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Dedication

To Mr. G,

For always being the bestest Valentine I could ever ask for.

Your romantic – and goofy – acts of love inspire me every day.

I love you. <3

Special Thanks

Monica Black – Word Nerd Editing, You deserve SAINTHOOD dealing with me.

Carrie W – You know what you do.  All the crazy things that I throw at you. Thank you for all your help, I don't know what I'd do without you.  Most of all… thank you for being a friend.

BETA Babes – Your endless support, feedback, and cheering me on help me get through the rough spots.

My fellow Cupid's Aim authors – Thank you for allowing me to be a part of this.

Extra Reminder Note:

This is a work of fiction based in real cities.  Any mention of local attractions, businesses, people, etc are purely used in a fictitious manner.  This is fiction – aka not real.  Any similarities in this story, to you or someone else, is coincidence.

BLURB

She Said Yes.

To one-night stands.

To no strings attached.

Then the strings got frayed,

With someone unexpected.

Someone who plows into her life,

And makes her want to say yes,

To love. To strings.

But they become tangled,

because his were already tied...

To a woman staring back from the photo.

To a woman being proposed to.

To a photo with the caption:

She Said Yes!

Chapter One

Getting Plowed

Holy Hippocratic Oath of all-nighters, answer your damn phone, I groan, burrowing down into my pillow.

When the cell phone continues to beep and vibrate across a side table, I inhale deep. My nostrils are assaulted by the heavily laundered bleachy smell you only get from mediocre hotels room.

With a loud, exaggerated exhale, I flop from my side onto my back and throw the down comforter off me. Throwing my arm out, I find a cold, empty mattress instead of a body.

Groaning, I raise up on my elbows and glance to the bedside table. It's my phone vibrating across the glassy surface.

Making a face at the name and face flashing on the screen, I swipe and put it to my ear.

Where the fuck you been? His deep voice rumbles into my ear.

I know. I'm sorry.

You were supposed to drop your car off last night.

I'm sorry, I repeat. I was out later than expected and—

Well, you still aren't home, he states the obvious.

I slip out of the bed, wrap a sheet around my naked body, and search the hotel room. My eyes settle on a piece of paper just inside the room door.

Wanna know how I know you aren't home?

I mean, if you want to tell me, sure, I'm all ears.

I'm standing in your empty house right now, he says, unamused.

Stalker, I tease, stopping to grab a complimentary bottle of water off the dresser. Uncapping it, I put it to my lips.

In your kitchen, he adds.

Mid drink, I yank the bottle away and cough out, Don't you dare.

I take the time out of my day to help you get your car maintenance and you can't be bothered to drop the car off at my house. How can I not even dare?

His tone remains even and clear, though the irritation bleeds through. Two indicators: Ezra Silvar doesn't do long conversation, and he has every right to be pissed.

But I'm your baby sister, I whine, setting the bottle on the dresser. You—

The distinct sound of my microwave being opened cuts me off.

Ez, I warn.

Be ready to trade cars tomorrow, he counters.

I'm working an eighteen hour—

I'll stop at the hospital and switch cars with you.

I straighten my spine at the beeps coming through the phone.

Don't do it.

One last beep, and a low hum fills the silence before he says, Popcorn takes like ten minutes to cook, right?

Groaning, I let my shoulders sag. I cannot stand the smell of burnt popcorn. I hate it—a dislodge a person's eyeball from their body kind of hate.

My house is gonna smell for—

Tomorrow morning at ten, he states before hanging up.

Placing my cell on the dresser, I sigh and glance up into the mirror. My hair is a frizzy mess. Eyeliner and mascara smudges ring my eyes. And I have a pillowcase imprint along my cheek.

Way to kick off your New Year, I tell my reflection before walking to the bathroom.

Sure, New Years was technically last week, but I was working, so I made arrangements with an acquaintance-slash-Tinder hookup for a little one-on-one welcome to the new year.

Pushing open the bathroom door, I take a step inside and tap the light switch.

Holy crap! I grip the sheet tighter to my chest. Why are you sitting in the dark? I shout before the smell hits.

Get out! the man from last night—the same one sitting on the toilet covering his lap—screams.

Oh my, bacterial fermentation of the GI tract. I gag, pulling the sheet up over my nose and mouth. What did you eat? I ask, stumbling back and pulling the door shut.

Leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom door, I go into doctor mode.

Are you experiencing abdominal pain, constipation, or diarrhea?

I'm fine, he barks.

You sure? ’Cause I feel like you could have IBS or—

I said I'm fine! he yells.

Okay! I shout back. Well, this just got awkward, I mumble, taking a breath of non-toxic air. I shuffle around the room, trying to find my things. Letting the sheet fall away from my body, I slip back into my bra, underwear, jeans, and t-shirt. I'm putting on my socks and shoes when the toilet flushes.

In a pair of white boxer briefs, a tall guy with brown hair hesitantly exits the bathroom. Our eyes meet, my brown locked on his blue, before he scans over my dressed body.

You got dressed. It's not a question, but I still feel compelled to respond.

