THE ONE IN MY HEART is the first contemporary romance
published by Sherry Thomas. Thomas is best known for her
amazing historical romances and her equally fantastic young
adult fantasy. I was dismayed to hear from another
reviewer on Goodreads that Thomas said this would be her
only contemporary romance, but when I tweeted to her to
plead, "say it ain't so!", she replied that she changed her
mind and will be writing more (throws confetti).
This is not a book for sticklers about believability.
Bennett is a physician doing his final year of training as
a cardiothoracic surgeon. He's extremely wealthy, very
fit, working massive hours at the hospital that get token
mention, yet has lots of time to lavish on Eva. There's a
fake engagement that turns into a real marriage because,
hello, this is a romance. The fake engagement has a kind of
creepy reason, but I can roll with it. There are some
major surprise twists that crank up the tension, which I
adore.
But, oh, the angst. Both Bennett and Eva have so many
thorny issues that have gnarled their hearts almost beyond
recognition. The stutteringly slow opening up of Eva's
barricaded heart to Bennett's love makes me cry repeatedly
while gripping my Kindle tightly in sweaty hands, yearning
for them to be fully together and fully happy. I
highlighted the bejesus out of this book because there
are so many lyrically beautiful passages and lots of rompy
fun dialogue too.
THE ONE IN MY HEART is one of my two favorite books of 2015
to date (I read this in mid-July), and this one book easily
makes my Keeper shelf. It joins TRADE ME, another
sparkling contemporary romance by Courtney Milan, who also
usually writes historical romance. I'm sensing a trend
here!
With THE ONE IN MY HEART, Thomas proves she can
not only dominate the historical romance and fantasy
genres, but can also bring it in the contemporary ring.
Now the hard part will be waiting until she publishes her
next contemporary romance for me to gobble up with a gleam in my eye.
Bestselling historical romance author Sherry Thomas
branches
out with her first contemporary romance about a chance
meeting a lifetime in the making, and an all-consuming
affair without a single predictable moment.
When Evangeline Canterbury meets the gorgeous, intriguing
doctor next door, all she wants from him is a bit of
distraction, to help her get over a few rough days.
Her one-night stand, however, has other plans: He needs
an
accomplished and presentable girlfriend to bring before
his
parents--and for six months of her time, he is willing
and
prepared to spend an obscene amount of money.
Nothing but trouble can come of such an arrangement. But
can
Eva stop herself? Or will she fall headlong in love with
a
man who will leave her when their contract expires with a
smile, a check, and hardly a backward glance?
Excerpt
THE LAST THING I EXPECTED on that miserable August
evening was a one-night stand. I expected even less that
my accidental lover would swoop back into my life,
metaphoric guns blazing. Though what really did me in was
our subsequent fake relationship, which turned everything
upside down even before the nude scandal erupted.
But it all began, for me at least, on the back lanes of
Cos Cob, Connecticut.
A shower fell steadily. My hair was plastered to my
skull, dripping water down my neck. My stomach had given
up sending polite signals of hunger and was moodily
folding in on itself. It must be nearly midnight. Had I
eaten anything today? Had I eaten anything at all since I
found Zelda four days ago in the grips of a major manic
upswing?
A gust blew. I shivered, the chill of my drenched clothes
sinking deep beneath my skin. But I kept walking. The
lane wound between houses on heavily wooded lots, some
hidden behind impenetrable tall hedges, others set apart
by low stone walls. Was I tired enough yet? How much
farther did I need to go, before I could sink into a
dreamless sleep?
The bright headlights of an oncoming car startled me. I
hurried to the edge of the narrow lane, my tired toes
digging into waterlogged and slippery flip-flops.
As it passed, the low-slung, sporty model slowed to a
crawl. Probably someone who lived in the area, coming
back from a Friday-night party and wondering why a woman
was out by herself in this weather, at this time of the
night.
Come on. Keep moving. I didn’t want any neighborly
concern.
The car stopped, aerodynamic curves gleaming faintly,
windows completely dark. It reversed a good fifteen,
twenty feet. Now it faced me again, its headlights
flooding the rain-slicked asphalt between us.
Alarm jolted me. What if I wasn’t about to deal with
neighborly concern? What if…I yanked out my phone, swiped
to unlock the screen, and tapped 911.
The driver-side door opened and out came a large
umbrella, followed by a man. Instinctively I stepped back
—directly into the bulk of a low stone wall. My pulse
hammered.
The man straightened, closed the car door, and didn’t
move for a few seconds, as if he too had second thoughts
about the situation. Or was he merely figuring out the
best way to overpower me?
