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“This place is nice,” said Gregory Williamson, a medical rep who had introduced himself when he sat down in the shuttle beside me—he hadn’t stopped talking since.
“Wine tasting,” Gregory said as we were offered the first glass of the evening. “It’s basically the reason I even came here. A good break from everyday life.” He chuckled, took a swig of his Chardonnay, and smacked his lips together. “My wife hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since she was pregnant with Max. He’s three now, which makes it hard for me to enjoy a glass in the evening. Life’s a whirlwind with a toddler.”
I nodded, not sure what to say since I wasn’t fond of drinking myself, and I had no children, nor a wife. If Gregory wanted to speak about something else, perhaps implant delivery systems to facilitate the precise position of hip implants, then I’d be all ears.
But he appeared far more interested in chitchat.
Thankfully, Lilian Baskir, an orthopedic surgeon from Petaluma, and Harry Rust, a physical therapist from Sebastopol, were more than happy to indulge him. It was like I was fifteen again, standing on the outskirts of a conversation, listening but not participating. The only difference between then and now was that I now welcomed it.
While Lilian went on about her three-year-old niece, I scanned the room. The space itself was large with stamped concrete floors and walls the color of champagne. To the right, just beside the bar, was a glass partition offering a view into the winery’s production area. Vintage wine barrels were dispersedthroughout the room in a way that made it look casual and nonchalant, and in the far-right corner were rattan chairs surrounding a live-edge coffee table with steel legs.
Sophie was sitting on one of the chairs.
She caught me staring at her and I looked away, my eyes burning as if they were on fire. Her hair was up, and she was wearing a long stone-colored dress and sneakers that for some reason suited her far better than heels.
“So, Alex,” said Harry, turning to me. “Where did you say you were from again?”
“Sorry, I have to go to the bathroom,” I muttered as I walked away. The last thing I heard from group five was Harry’s voice uttering, “What’s his problem?”
Instead of heading to the restroom, I ambled over to Sophie, who had just stood up and broken free from group seven. She was on her way to the bar when I stepped in front of her.
“I just overheard another physical therapist talking about which surgical approach for hip replacement leads to better rehab,” I said. It wasn’t exactly my best work, but it was the only thing that popped into my head. “What’s your take on it, Sophie?”
She studied my face, her gaze running from my hairline—which thankfully showed no signs of receding—down to my chin. When her gray eyes flicked back up to mine, I could see a twitch in her jaw. “This is a conversation you need to have with the people in your group. Rules apply to everyone, Alex. You’re not immune to them.”
“Well, I don’t like group number five,” I said, stepping back when she stepped forward.
“It’s not about liking them.”
"Are you just saying that to avoid my question?" I quipped, my voice sounding unfamiliar—lighter, airier, no longer weighted down by the fact that my fiancée had ended ourengagement four weeks ago for no reason other than that we had drifted apart and that we shouldn't have gotten engaged in the first place. That heavy, somewhat disappointed, strangely relieved feeling followed me like a shadow. A feeling that lifted, only slightly, when I spoke to Sophie.
She sighed and shook her head while simultaneously rolling her eyes. It was amazing how women managed to do so many actions at once. “Anterior approach. It spares the major muscles which allows for a quicker recovery of movement. Are you happy now?”
"Extremely," I joked and caught myself. "How about we make our own group? We can call it number eleven."
“No,” she said coldly and walked right past me to the bar.
I let her go.
CHAPTER 3
Sophie
“Technically you’ve got less than a day left, Soph,” I muttered under my breath.
As much as I enjoyed absorbing knowledge from the seminars—they were all very informative—I couldn’t wait to leave the lodge. The place was stunning, the views from every angle and open window were to die for, but the lodge itself felt extremely small, painfully so. Especially since everywhere I looked, Alex was there, standing with his hands in his pockets, a perpetual frown on his face, looking all handsome and stoic.
I couldn’t make sense of this feeling. Whenever Alex was close, either in my direct vicinity or staring at me from across the room, I was both hot and cold and up and down.
Which was exactly why I needed to avoid him.
Unfortunately, it was harder than expected. Even this morning at the talk—The Future of Joint Replacement—he had literally kept me a seat. Sweet but unnecessary. Since I was on time, there had been plenty of seats to choose from, and I had spent at least half of the talk convincing myself that Alex’s face hadn’t fallen disappointedly when I’d ignored his almost too subtle wave.
“You can do this. All you need to do is stay away from him—”
Out of nowhere, I collided with a wall of muscle and stumbled back. For a split second, I was suspended in the air, gazing up at a head of tousled dark hair and broad, muscly shoulders.
Life suddenly snapped back like a rubber band. My arms flailed out, but I didn’t fall. A hand had slid around my waist and kept me up, scorching heat pressing through the silky fabric of my blouse.