Yeah, ya know, I've gotta work so… I let the words fall away.

Standing from the bed, I slide my coat on and grab my purse.

We could grab some breakfast or something, he offers, rubbing a hand over his stomach, and I'm immediately assaulted by the recent memory of him taking a crap.

Being a doctor, bodily functions are a natural course for my day—and not just for myself. But this guy isn't a patient, and we only hooked up in a nearby bar because we matched on the hook-up app. Also, I don't really do the day after thing. It's not that I've never done one, or even a monogamous relationship, they just don't go well for me. It's difficult to find someone flexible and willing to put up with my twelve-plus hour shifts, being on call, and frequently getting them in emergencies.

Yeah, I should probably… I edge by him, closer to my escape, get going.

A feeling of victory warms my skin when I squat down, grab the hotel print out, and grip the door handle.

Can I get your number? he asks.

Pushing the handle down, I yank the door open and call over my shoulder, I really gotta get going. DM me on the app.

I swing the door closed behind me and power-walk my way to the elevator. When the doors slide shut, closing me inside, I press for the lobby and release a heavy breath.

Walking out of the hotel, I'm not surprised it's cold and snowing. I mean, it's January. In Pennsylvania. This is when Mother Nature really likes to slam us. But I don't remember seeing this kind of accumulation in our forecast.

Damn it, I growl.

Pulling my coat tighter, I carefully walk to my car—a car not only covered in four inches of snow, but also with ten inches piled at the rear.

With the remote key, I start my Subaru Outback and unlock it. Opening the rear door, I toss my purse into the passenger seat, find my gloves and hat in the pocket behind the driver seat, and then search under both for the window scraper.

The snow brushes away easily from the windows, hood, and roof. Unfortunately, I don't carry a shovel in my car, but I check the trunk to find something to help dig me out a little bit.

Need some help? a muffled, but definitely male voice, asks from behind me.

His question startles me, and I lose my footing in the snow. Before I hit the ground, I get a gloved palm on the bumper to steady myself, and strange hands fist the back of my coat.

Sorry, he apologizes. I didn't mean to frighten you.

I’ve got it, I snap, frustrated with the snow, being caught off guard, and a little embarrassed.

He releases me.

Adjusting my beanie, I turn to face the stranger.

I'm met by a black scarf. Moving my gaze up, I take in his face shield and dark green winter hat. I can't see much of this face other than the tops of his winter-cold cheeks. When I meet his eyes, I'm struck by shocking crystal blue framed by thick lashes.

Sorry. You surprised me.

If you move, I can help get you out. He lifts a shovel.

Oh, yeah, thanks.

I step away from my car and watch him clear the snow in three large shovelfuls.

There ya go, he says, straightening up and looking at me. You should be able to get out pretty easily now.

Thank you, um… I begin.

Ethan, he says, offering his large, gloved hand.

I take it and give it a quick shake.

I really appreciate—

Irene! the guy from last night not only shouts, but he shouts the wrong name.

I close my eyes and grumble, Fucking hell.

Ethan's chuckle earns him a glare.

Irene, wait! he yells, jogging over to me. Putting out his hand, he says, You forgot your phone.

Reaching out, I take my cell from him.

Than—

I wrote my number on a piece of paper and put it in your case.

Great, I drawl.

Ethan laughs louder this time.

Do you know him? the stage two clinger asks.

Um, he was just helping me out, I explain.

Just helping you out! Ethan shouts.

I turn wide eyes on him and his outburst.

He peels down the face shield to reveal a stubbly, angular jaw.

I find you coming out of a hotel, after being scared to death all fucking night that you were on the side of the road, trapped in a snow storm, and I'm just helping you out? He steps closer and moves his gaze to the guy behind me. And who the fuck is this guy? He lifts a long arm, motioning to him.

Hey, man, the clinger stutters. I didn't know she was with someone. I didn't know, man.

His voice sounds like it's getting farther away. The coward.

In the next part of his performance, he fakes a sniffle and rubs his forehead before saying, I know, man. She… he fake sobs, she never tells anyone about us.

What the fu— I start.

Ethan's arms shoot out, wrap around my shoulders, and pull me into his puffy, coat-covered chest.

It's not her fault, he fake cries. It's the sex addiction. Isn't it, baby? He fakes a sob again. We'll get through this, sweetheart. One cock at a time.

Snapping out of my shock, I struggle against his hold. He releases me, and I beat his chest with my glove-covered hands.

What the hell are you doing? I shriek.

Taking a step back, he holds his stomach and laughs.

What was that? I'm still yelling.

Whew, he breaths out. That was me helping you out. Again, I might add, he explains.

Helping me? I ask, incredulous.

Still smiling, he shrugs.

You're crazy, I accuse.

You're now stage three clinger free, he counters.

I open my mouth to rebut, then close it. He's right.

See, he gloats. Now, thank me.

He was only a stage two.

Now who's crazy? he guffaws. That boy was moments away from asking you to be his girlfriend forever.

Shut up! I want it to come out serious, but say it with a laugh.

Ethan puts a gloved