I have to confess: I set my phone alarm to go off at 7 p.m., a full hour before I’m supposed to meet up with Ryan and his buddies. As much as I find Ryan completely obnoxious, there’s also a part of me that finds him incredibly attractive and wouldn’t mind at all if tonight ended in a few drunken smooches. My pride would take a hit, but it might still be worth it.

It’s been a while since I’ve shared a drunken smooch, or any kind of smooch for that matter. When I was in my first year of med school, I was too overwhelmed to consider any kind of relationship. During second year, I started going out with a guy in my class named Joe. Everyone knew about me and Joe within two minutes of our first kiss, and when we broke up, it was Awkward (note the capital A)… so Awkward that I swore off dating anyone else in my class ever again. But where else was I supposed to meet guys? Med school was my whole life.

It didn’t end up mattering so much though, since during third year, I was again too busy to even contemplate dating anyone. And in my final year, I was traveling the country like a nomad, never spending more than a month in any given city. The best time for a relationship always seemed to be “later.”

Not that I want a relationship with Ryan Reilly. That’s the last thing I want from the guy. And I’m pretty sure he feels the same way about me.

Still, I make an effort to look halfway decent. I shower, for starters. And brush my teeth with an honest-to-God toothbrush. I even blow dry my hair, so I look slightly less like a drowned cat. I rifle through my mostly unpacked luggage and pull out my make-up kit, discovering a thick layer of dust over my tubes of lipstick and mascara.

Here’s a newsflash: Did you know make-up can expire?

I always thought it never expired. Like American cheese. But apparently, it really does if you keep it long enough. If you buy a bunch of make-up when you start medical school, but then your social life is so nonexistent that you still have that same make-up four years later, your mascara will be all gloopy and your eye shadow will have big clumps in it.

Oh well, I guess I’m going to have gloopy eyelashes tonight.

I figure anything I wear is going to be an improvement over the shapeless scrubs which are the only things that Ryan has yet seen me wearing. I’m banking on the fact that the July heat will support a tank top. I consider a skirt, but that reeks of trying too hard, so instead I opt for some cute boot cut blue jeans. And sandals with clunky three-inch heels. What can I say—I’m short.

The bar is a three-block walk from my apartment, which is just long enough to make me regret the heels a little bit. But when I enter the smoky bar, I’m grateful for my tank top. It’s a sauna in here. The bar is one of those dark ones with sticky floors and tables, and big-boobed waitresses dressed in practically nothing. I can see why the surgery residents would like it here.

I see Ryan at a table in the back, flanked by two of his surgeon buddies. He’s apparently had his eye on the door because he waves at me practically the second I walk in. I’m glad I didn’t get too dressed up, considering all three of them are still wearing scrubs. I wonder how recently Ryan got off duty. Even though 3O hours is supposed to be the limit for calls, I know the surgery residents routinely break those rules. They take pride in it.

“Hello, Dr. McGill,” Ryan says, grinning at me as I near the table.

He lets out a low whistle when he catches sight of my outfit. “Quit it, you,” I say.

He laughs. “Guys, this is Jane. She’s the young lady who left that lovely message on my pager this morning.”

We exchange quick introductions but I quickly forget both the other guys’ names because I’m awful with names. As I slide into an empty seat, the guy on my left, who has a moustache that makes him look a little like a sex offender, says to me, “That message? That was epic. Reilly’s deserved that for like a year.”

The other resident, who is very skinny with a huge Adam’s apple and a bit of a Southern twang, says, “I think we’re going to play the message at graduation.”

“Oh, please don’t,” I say. “I was just… really tired.”

“They’re just joking,” Ryan assures me. “They wouldn’t really play it at graduation because they know I’d murder them.”

Creepy Moustache laughs. “You don’t scare us, Reilly.”

A waitress comes by to take my drink order. The guys all order another beer and I get a Corona, promising myself that I’ll stop with one. I’m already exhausted, and I’m afraid too much alcohol will either make

me pass out or do something really regrettable. I reach into my purse to pay for the drink but Ryan shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, Jane.”

I inhale sharply. “No, I don’t want you to treat me.”

“I’m not,” he says, grinning at me. He jerks his head in the direction of his friends. “They lost a bet and now they have to pay for the next round.”

I raise my eyebrows. “What was the bet?” “They bet you wouldn’t show up.”

Suddenly, I feel a little dumb for having come out to a bar post-call.

Nobody expected me to. Well, Ryan did. But that makes it even worse.