He started toward me. I groped blindly for a weapon, my
fingers closing around a loose rock from the top of the
wall.
Stop. Stop right now.
He stopped six feet away. His face was in shadows, but
against the flood of light from the car he seemed the
size of a linebacker. “Evangeline, right?” he asked, his
voice low yet clear against the percussion of rain on his
umbrella.
I blinked, caught between hope and even greater
suspicion. “Yes?”
“I’m Bennett. I took care of Collette Woolworth’s dog for
you this week.”
“Oh,” I said, my death grip around the rock unclenching a
little.
I was in the neighborhood for the summer because
Collette, Zelda’s good friend, was overseas on a work
assignment, and needed someone to keep an eye on Biscuit,
her rat terrier. When Zelda’s mania swung into high gear
and I didn’t want to leave her alone, I’d called a list
of emergency contacts Collette had left me. Everyone was
out of town except Bennett, who had sounded harried, but
had agreed to look after Biscuit.
“Thanks for helping me out,” I added.
“You are welcome,” he answered.
I said nothing else. Had I met him in broad daylight, my
gratitude might have been more effusive—in fact, I meant
to get him a nice thank-you present. But it was the
middle of the night, we were on a deserted lane, and a
man who was nice to a dog could still commit a crime of
opportunity.
After a moment he turned to look at his car, as if
longing for its safety. As if he, rather than me, were
the exposed and vulnerable one here.
As he did so, the headlights illuminated enough of his
features for recognition to kick me in the chest. His
name had meant nothing when I called, but I’d come across
him a few times when I was out walking Biscuit. He was
usually on a bicycle, though I’d also seen him running,
fast and with a beautiful gait.
Once he stopped his bike, pushed his aviators up, and
asked me the time. His demeanor was courteous, but not
interested. In fact, he seemed wary, as if he suspected
that the clock on my phone might be fifteen minutes off.
Yet I’d vibrated afterward, unable to stop thinking of
his deep-set green eyes.
But just because I found a man attractive didn’t mean I
should trust him.
He looked back at me, his face once again in shadows.
“People keep telling me this neighborhood is really safe.
But it’s late. Is there someone I can call for you?”
The last thing I wanted was to alert anyone that I was
wandering about the middle of the night, drowning in
rain. “Thanks, but I’m okay.”
“What if I gave you the key to my car? You can drive
yourself home.”
My eyes widened. I glanced at the sleek vehicle, a Tesla
Roadster. “You’re willing to let a stranger drive your
car? Aren’t you breaking some sacred man commandment?”
“I’ll risk it.”
He lobbed the key my way. I somehow managed to catch it
between my wrists, while still holding on to both phone
and rock. “But I’ll get your car all wet!”
“It’s an old car. It’ll survive,” he answered from over
his shoulder, already walking away.
And kept walking away, with no backward glances for me or
the fate of his car. I stared at him, and then down at
the car key. He wasn’t kidding—he’d really left me his
car.
And I thought I was pretty deranged for stumbling about
in the dark, even after it started to rain.
Not knowing what else to do, I got into the Roadster,
wincing in apology as my soaked clothes squelched against
the leather seat. Thank goodness I hadn’t actually dialed
911, or I’d have to shamefacedly explain that not only
hadn’t the man assaulted me, but that I was now in
possession of his vehicle.
I slowed as I approached Bennett, who was headed in the
same direction as me. It wouldn’t feel quite right to
drive past him in his car, but I still hesitated, the
adrenaline from my earlier scare not completely
dissipated yet. What if he was running a long con? What
if he meant to gain my trust and then pounce on me?
Shaking my head at my cynicism—nobody ran this kind of
long con on a random stranger—I stopped a bit past him
and lowered the window two inches on the passenger side.
“Hey, people keep telling me this neighborhood is really
safe. But it’s late. Can I drop you off at home?”
He braced a hand on the top of the car and leaned down.
“No. Grandma told me I’m too pretty to get into cars with
strangers.”
My lips twitched. “Grandma was lying through her teeth.
You’re just average.”
“What? But I had plans for becoming a Park Avenue trophy
husband.”
I felt a smile spreading across my face, a lovely
sensation. “Forget about sleeping your way to the top.
You’ll have to get to Park Avenue by exploiting the
masses like everyone else—or not at all. Now get in the
car before I give it back to you.”
He shook his head, collapsed his umbrella, and got in.
“When did it become so hard to be a Good Samaritan? You
give up your ride to a woman in need and she calls you
ugly.”
