“Get over it,” are the three words I hate most in the English language. When I was twenty-two years old, my husband died. My very secret husband. I never told my parents or their nosy church friends that I’d eloped. Only my best friends came to my wedding. We had a few months of wedded bliss—then he was killed.
It’s been ten years since his death and I’m having a hell of a time getting over it. My life changed that day, and I’ve never been able to get it back on track. Sure, I finished college, went to medical school, and make my traditional immigrant parents proud with those degrees and a white lab coat.
But none of that is working. Every year on the anniversary of my husband’s death, I seek out the solace only an anonymous sex partner can give. But this year I made a big mistake. I hooked up with fellow doctor and co-worker Lucas Tucker. He’s having a hell of a time understanding the meaning of a one night stand.
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