkling like diamonds swimming above us. The golden glow projected over the sea of elegantly dressed guests ups the fanciness and my anxiety. I don't do these types of events willingly.

The hum of polite conversation mixed with the clink of champagne flutes, and the soft strains of a string quartet playing in the corner is a testament to whoever planned this. Whoever planned this took care of every detail.

It's the kind of event that would make anyone feel underdressed, no matter how much time she spent getting ready. For me, there's no amount of lipstick that would transform me into the kind of person that fits in here. I stick out like a sore thumb.

I step inside, my heels clicking softly on the polished marble floor, and take a slow breath to steady myself. The dress I'm wearing is beautiful. It's a deep, emerald green gown that Carly insisted would bring out the color of my eyes. It's more like armor than anything else.

Carly sadly swapped her dress for a night on the sofa. She is still too sore from the accident to make it. I wish I could trade with her—I know how much she was looking forward to coming. And, Lord knows, I don't want to be here.

The fact that I'm here without her, my wingman, to woo a potential sponsor for the pacemaker trial doesn't help make it any better. But this is part of my job. So, here goes nothing.

As I scan the room, looking for familiar faces, my eyes land on Hunter. He's standing near the bar, a glass of something amber in his hand, looking both completely at ease and deliciously handsome.

He's dressed in a sharp black tuxedo, the kind that makes every man look good. But on him, it's different. It fits him to a tee. The perfectly tailored fit hugs him in all of the right places.

The usually gruff, intense surgeon seems almost… relaxed. There's still that underlying tension in his posture. I've come to recognize it in our after-hours meetings and discussions about our now-shared project.

He hasn't spotted me yet, so I take a moment to observe him, letting my gaze linger a little longer than I probably should. It's always an unexpected treat seeing him like this, outside of the hospital.

Here, under the soft lights of the gala, he seems more human, less of the driven, borderline-obsessive doctor I'm used to working with. But that's not what surprises me the most.

What surprises me is the stirring in my belly. I've been noticing it more and more lately, when we are together, so it shouldn't surprise me. But with both of us dressed up like this, and the music, the soft lighting—the whole combination intensifies that stirring even more.

I push the thought aside, reminding myself that we're here for a reason. There's no time to get distracted by how good Hunter looks in formalwear. I've got a job to do, and it's a big one.

As I approach him, his gaze finally shifts, and when our eyes meet, something flickers there. It's a recognition, maybe something more, but it's gone before I have to figure out how to respond. He nods slightly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and I can't help but smile back.

"You clean up well, Dr. Parrish," I say lightly, coming to stand beside him at the bar.

He raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of his drink. "I could say the same for you, Dr. Renna. That dress might just outshine the chandelier."

I roll my eyes, but I can't hide the smile that tugs at my lips. "Flattery won't get you out of meeting with Mr. Rich Guy tonight."

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and it's strange how it makes the butterflies in my stomach flutter even more. "And here I thought you were the one who was going to charm him into funding our project."

"Oh, I'll charm him all right," I reply, my tone playful. "But you're the one with the surgeon's hands. He'll want to hear from you, too."

Oh, those hands. Why can't I stop thinking about them running over me?

Hunter smirks, setting his glass down on the bar. "Theo said Mr. Rich Guy would meet us here. He's probably schmoozing somewhere with the other bigwigs. Ready to go find him?"

"Absolutely," I say, but there's a part of me that's not quite ready for the evening to get underway. For now, I'm content to stand here with Hunter, sharing this light-hearted banter, pretending like we're two people unburdened by the weight of our careers.

As Hunter and I make our way through the glittering crowd, my mind drifts to last week's meeting with my father. It was our second time seeing each other since his unexpected return to my life, and I'm surprised to find myself feeling okay about it.

We met at Shain Park downtown, just as the evening was settling in. The fading sunlight painted everything in soft, warm hues, lending a surreal quality to our encounter. As we strolled along the winding paths, the tension that had defined our first meeting seemed to dissipate slightly.

This time, it felt less like confronting a ghost from my past and more like... getting to know a stranger who happens to share my DNA. We talked about simple things—his work at the car dealership, my research at the hospital. Nothing too deep or painful.

I'm not ready to let him fully into my life yet. A couple of meetings don't erase the years of absence and hurt. But I can't deny that these encounters have been good for me. Good for both of us. It's like slowly draining an old wound I didn't even realize was still festering.

As we walked, I found myself noticing little things—the way he gestures when he talks, how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. It's strange to see echoes of myself in someone I've spent so long trying to forget.

I shake myself out of my reverie as Hunter and I approach a group of well-dressed individuals. This isn't the time to be lost in thoughts about my complicated family situation. Right now, we have a job to do.

10:27 pm

The music in the background fades as Mr. Remington, the potential sponsor, smiles broadly, extending his hand to both Hunter and me.

"You've convinced me," he says, his voice full of warmth and authority. "I'll have my people draw up the paperwork first thing Monday, but consider your project funded. It's not every day I come across something so innovative, with people as passionate as the two of you behind it."