“That’ll teach you to give your ride to women in need. I
could have fenced the car overnight.”
He pulled on the seat belt. “You’ll make me cry into my
tiramisu.”
I slowly eased my foot down on the accelerator—the engine
was much more powerful than I’d expected. “Don’t tell me
you actually have tiramisu at home.”
I had eaten earlier, now that I thought about it, but an
apple and two scrambled eggs were not enough for an
entire day. A huge serving of something sweet and dense
would send me into a food stupor, and a food stupor might
be exactly what I needed for a full night’s sleep, which
I hadn’t had since the beginning of Zelda’s episode.
“I never lie about food,” said Bennett.
Then what do you lie about? “Lucky you.”
“At least I can stuff my face on the night I find out I’m
not pretty. You know, take it like a man.”
I smiled again—there was something rather irresistible
about him.
He gave me directions, and we arrived at a center-hall
colonial with a circular driveway in front. As the
Roadster came to a stop, he picked up a messenger bag
from the floor of the car and looked inside.
“So what do you do to pass time while you’re waiting to
become a Park Avenue trophy husband?” I heard myself ask.
He mock-glared at me, his cheekbones remarkable in the
exterior lights of the house that had come on when we
pulled up. “You mean what do I do when I’m waiting to
never become a Park Avenue trophy husband?”
“Don’t let some hater step on your dream. But yeah,
that.”
He shook his head a little, smiling. “I’m a surgeon.”
I looked him up and down. I’d have pegged him as a
lawyer, one of those young, assertive, high-powered
breed. Or a restaurateur, the shrewd kind who rehabbed
derelict spaces into hole-in-the-wall eateries that had
lines going around the block. I could even, in a pinch,
imagine him as a Silicon Alley executive with a million
frequent-flier miles accumulated from trips to San Jose
and Austin.
But I wouldn’t have guessed him to be a doctor, let alone
the kind who worked with scalpels. “So, you’re tired of
cutting people open?”
“Sick of it—blood and guts every day. But someday my
princess will come, and she’ll carry me away from all
this drudgery.”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed aloud. He laughed too,
though more quietly.
In the wake of our mirth, a small silence fell. He closed
the flap of the messenger bag and I was suddenly speaking
again. “I’ve seen you around a few times.”
He glanced at me. “Last time I saw you, you wore a shirt
that said, ‘To err is human; to really screw things up
requires a computer programmer.’”
“Nerd humor.” The shirt had been given to me by my friend
Carolyn, who was in corporate IT security.
“Do you know your age in binary?”
I’d minored in computer science, so I did happen to know
it. “One hundred thousand.”
“I have been known to like an older woman,” he replied,
deadpan.
I chortled, feeling…elated, almost.
“That’s thirty-two, right?” he asked.
“Yeah. You?”
“I’ll be thirty-two in a few months.”
So I really was an older woman here. Hmm.
He leaned back an inch. “I’ll see you around, Evangeline.
Thanks for the ride.”
He already had his fingers on the door handle, but I
wasn’t ready to let him go—since he appeared, I hadn’t
freaked out about Zelda at all. “Umm…It was really nice
of me to give you a ride. Do you think you can share some
of your tiramisu with me?”
He considered. “That depends.”
I was already smiling again from his mock-pompous tone.
“On what?”
“On whether you are a secret princess.”
“Of course I am.”
“How would I know that?”
“There’s a picture of me online in a diamond tiara and a
ball gown.” Which was not a lie. “I’m the real deal.”
Something flickered in his eyes before he gave me a look
to let me know he was reserving judgment. “Okay, then.
You can come and have some tiramisu.”
A thrill leaped through me. We got out of the car.
Bennett dealt with the house’s security system. I,
waiting behind him, happened to glance down at myself—and
barely managed to suppress a yelp.
Wherever my wet white T-shirt clung to my skin, I was
practically naked. The flesh-tone cotton bra I wore
underneath didn’t appear to have turned as transparent,
but it was thin, and Bennett would have to be blind not
to see the outline of my cold-hardened nipples.
Hastily I crossed my arms over my chest. Without turning
around, he asked, “Do you want me to find you a bathrobe
or something like that to wear?”
My other choice would be to go back to Collette’s house.
But the closer I came to tiramisu, the more reluctant I
was to give it up. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”
He showed me bathroom to the left of the front door. I
ducked inside, nearly squealing again at my reflection.
Then I covered my mouth and tried not to giggle. What a
mess I was tonight.
But tiramisu was going to make everything better.