Creepy Moustache digs into his wallet and hands the waitress a clump of bills. He turns to me. “Ryan thinks he brought us here to be his wingmen, but really, we’re here to try to talk you out of having anything to do with him.”

“Do your worst,” Ryan says. “I’m irresistible.” I roll my eyes.

“This guy,” Southern Apple says to me, “is the biggest asshole in the whole hospital. Hands down. Trust me, we voted.”

“Nice try,” Ryan says. “But Jane already knows I’m the biggest asshole in the hospital.” He folds his arms across his chest triumphantly. I can’t help but notice the golden hairs on his muscular forearms and then I hate myself for thinking he’s sexy even when he’s acting all proud of being a jerk.

“Yeah, I know it,” I admit. “I mean, that’s why I left the message for him.”

“Don’t y’all worry, we’re just getting warmed up,” Southern Apple says.

Ryan leans back in his chair, not looking the slightest bit worried.

“I think it needs to be said,” Creepy Moustache begins, “that Ryan has slept with just about everything female in the hospital. And I say everything female. I’m including non-human animals in that.”

“That’s completely untrue,” Ryan says to me. He winks. “At least, the animal part.”

“Jane,” Creepy Moustache says, “can you imagine what kind of sexually transmitted diseases this guy probably has? Gonorrhea, crabs… he probably even has the old-timey diseases like syphilis.”

Ryan shrugs. “Hey, this is modern times. There are antibiotics.” “Not for herpes,” Southern Apple points out.

“I don’t have herpes, you idiot,” Ryan says. He appeals to me, “I really don’t.”

Southern Apple looks me in the eyes and mouths the word “herpes” as Ryan slugs him in the arm.

“That’s okay,” I say, grinning in Ryan’s direction. “I’ve already got a scorching case of it.”

The other guys bust out laughing and Ryan just shakes his head. Apparently he isn’t turned off by my alleged herpes. (I don’t really have herpes, I promise.) In fact, as the guys continue to tick off reasons why I need to stay far away from Ryan Reilly, I feel his leg brush against mine. At first, I think it must be an accident, but then he doesn’t move it away.

“Ryan’s favorite movie is Elf,” Creepy Moustache is saying. “You know, that movie where Will Ferrell plays an elf? That’s his favorite movie. That’s the kind of shit he’s going to make you watch with him.”

“It’s true,” Ryan admits. “But I don’t think you seem like the kind of girl who’s into chick flicks. Am I right, Jane?”

And when he says it, he nudges his foot against mine. And goddamn it, my heart flutters in my chest. If I were hooked up to a telemetry machine now, they might need to admit me to the hospital.

“I like Will Ferrell,” I admit. Ryan grins. “What did I tell you?”

After we’ve been sitting there for over an hour, I feel like I’m going to nod off right at the table. I have to admit, I’m having fun, but I’m just too damn tired. It’s almost like I spent the whole night awake.

“I’m going to head out,” I say.

Creepy Moustache and Southern Apple both boo at me, but Ryan just says, “I’ll walk you home.”

“That’s all right,” I say. “It’s only three blocks.” “It’s a dangerous city,” Ryan says.

I have this feeling that he’s not going to take no for an answer, so I finally nod. “Okay. But just to my door. No funny stuff.”

“Jane!” Ryan exclaims, mock offended. “What do you take me for?”

Hmm, maybe a guy who just boasted that he slept with every female in the hospital?

Ryan and I head out, his friends yelling after me, “Wear a condom!” Ryan turns back one last time to give them the finger then we’re out the door.

Somehow the summer night air has cooled off considerably in the last hour and I’m feeling a little chilly in my tank top. I end up with goosebumps all over my arms, but I resist the urge to hug myself for warmth. I don’t want Ryan to get any ideas, like that he should put his arm around me.

Or maybe I do.

“Hey,” he says as he nudges my shoulder with his. His touch somehow makes the goosebumps multiply. “I got you something. A present.”

I look at him in surprise. He reaches into the pocket of his scrubs and pulls out something square. Oh my God, it’s sticky notes! Ryan’s my hero!

“I heard you were looking for them,” he says.

“Thank you!” I say, genuinely grateful for this gift of sticky notes. I tuck them safely into my pants pocket.

He winks at me. “Did I save you again?”

I hold my index finger and thumb a few millimeters apart. “Just a little.”

He looks awfully proud of himself. “So you survived your first night of call, huh?” he says.

“Barely.”