I'm blown away for a moment and find I can't speak. I know I'm smiling like a dummy. My cheeks hurt from the broadness of it. Years in the making, and Mr. Remington has just committed to bringing this to trial. Finally.

The weight of the world lifts off my shoulders. Hunter and I exchange a look—one of triumph, relief, and maybe even a hint of disbelief. I've been working so hard for this—we've been working so hard. Now, in a moment that is almost surreal, we've actually done it.

"Thank you, Mr. Remington," Hunter says, shaking his hand firmly. "We won't let you down. Now, the real fun begins."

"I'm sure you won't," Mr. Remington replies, then with a final nod, he turns to Theo Bench, who's been standing nearby, grinning like a proud father. The two of them start talking logistics, and Hunter and I step back slightly, taking a moment to breathe.

"That just happened," I whisper, mostly to myself, but in his ear. The reality of it is still sinking in.

"It did," Hunter replies, a slight grin on his face. "We've got it, Frankie. Fuck, yeah. This is happening."

I nod, as a rush of excitement mixed with the overwhelming relief that comes after a long-fought battle envelopes me. Just as I'm about to bask in the victory, something tugs at the back of my mind, a nagging thought about three crucial changes I need to make before we meet on Monday.

"Wait," I say, turning to Hunter. "I need to go back to the lab. The proposal details—there's some data we need to confirm and a file I need to send. We should have it all ready to go first thing on Monday. I don't want anything to hold it up."

Hunter raises an eyebrow, clearly not thrilled about the idea of cutting the celebration short. "Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

I shake my head, the pressure already creeping back in. "No, it's better if I do it tonight. Besides, my work here is done. I want to get it done while everything's fresh in my mind. I'd rather get it done." The truth is, I won't be able to enjoy myself anymore, anyway. I'm too excited about this. I want to go take care of it.

He sighs, glancing around the room as if looking for a way out, too. "Well, if it's gotta be done, you stay here and enjoy yourself, I'll go do it," he says, giving me a playful smirk. "You're not sneaking out early and leaving me to deal with all this."

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. "Oh, no. I'm not letting you off that easy. You don't get to skip out on the rest of this night by volunteering to take care of things. If anyone's leaving, it's me."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Nice try. I'm doing it."

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to keep a straight face. "We both know you're just looking for an excuse to get out of here, and I am not about to let you have it."

"Sounds like we're at an impasse, then," he says, grinning. "How about we both go? That way, neither of us has to stick around, and we can get it done twice as fast."

I pretend to consider it, tapping my chin. "Fine. We both go. Let's get out of here before Theo or Remington pulls us into another round of schmoozing."

We turn back to Mr. Remington and Theo, offering polite excuses before making our way to the exit. As we step outside, the night air is alive. There is an electricity in the air. The line of cars waiting to take guests home or to their next destination stretches down the driveway, and a sleek black car pulls up just as we approach.

The driver steps out, opening the door for us. Hunter introduces himself and me as he shakes his hand. "Dr. Parrish, Dr. Renna," the driver says with a courteous nod. "Your ride is ready."

I glance at Hunter, who raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Fancy service."

"I guess there are some perks to all of this," I reply, sliding into the car. He follows, and as the door closes behind us, the silence inside the vehicle tells me something is different.

The driver pulls away from the gala, heading toward the hospital, and I suddenly realize how close we're sitting, how the space between us seems much smaller than it did before. The tension that's been simmering all night—the excitement, the victory, the unspoken connection—now seems to fill the car, wrapping around us as we move through the quiet streets.

As the city lights blur past the window, I glance at Hunter, and our eyes meet. For a moment, neither of us says anything, but the look we share speaks volumes. Tonight isn't over—not by a long shot.

UAB Hospital

10:59 pm

My fingers hover over the keyboard, the cursor blinking on the screen as I double-check the last few numbers. I should concentrate on this, making sure everything is perfect before sending the final proposal. Instead, all I can focus on is Hunter standing behind me, close enough that I can almost sense the heat radiating from his body.

"It looks good," Hunter says, his voice low and steady, but there's an undercurrent of something else that's been simmering between us all night.

"Yeah," I reply, my voice sounding far away, even to my own ears. I'm trying to focus, to keep my head in the game, but it's nearly impossible with him this close. "I think we're ready to send it."

I move to click the button, but my hand is trembling slightly, betraying the calm I'm trying to project. Before I can second-guess myself, I hit send, watching as the email disappears into the ether. It's done.

But the weight that should have lifted from my shoulders doesn't disappear. Instead, it's replaced by a different kind of tension, one that's been compounding ever since we left the gala.

The space of the room seems smaller than normal, the air thicker, and I can sense Hunter's gaze on me, more intense than ever.

"Frankie," he says, and there's something in the way he says my name that sends a shiver down my spine. I turn to face him, and the look in his eyes is all the confirmation I need. This isn't about the proposal anymore—it's about us.