I stripped off my clothes, glad to be rid of their sodden
weight. Bennett delivered a fluffy white towel and a blue
lightweight bathrobe. When I came out of the bathroom, he
was waiting for me.
“I can put your clothes in the dryer,” he told me.
He was back a moment later to lead me down the central
passage toward the back. The house was an Architectural
Digest editor’s dream come true. But I didn’t give a
second glance to the console table that would make an
Antiques Roadshow appraiser jump for joy, or the
paintings on the walls that were probably American
Impressionist originals, by artists who had once thrived
right here in Cos Cob.
Instead I took in the man in front of me, the soft-
looking olive-green Henley shirt, the jeans that hung
just right on his hips, the sexy gait, his strides long
and easy, his footsteps almost silent on the gleaming
wood floor. My adrenaline-soaked perception had lied to
me earlier: He wasn’t at all built like a linebacker, but
along far more lithe and sinewy lines—kind of like his
car, actually.
His kitchen was high ceilinged, with exposed beams and
three exposed brick walls. Neat stacks of bowls and
plates sat on open shelves. He took two plates and two
spoons and placed them on the central island, shifting
aside a bowl of red Bartlett pears and a vase of yellow
daisies.
Now he pulled open a refrigerated drawer set beneath the
counter of the island and took out a dish of—no kidding—
honest-to-goodness tiramisu, with a thick dusting of
cocoa powder and generous sprinkles of chocolate
shavings.
I sucked in a breath.
“You look like an ER patient, the kind who comes in
jonesing for a fix,” he said.
I sat down on a bar stool opposite him. “Well, prescribe
me my drug of choice, Doctor.”
He handed me a heaping serving. The tiramisu was fresh
and not too sweet, with just enough espresso and dark
chocolate to cut the decadence of mascarpone cheese and
whipped cream. I devoured it.
“Where’d you get this? It’s so good.”
“My housekeeper made it,” he said, watching me.
Something in his gaze made my heart thump. Had I thought
he wasn’t interested in me? That indifference was nowhere
to be seen now.
“So…what kind of surgeon are you?”
A kettle trilled. He poured hot water into a mug and
pushed it toward me, along with a box of assorted
teabags. “Cardiothoracic. But I’m still doing my
fellowship.”
“What’s that?” I asked, gratefully wrapping my still-cold
fingers around the mug.
“Extra training after residency.”
“To take your God complex to the next level?”
He chortled softly. “Nah, I was born with a full-fledged
God complex. In fact, I’ll have you all fixed up by the
time you leave, princess.”
That made me grin. I couldn’t believe it—from pure misery
to this lightness of heart in mere minutes. I felt like…a
princess, one who found herself under an unexpected
enchantment.
Bennett studied me a moment, the corners of his lips
lifting. My heart thudded again.
Black hair, great angles, and those mesmerizing eyes—he
was drop-dead gorgeous.
“What do you do,” he asked, “when you are not wearing a
diamond tiara and a ball gown?”
“I’m an assistant professor of materials science.”
“That’s a mash-up of physics, chemistry, and engineering,
right?”
“Close enough.”
He whistled. “Beauty and brains—I’m not sure I can handle
the two together.”
“At this point it’s mostly just beauty. My brain was
confiscated in grad school and never given back.”
He laughed. He had a great laugh.
Our eyes met. He didn’t look away. I somehow couldn’t.
It was late. We were alone. And I was already naked
beneath the soft, warm robe that smelled faintly of
sunshine and freshly mowed grass.
All this had been true since I stepped into his kitchen.
But the possibilities that had only lurked in the depths
of my subconscious mind now broke surface and created
huge ripples.
I looked away, finished the last bite of my tiramisu, and
asked, “Were you at the hospital when I called about
Biscuit?”
He rolled up his sleeves. “Uh-hmm.”
His forearms were lean and strong—and since when did I
pay attention to a man’s forearms? “Is your hospital in
Greenwich?”
“It’s in the city,” he answered, giving his dishes a
quick but expert wash.
Manhattan, he meant, thirty miles away. I was surprised.
“Do you commute every day?”
“Usually I only come up on weekends, when I’m not on
call.”
“I hope you didn’t have to come all this way for
Biscuit.”
It was fifty minutes by train—one way. Taking care of
Biscuit had been a lot of trouble for him.
I remembered my T-shirt. To err is human was printed on
the front. To know the rest, he would have had to turn
around and watch me from behind.
He reached for a pear from the bowl on the island. “I
did.”
My gaze was riveted to his hand, the loose yet secure
hold he had on the pear.
“You didn’t ask your housekeeper to do it?”
