Page 83 of The Love Operation

“Spinal Cord,” he says, a hesitant smile on his lips. “You said you were going to be a surgeon. You made it happen.”

I love this nickname, have since the first time he said it. But I hate that something that defines me so perfectly was initiated by him.

Spinal Cord, he’d joked, nudging me in the ribs while we studied. That suits you. A surgeon in the making.

Then he tucked my hair behind my ear and kissed me so hard, I forgot I was supposed to be studying.

I don’t smile back. “That’s what you do when you want something. You make it happen.”

If he registers the thinly veiled hostility, or the implication, he doesn’t show it.

“I knew you’d be the best,” he continues. “Watching you in that room, I can tell you are.”

“It’s been a long time, Benedict. There are dozens of spine surgeons you could’ve chosen. Why are you in my clinic?” I don’t have the energy to be anything but direct. I am prepared to treat his dad and move on, to let him float out of my life the way he did before.

His smile drops. “The truth?” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve been wanting to see you for a while. I wasn’t sure how to approach you—or if I even should. I’ve written and erased hundreds of texts. I’ve followed your career, watched you be amazing. And then . . . I know I shouldn’t be glad my dad hurt his back, but it felt like a push. Like the timing might be right.”

The breath punches out of me, and my stupid intestines roll over like a dog performing for a treat.

“You aren’t married,” he says.

I don’t know if he’s asking or telling me, but I shake my head. “No. You?”

He exhales. “Not anymore.”

“You were married.” The words just . . . exist, stupid and small. A flicker of something—sharp, uninvited—moves through me. He was married. Of course he was. I shouldn’t care.

“I was.” He says it casually, but there’s something behind it. How could there not be? I suddenly want to know why. Who would have this man and let him go? But maybe he left her. “I got a divorce a long time ago.”

I swallow and nod.

He gestures toward the exam room. “I don’t know how long that shot will take, but I’d like to catch up.” His voice is steady, but his posture shifts—like he’s bracing. “Could we do that?”

The word comes instantly to my tongue. “Why?”

“Because I’ve never stopped regretting what happened between us.” He closes his eyes, then when he opens them, he says, “I don’t think I ever stopped loving you.”

My brain goes on holiday. I inhale so sharply I’m surprised I don’t accidentally suck his shirt into my mouth.

Then a slow, heavy ache unfurls inside me.

My brain finally catches up. “What happened between us?” I say, suddenly incredulous. “You walked away.”

He nods once, accepting that. “Fair enough. Then I’ve never stopped regretting walking away from you.”

I stare at him. These are the words I always wanted to hear, but he’s years too late.

I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to—”

He touches my arm. It’s not forceful, but it stops the words cold in my throat.

“Please,” he says. “Let me take you out. One dinner. To catch up. To honor what we had.”

The air thickens, like the oxygen molecules have been replaced with heathen bastards. And only now, with this man asking me out, do I remember Isaac—the man who told me he loved me mere hours ago. I should have remembered him sooner. I shouldn’t have forgotten him at all.

I straighten. “I’m seeing someone.”

Benedict’s expression doesn’t falter. “Is it serious?”