His body leans closer, so close that the warmth of his breath on my skin is palpable. My heart is racing, and for a moment, I can't breathe, can't think. I'm caught in the gravitational pull of him, of this, and there's no escape—not that I want one.

Before I can say anything, his hand reaches up and brushes a strand of hair away from my face. His fingers linger ever so slightly against my cheek. The touch is light and tentative, but it sends a jolt of electricity through me, waking up every nerve in my body.

Time seems to slow as he leans in, his gaze locked on mine, searching for any sign of hesitation. But there isn't any. I'm all in. I have been since the moment our eyes met at the gala.

And then he kisses me. It's soft at first, almost questioning, but I answer without words, pressing into him, deepening the kiss. The floodgates open, and suddenly, it's like we can't get close enough, can't touch enough. The intensity of it all overwhelms me but in the best way possible.

It's like riding a bike. Suddenly, that night in this same space comes rushing back, and my body and hands are on autopilot. It's so natural, as if we are picking up where we left off.

I stand, my chair scraping back, and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down to me as our lips move together in a frenzy. The edge of the desk digs into the back of my thighs, but I don't care. All I care about is this—about him, about the way he sets my body on fire.

Hunter's hands grip my waist, pulling me closer and lifting me slightly so that our middles are aligned. My fingers tangle in his hair, and it's like every touch, every kiss is erasing the space that's always been between us.

The lab has always been my sanctuary, a place where logic and reason reign supreme and emotion is left outside. But as Hunter's lips crash into mine, all that goes out the window. There's nothing scientific about the way my body responds to his touch, the way my heart hammers against my ribcage, demanding to be let out, to be let free.

His hands are everywhere—on my hips, in my hair, sliding up my thighs, pushing my dress up around my waist. There's an urgency to his movements, a desperation that matches my own. We're past the point of no return, and we both know it.

I pull at his shirt, tugging it free from his pants, needing the heat of his skin against mine, wanting him to fuck me like he did before. He helps me, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest, the tattoos that tell a story I want to dive into and know.

He pulls out his wallet, seemingly rummaging for protection. "I'm on the pill," I whisper. I don't have time for any diversion. I need him now, urgently.

Before I can explore further, he lifts me effortlessly, setting me down on the cool surface of my desk. Papers scatter, files topple, and a pen rolls off the edge, hitting the floor with a soft clatter. Neither of us cares. The only thing that matters is closing the distance between us and having him inside me, where he belongs.

Our lips never break contact as he fumbles with his belt, the metallic rasp of the buckle loud in the otherwise silent lab. I reach down to help him, our fingers tangling together in our haste—zippers being pulled down, buttons being undone, underwear being pushed aside.

And then he's there, filling me completely, stretching me in the most exquisite way. I gasp at the intrusion, at the sudden fullness, but I don't want him to stop. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, wanting everything he has to give.

Each thrust rocks the desk beneath us. The sound of our bodies colliding echoes off the walls. It's rough and intense, a meeting of two desperate souls, each seeking something in the other. My fingers dig into his back, clutching at his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he drives into me again and again.

The tension is building, a tight coil winding tighter and tighter in the pit of my stomach. I'm close, so close, and from the look on Hunter's face, so is he. He locks his eyes on mine, and the intensity threatens to swallow me whole.

"Hunter," I moan, my voice barely above a whisper, but he hears me.

"Let go, Frankie," he rasps, his voice laced with a need that mirrors my own.

And I do. I let go of everything—my fears, my doubts, my reservations—and surrender to the waves of pleasure that crash over me. "Fuck me, Hunter," I cry out, my body convulsing around his as my orgasm tears through me, leaving me breathless and shaking.

A moment later, Hunter follows me over the edge, his body going rigid before he collapses on top of me, both of us spent and gasping for air. His heart is pounding in sync with mine, a testament to the power of what just happened between us, connecting us.

We stay like that for several minutes, neither of us wanting to break the spell. But as our breathing begins to slow and the reality of our situation starts to sink in, I know that things between us have irrevocably changed. There's no going back to the way things were—not after this.

When we finally break apart, gasping for air, he rests his forehead against mine, and for a moment, we just breathe each other in. The world outside the lab ceases to exist; it's just us, caught in this moment.

"Frankie," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, with need.

"Come with me," I whisper back, the words spilling out before I can second-guess them. "Come back to my house."

He doesn't hesitate. I pull my dress down and smooth it over my thighs. We gather our things in a blur. Neither of us speaks as we head out of the lab, the cool night air hitting us as we step outside.

The car waiting by the curb seems to materialize out of nowhere, and before I know it, we're inside, the silence between us charged with all the things we're not saying and the endorphins still in overdrive.

I reach for his hand, needing the contact, and to be grounded in this whirlwind. He squeezes back, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a way that is both comforting and jarring. I'm not thinking about what this means, or even how we will deal with tomorrow. All I can think about is getting him in my bed for round two.