“She was out most of the week. Just came back this
afternoon.”
I looked down at the smudges on my plate—all that
remained of my dessert. A hot thrill had zigzagged
through me when I’d thought that he’d made the trips
because he’d wanted to. But now it seemed he’d done it
only because he had to…
“That’s really nice of you,” I said, trying not to sound
as deflated as I felt. “I hope it didn’t interfere with
your schedule.”
He bit into the pear. “I traded an overnight shift with a
colleague.”
His shirt stretched with the movement, revealing a
braided cord around his neck, which dipped with the
weight of an unseen pendant. It shocked me how badly I
wanted to know the shape and material of that pendant.
“When do you have to take that overnight shift?”
“Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow was Saturday. I turned my spoon over. “Did I
ruin your weekend?”
“Effectively. I was going to sleep for thirty hours
straight. Now I’ll have to work for thirty hours
straight.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be. I can’t let a dog starve.
Besides, I didn’t help entirely out of altruism—Biscuit
was going to be my introduction to this really beautiful
woman.”
I licked the back of my teeth. Finally, an expression of
unambiguous interest on his part. But what exactly was
the nature of this interest? “Well, introductions are
done.”
“So they are,” he said softly.
Our gazes held again. The fridge hummed. Rain pounded on
the skylight. My breath echoed in my head, all erratic
agitation.
“Would you like some more?” He broke the silence,
pointing at the tiramisu dish with the half-eaten pear in
his hand.
“No, thank you. It was delicious, though.”
He took my spoon and plate to the sink. I stared at his
back. The shirt was a perfect fit across his shoulders,
hinting at the lean, graceful build underneath.
“If I understand you correctly, you are the stereotypical
workaholic, looking for some no-strings-attached sex.”
Shit. Did I say that?
Or should I instead be surprised that it had taken me
this long to get to this point, I who had invited myself
to his house after midnight on the flimsiest of excuses?
It was never tiramisu that I wanted, was it?
He turned around and considered me. The flare of heat on
my skin—as if someone had aimed a blowtorch at my throat
and cheeks. “I wouldn’t say no-strings-attached literally
—sometimes it’s fun to be tied up in bed. But yes, a
metric ton of sex is right near the top of my Christmas
wish list.”
He bit into the pear again. The sight of his teeth
sinking into the firm flesh of the fruit caused a jolt of
lust in me such as I hadn’t felt in years, perhaps ever.
Everything about our encounter was out of the ordinary. I
couldn’t tell whether I wasn’t quite myself—or whether I
was more myself than I’d ever been anywhere, with anyone.
The rain let up all of a sudden, its steady drumming
softening to a pitter-patter on the roof. The fridge,
too, fell quiet. But my heart continued to rattle my rib
cage, its fast, hard slams thunderous in my ears.
He lowered his gaze for a moment, then looked back at me
from underneath his eyelashes. “Is silence consent?”
Yes.
I wanted him to come closer. I wanted him to touch me. I
wanted him to take whatever sorcery he was working with
and enfold me securely inside.
My hand settled around my throat. My skin was hot, my
pulse a rapid staccato. “Not to a metric ton of sex.
Maybe once, tonight. I’m saving myself for marriage.”
“So am I, but you can lead me astray anytime.”
It was the sexiest thing anyone had said to me in a
while, so much so that I had to clear my throat before I
could speak again. “You’re sure you want to do this? I
mean, I was wandering around in the rain. Next thing you
know I could be boiling your bunny.”
“I’ll send my bunny into protective custody first thing
tomorrow morning.” He put away the remainder of the
tiramisu without taking his eyes off me. “Don’t
underestimate the desperation of a chronically underlaid
man.”
The intent in his gaze…I bit a corner of my lower lip.
“Then we’d better get to it. You’ll need to sleep soon so
you don’t kill patients tomorrow.”
Did he swallow? The very handsome column of his neck
moved in a way that made my heart beat even faster. “In
that case, would you mind standing against that wall?”
I glanced in the direction he gestured. Unlike the other
walls in the kitchen, this one didn’t have exposed
bricks, but was smoothly plastered. I hopped off the
stool on wobbly knees and set my shoulder blades against
the wall. “Like this?”
His gaze pinned me in place. I didn’t feel as if I were
leading anyone astray. Quite the opposite—I felt as if I
were a girl from a convent school, secretly meeting a boy
from a motorcycle gang.
He rounded the island and came up to me. Dipping his head
close to my still-wet hair, he said softly, “So this is
what rain smells like on a woman.”
© 2003-2025 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy