Friday rolls around and somehow Ashlee has roped me into going to EBS with her and Patrick after our shift at the hospital. Again. I have a feeling this is going to become a regular thing if Ashlee can help it.

Walking into the busy bar, we snag a booth towards the back. Ashlee and I volunteer to go grab drinks but Patrick protests, not wanting to hold down the table by himself, still apparently scarred from the last time. I volunteer to hold the table, spouting my order off to Ashlee who volunteers to help Patrick with grabbing drinks.

I mindlessly scroll through my phone, skimming Warner's weekly newsletter, when the booth shifts, someone sliding in next to me.

"Sorry, this table is tak—" I trail off, staring at the all too familiar broad frame sitting next to me.

Brad leans over, glancing at my screen. "Seriously? You're reading the newsletter at the bar?"

My lips part in bewilderment, ignoring his jab. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugs, leaning back against the booth, making himself comfortable. "It's Friday night. Everyone has to unwind somehow. Plus, I figured Ashlee dragged you here and you're going to need a ride home."

"I'm not getting drunk."

"I know. But I'm still not letting you walk home late at night by yourself."

I huff in annoyance.

Brad hasn't let me walk home at all this week, except for Wednesday when he was running late with a patient and I ran out of the hospital before he could catch me. Every other night of the week though, he's insisted on giving me a ride home, not taking no for an answer. Hell, one morning when it was pouring down rain I walked out of my apartment to find him parked along the curb, yelling at me to get in. Not wanting to show up to the hospital looking like a drowned rat—because guess who still hasn't bought an umbrella—I reluctantly complied.

Driving into work together that morning was really strange. It felt weirdly intimate and personal—getting involved in each other's routines. But as awkward as it was, it was somewhat... comfortable? I don't know how to explain it. Maybe Brad is starting to rub off on me.

"You're going to have to let me walk home sometime," I state, hoping he'll get the hint to lay off. Hopefully this is just some weird phase and his sudden urge to drive me home every night will go away.

"We'll see," he says, in a tone that sounds uncompromising, not picking up what I'm throwing down.

"Question," Ashlee states, sliding into the booth across from me with her fruity looking cocktail drink. Her eyes shimmer with delight as she takes in Brad sitting next to me. "What first year resident would you not let sleep with your daughter?"

I choke out a surprised laugh at her absurd question. Regardless, I answer anyway. "I don't know. That one guy from dermatology seems like a real douche."

"That's what I said!" Patrick exclaims, sliding in next to Ashlee. He slides my mojito in front of me and I take a sip. "Him and that chick from internal medicine with the scary neck tattoo."

I stifle a laugh, mojito almost shooting out of my nose.

"Are you kidding?" Ashlee objects. "That chick is so badass."

"I think what you meant to say was scary," Patrick says, taking a swig of his beer.

Ashlee gives him an unamused look. "You only think that because she could bench press you in her sleep."

"Exactly."

Ashlee rolls her eyes at her cousin. "So, Brad, who would you pick?"

He carelessly shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."

Ashlee's eyes narrow and her smile turns sharp. "Want to know who I would pick?"

"Who?" Brad asks, humoring her.

"You."

Brad laughs, staring at her with amusement and curiosity. "And why is that?"

Ashlee reclines back into the booth, getting far too comfortable. "Your name is literally Brad. If that's not a red flag that you're a fuck boy, I don't know what is."

I choke back a laugh, finding her point kind of valid. I feel like Brad has become the poster name for the stereotypical frat, fuck boy. Sort of like the name Karen—for those who are always needing to speak to the manager about something.

"And Ashlee with two E's isn't a red flag?" Brad counters.

Patrick snorts. "He's got you there," he states, causing Ashlee to punch him in the arm.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go grab a beer," Brad announces, slipping out of the booth and heading to the bar.

While Brad is up from the booth, I take the opportunity to slip out to use the restroom. When I come back to the table, there are two more people crammed into our booth, Brad also back with his beer.

On one side of the booth, Ashlee is crammed between the wall and another girl I recognize from anesthesia, Patrick sitting on the outside. On the other side, a very drunk looking Jack is between the wall and Brad. As I approach, Brad scoots closer to Jack, trying to make room for me. With both of their wide frames occupying the seat, there's only a sliver they can manage to spare for me to sit.