“It will get easier,” he says, as he casually sidesteps the legs of a bum that are jutting out onto the sidewalk. “Then it will get harder again. Then you get your own minions to yell at, and that, let me tell you, is awesome.”

I shake my head. “That’s not going to be me. I’m going to be nice to my interns.”

Ryan snorts at me. “Is that so, Dr. McGill? Like you were nice to the surgery consult resident?”

My cheeks grow warm, in spite of the cold night. “You don’t know everything, you know.”

I’ve stopped walking and so does he. We just stare at each other for a moment, while the goosebumps on my arm are breeding and building small colonies. Finally, Ryan says, “You look freezing.”

“N-no, I’m not.”

He takes me by the arm, his hand surprisingly warm against my bare skin. How could he be so warm when it’s so damn cold out? “Come on,” he says. “Only one block left. You can do it, Medicine Intern.”

When we get to my dorm, he lets go of my arm to hold the door open for me. At this point I’m about 1OO% sure something is going to happen between us. I can tell by the way he held my arm, the way he looked at me as I walked through the door. It’s pretty obvious that Ryan is used to getting what he wants, and for reasons I can’t entirely explain, tonight he wants me. And, like he pointed out earlier, he’s kind of irresistible.

We sprint up the stairs to my room, Ryan beating me by a few paces in order to allow him time to hold the door open for me once again. And then a few seconds later, we’re outside the suite I share with Julia. We’re staring at each other, with that post-date anticipation, where you’re waiting for the guy to make a move and you realize it’s actually going to happen.

“So,” Ryan says. His dark blond hair is tousled from the brisk walk outside, and God help me, I can see the tiniest bit of golden chest hair peeking out from under the vee of his scrub top that matches the color of the stubble on his chin.

“So,” I reply.

“So that was fun wasn’t it?” he says.

I wonder how far Ryan Reilly is going to get tonight. Now I sort of wish I hadn’t shaved my legs, because I really won’t have the will-power to stop him with perfectly smooth legs. Although in all honesty, that’s kind of a myth. If you want a guy bad enough, neither of you give a crap about prickly legs.

“I had a little fun,” I admit. “Just a little?”

“Maybe a medium amount,” I concede.

He nods. “That’s better.” Then he smiles. “Congratulations for making it through your first call of intern year.”

And then he holds out his right hand to me. I shake it, wondering if this is some odd kind of foreplay. I’m embarrassed to admit my whole arm tingles a bit when we shake. I hate how into him I am.

“Well,” he says with a sexy smile, “goodnight, Jane.”

I expect him to lean in for a kiss at this point but he doesn’t. He just stands there until I realize he’s waiting for me to say something back.

“Um, goodnight,” I say.

And then, you will never believe this:

He leaves!

Ryan Reilly, who has slept with every female in a ten mile radius, is about ten feet away from my bedroom and I am (let’s face it) practically salivating over him, and what does he do? Nothing! He doesn’t ravage me—he doesn’t even try to kiss me. I don’t get it.

Maybe my breath smells?

Maybe he decided my butt looks big?

Maybe between the bar and here he turned gay?

After Ryan disappears, I stand outside my suite for at least a full minute, wondering if maybe this is all a psych out and he’s going to

come back. Unlikely, yes, but not entirely impossible. But then it becomes obvious that he’s gone for good, and I look like an idiot standing there. So I pop the lock open with my key, and open the door to the suite.

And I scream.

Julia is standing about two feet from the door. It is literally the creepiest thing I can imagine. Well, that’s not true. It would be creepier if she were standing there and had dyed and cut her hair to look just like mine. But why would she do that? She hates me.

“You can’t bring men into your room,” she says accusingly.

I stare at her, then look to my left and right. I am quite definitely (and sadly) all alone. “Do you see any men?”

“You were with that surgery resident,” Julia points out. Okay, this is super creepy. “Were you spying on me?”

Julia doesn’t say anything but just reiterates her point: “No men allowed in the room.”

“That’s not even true,” I say.

Julia recites, as if memorized: “Tenants of the dormitories shall not invite unauthorized guests into the suites without explicit verbal or written approval of all other tenants occupying the suite.”

“So I don’t have your approval then?” I ask. I’m not sure why I’m provoking her. I must be meaner than I thought. Maybe Ryan is right about me.

“No, you do not,” Julia says, answering as if it was a legitimate question.

Well, I don’t think Julia’s got much to worry about. Right now, I’m going to eat, sleep, and breathe internship. It doesn’t look like there will be any “unauthorized guests” entering the suite any time soon.