Thanks for tuning in as I post chapters of my new novel When Ivy Met Adam: A second chance, forced proximity, sexy, queer love-triangle romance. Your feedback is everything. Please post comments here or email me. I’m so excited to hear what you think.

Read earlier chapters here:
Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

Chapter 7 - Adam

I could get used to this. My office for the month has a view of the sloping peaks of the Waianae mountain range. When I walk down the hall to get coffee, there’s a breeze rustling through the palms and a view of the Pacific Ocean. This is my sixth day at a new locum tenens gig, and I am the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. Becoming a substitute emergency physician after my residency has been the best decision—this is only my third placement, and I’m hooked. The first two were gigs in colder climes, so this thirty-day, mid-December to mid-January gig on Oʻahu is like a dream come true. 

The radio on my hip crackles to life. “Dr. Lopez, we have a Code Blue at Station Six. Female patient appears to be in shock.” 

Fuck. “Call an ambulance now,” I respond over the radio as I grab my bag and run to the beach. 

The patient’s anaphylaxis is obvious. “Hi. Can you tell me your name?” I ask the patient as I take her wrist—her pulse is racing. Her breathing is fast and shallow. She’s clammy to my touch. 

“Mm-mmy,” she tries to say.

Swollen lips, hives all over. “Do you have an emergency epinephrine autoinjector?” I ask as I get mine out of my bag. 

She shakes her head no. 

“I’m going to give you a shot that should help you feel better right away, miss. Is that okay with you?” 

She nods.

I administer epinephrine in her outer thigh and then grab a towel to put over her like a blanket. Then I see it. Ivy’s tattoo on this woman’s hip. Wait. Fuck, that’s Ivy’s tattoo—the outline of a dove carrying a sprig of ivy instead of the traditional olive branch—on Ivy. 

“Ivy, I’m Dr. Lopez.” I take a deep, calming breath. Recognition and realization are fogging my brain. Do not panic, Adam. “The paramedics are on their way, Ivy. We’re going to make you comfortable while we wait.” I notice the glass next to her on a tiny table. I grab my phone and snap a quick picture of what looks like a pomegranate mojito, but I’ll have staff confirm what she was drinking. “Ivy, do you have any allergies?”

She shakes her head no. She does not look good. 

My panic is sorting itself into categories. One, this is not how I wanted to reconnect with Ivy Gardiner. Wait. No. One, I cannot treat someone I care about. Ethics, first, Adam. Jeez. 

Thank God, the paramedics arrive just as I’m starting to feel as sick as my poor, precious, perfect Ivy looks. I brief them with who I am and what I know: patient’s name, time of injection, tachycardia, edema, etc. The two guys—I haven’t been at this assignment long enough to know our local first responders yet—get her on an extractor with sand tires (the gadget geek in me is almost distracted by this fancy, beach-worthy gurney). I grab my gear and follow them. When we get to the ambulance, I hop in behind the paramedic and Ivy.

He raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, Doc, but…”

“She’s my fiancée,” I lie.

“Shit. Sorry, Dr. Lopez.” And the man gets back to work saving the life of the woman I’ve loved since I was eighteen.