Reluctantly, I take a seat, mindful to keep an appropriate amount of distance between me and Brad. I manage to keep about five inches between us, at the cost of my right butt cheek practically hanging off the edge. I firmly plant my right foot on the floor so I can hold myself in the half squat position. Let's see how long I can struggle to hold this position before my leg starts shaking like a leaf...

Before my leg can give out, a large hand lands on my left thigh under the table, the long fingers curling around my bare flesh—given I'm wearing shorts. The hand pulls me inside the booth until I'm fully sitting on the seat, my thigh pressed against Brad's.

I gasp, glancing under the table to find Brad's large, tan hand wrapped around my thigh. I try to pull away but his hand remains firm, keeping me in place.

My eyes snap up to his face, sharp jawline on display as he takes a swig of his beer, acting as if his hand is anywhere but my bare thigh.

I gape at him, his hand remaining casually on my thigh with seemingly zero intent of moving anytime soon.

"Delilah!" Ashlee reaches across the table and snaps her fingers in front of my face.

"What?" I yelp, snapping my gaze to her, trying my best to ignore Brad's hand discreetly on my thigh under the table so no one else can see.

"Did you not hear anything that was just said?" she asks.

"I—no. Sorry. I wasn't paying attention," I sputter out, trying to ignore the heat emanating from Brad's hand between my legs, making my head all jumbled.

"Maybe if you weren't ogling Brad you would have heard that your attending is supposedly one of the surgeons who decides what intern gets to perform the first solo, supervised surgery," she informs me.

My cheeks grow hot at her Brad comment. Okay, maybe he was right. Ashlee with two E's is a red flag. If only she knew where his hand was right now. She'd lose her shit.

"Oh," is all I can manage, my throat dry.

Ashlee blinks at me and my lack of enthusiasm. "Delilah, you know this means you're in a great position to snag that surgery since you spend a lot of time with Dr. Allen, right? You've already assisted him and he was thoroughly impressed by you."

"Unlike me," Jack mumbles drunkenly, bitterly. His cheeks are flushed and eyes heavy, glazed. "Dr. Allen hates me," he states, heavily slumped over the table in misery. "Delilah and Brad have already stepped foot in an OR while he still has me running around, doing the shit no one else wants."

It turns unbearably quiet, no one really knowing what to say to console a drunken Jack.

Ashlee clears her throat. "Well, you never know what can happen. May the best surgeon win," she declares, raising her glass in cheers.

Everyone awkwardly, halfheartedly cheers. Even Jack.

Ashlee takes a large gulp of her drink. "Okay, Delilah. You can go back to ogling Brad," she teases, attempting to lighten the mood of the table at my expense.

My cheeks grow hot and I shoot daggers that could kill her way.

Jack drunkenly slams his glass down onto the table after draining its contents. "Hey, what's up with you two, anyway? Are you together or something? Because one minute you seem like you hate each other, then the next you're flirting. I can't figure it out."

I nearly choke on my sip of mojito. "No!" I cough wildly. "We are definitely not together."

Jack's brows pinch together in thought. "Fucking?"

"No!" I cry.

Patrick's head jerks back in surprise. "Seriously? You two haven't fucked?" he asks in disbelief.

"That's what I've been saying!" Ashlee cuts in.

Mortified. I am completely and utterly mortified.

I smack my hands over my burning hot face, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole. Goodbye cruel world. It was not nice knowin' ya.

As if things couldn't get any worse, Brand's hand seems to skim further up my thigh, his pinky flirting with the hem of my shorts, causing my whole body to tense. What the hell is he doing? What the hell is going on?

With how much heat I'm currently emanating, I'm bound to die of my brain being fried to a crisp.

Feeling hot, restless and cagey, I abruptly stand from the booth, Brad's hand falling from my thigh, and hightail it to the bathroom on shaky legs. I enter the small, semi humid restroom, due to poor air circulation. There are only two girls at the sinks checking on their makeup, but one look at me and they exit, probably reading the distress written all over my face.

I pace the small area, trying to release some of the restless energy tensing my muscles. When that doesn't work, I walk over to the sink and splash my burning hot face with cool water. I go to grab some paper towels to wipe my hands and pat my face dry, only to realize there's only air drying machines, and there's no way in hell I'm sticking my face under one of those. I've seen too many studies on how much germs those things actually spread around, and I will not allow my face to be a breeding ground.

