The door swings open, and Seamus steps inside. It’s the first time I’ve seen him stand to his full height.
Jesus Christ. He’s massive.
The Orgasm Whisperer is easily six foot five, broad as the damn doorframe and could throw me over his shoulder without breaking a sweat. He’s all man—strong, solid, effortlessly powerful in a way having nothing to do with arrogance and everything to do with sheer biology.
No wonder every woman in the hospital threw themselves at him.
His dark jeans and button-down shirt only emphasize what’s underneath—thick, muscular thighs, broad shoulders straining against the fabric and a trim waist. Like he doesn’t lift weights—he destroys them.
Despite his strength, there’s a tension in the way he carries himself. His neck is stiff. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in days.
I know the feeling.
Seamus’s blue eyes flick to Sarah and when they land on me, something ignites—deep and primal, like the slow burn of embers waiting to roar to life.
Desire. Unmistakable. Undeniable. Then—gone.
My breath catches and I blink, convinced I imagined it. I’m too old for him. He has no reason to look at me like he’s interested. Yet—for one fleeting moment—he did.
Now it’s gone, and his mask is back in place.
He drops into the chair beside Sarah and exhales sharply. “All right. I’m here. I have a lot on my plate. Why do you need me?”
I glance at Sarah and she nods, giving me the go-ahead.
Seamus looks me up and down and steels his gaze.
Without thinking, I tug at the fabric of my wrap dress, suddenly feeling foolish for choosing it this morning. It’s a deep navy, cinched at the waist, and the soft jersey fabric clings to my curves more than I’m comfortable with. It’s not my usual sharp, structured blazer and pencil skirt, and now, under his gaze, I regret the choice entirely.
Ah, well. I’ve got to forge ahead.
“You’re here because we both know Caldwell is throwing you under the bus.” I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk. “You seem to have been his star resident. It doesn’t change the fact he was the lead surgeon and made the call leading to Miranda Black’s catastrophic injuries. In my opinion, he’s trying to shift blame to you.”
Seamus doesn’t react right away. Instead, his fingers drum restlessly against his knee. His eyes flick to the floor, his expression unreadable.
I see the way his breathing changes. The way his body stiffens at the mention of her name.
“Seamus.” I lower my voice. “If you cared about Miranda…”
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down the stubble on his handsome face. “Sarah, you told me anything I say here is protected, right?”
“Yes.” Sarah nods. “This is a settlement discussion. Whatever you say in this room can’t be used against you in court.” She gives him a pointed look. “Marcella is a professional. This is a matter of legal ethics, so don’t worry.”
His gaze snaps to mine, and something fractures behind his eyes. This giant man’s voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks, as if saying the words out loud makes them more unbearable.
“I stayed with her for hours after the surgery,” he murmurs, almost like he’s confessing something he’s never said before. “I check in on her every night. When her parents go home to sleep, I sit by her bed. Adjust her ventilator. Watch the monitors. Not a day goes by where I’m not thinking, if I did one more thing…if I held my ground…maybe.”
Seamus’s throat bobs as though he’s struggling not to cry. His fists clench on his thighs.
“She was twelve.” His voice cracks, raw and jagged. “She loved horses. She wanted to be a vet. Her mom told me once she hated the smell of hospitals. Miranda never complained—not once. She was brave. Braver than anyone I’ve ever met. I—” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply, like he’s trying to steady himself. “I didn’t fail her. I know I didn’t.”
The pain in his voice betrays him.
He believes hedidfail her. It’s eating him alive.
Seamus swallows hard, staring down at his big hands, his voice thick with something broken. “I was there when it happened. I saw it. Now, I have to live with it.”
He drags his fingers through his hair at the back of his neck, his breath uneven. “If I could tell her parents anything, it wouldn’t be about the surgery. It wouldn’t be some rehearsed explanation regarding risk or medical outcomes or statistics.” He looks into my eyes and the devastation there wrecks me. “I would tell them I’m sorry. I’d tell them I whisper to her when no one else is around, even though I know she can’t hear me. It sounds so trite—so stupid. I’d trade places with her. I really would.”