Letting out a low groan of frustration, I stand in the middle of the restroom, wildly fanning my face with my hands until they're both dry.

Once I feel composed enough, I straighten my spine and hold my head high, ready to walk out there and pretend nothing happened. That no part of that conversation was had. That is until I walk out of the bathroom and collide into a wall of hard muscle, the person accidentally stepping on my toe.

I suck in a harsh breath through my teeth, trying my best to hold back an explicit. "Watch where you're going Bigfoot," I bite out before glancing up to see who it is, my heart slamming against my ribcage.

Surprised but amused eyes stare back at me, a slow grin forming on Brad's mouth. "You know what they say about big feet," he muses.

Like a switch, I flip back to annoyance, no longer held back by my embarrassment. I bat my lashes at him, voice lethally sweet. "That they're attached to clowns."

Brad actually laughs at my comment, only fueling my anger.

I scoff, shoving past him to leave.

"Delilah, wait," he calls out, gently capturing my wrist. I stop in my tracks, thinking about where that exact hand was minutes ago. He tugs me back around until I'm facing him, dipping his head to meet my eyes. "Are you okay?"

Up until now, I've refused to meet his gaze. When I finally stare into his eyes I nearly gasp at the genuine, soft sincerity behind them. "I'm fine," I croak out, my throat suddenly tight.

"Delilah—"

"I'm fine," I reiterate, my cheeks growing warm once more under his intense gaze. I go to tug my arm away but he holds on firmly.

"Is this about what they said back there?" he presses.

"No," I lie, cheeks growing redder by the second.

"Who cares what they think," he argues.

"I do!" I admit a little too hastily. "I care that they think we've slept together."

His face tenses into a frown and his grip loosens. I tug my wrist free, taking a step back. He takes a step closer. "Well it's none of their damn business."

I groan in frustration, tugging at my curls. "I know that, but..." But what? You're no saint, my subconscious reminds me. And I'd be willing to bet no one else at that table is, either. Sex is a totally normal thing. It shouldn't be anything to be embarrassed about. "I just don't want anyone making assumptions about my sex life."

Ha! What sex life? I remind myself. The last time you hooked up with someone was third year of med school.

"So what?" he says, almost equally as annoyed. "You're a grown woman. You can do whatever you want, with whoever you want, and it shouldn't concern anyone."

I scoff, rolling my eyes. "Says you," I mutter under my breath.

His jaw hardens. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I give him a point look. "You sleep with anything that has two legs. Me," I place a hand on my chest for emphases, "I don't sleep around all willy-nilly."

"Who says I sleep around?"

I give him another pointed look. "You're telling me you didn't sleep around with all those nurses in med school?" I challenge.

His jaw ticks. "Maybe a few. But that was a long time ago. In the beginning."

"And what about the nurses now?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Just one," he says, voice gruff, eyes still intense. "But it's nothing serious."

I bark out a laugh right in his face. Turning to leave once again, Brad catches me by the elbow, tugging me back around to face him. He takes a step closer, putting inches between us, evading my senses. I have to tip my head back to look up at him.

"At least I know and go after what I want," he says lowly, huskily. His thumb grazes my arm, sending a shiver down my spine. "What do you want, Delilah?"

I sputter, unable to respond. He takes another step forward, causing me to take a step back, my back meeting the wall. The pads of his fingers delicately skim down my arm as his warm breath fans across my face.

"What if we did sleep together?" he muses. "Would it be that bad? What would it matter to anyone else? They already think we have, so what difference would it make?"

My jaw goes slack. Is he suggesting what I think he's suggesting?

"You're drunk," I say, knowing it's the only logical explanation.

He shakes his head, hooded eyes raking up and down my body hungrily. "Only had half a beer."

I swallow thickly as my heart knocks around in my chest, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

Would it be so bad? I think. This is Brad we're talking about, here.

My eyes land on his full, sensual lips. The sudden thought of them moving against mine, skimming across my body has me feeling prickly and feverish.

Have a little fun, Ashlee's voice rings in my head.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sooo I lied. The actual spice was supposed to start this chapter, but as I was writing, the chapter ended up getting longer and longer so I'm splitting it up into 2 parts. I promise things are really going to heat up next chapter! 😅