Lucas Lang shakes his head, not realising that the night before he had his hands on Jack Prince’s heart, the neurosurgeon had been in this very room.

‘Not done a bad job,’ he mutters, looking half amused, half irritated.

I know the world of medicine is a small one, but this is getting a bit ridiculous.

I notice that his hand has moved, so it’s resting on my upper thigh, and I realise that as much as I want us to be friends I’m fighting against the inevitable.

I start rabbiting on at a mile a minute, plucking random subjects out of the air, until Lucas puts his hand over my mouth. ‘Kitty,’ he says, smiling, ‘can you stop talking for one fucking second?’

My eyes widen, and he drops his hand. I can still feel the touch of his skin on my lips. ‘Did you just have your hand … on my mouth?’ I ask incredulously.

We stare at each other.

‘I think I did.’

If there was ever a time to say the one thing I’ve been wanting to say to this guy for the last six years, that time is now. ‘I think we should have sex,’ I tell him. ‘We don’t have to do it right now, or even this year. But some time, in some place, I think you and I should have sex.’

There’s a pause. He shakes his head, laughing slightly in disbelief.

‘I agree,’ he says. ‘I’ve actually wanted to have sex with you for about six years.’

‘Oh my God, me too!’ I exclaim enthusiastically, as if we’ve just discovered we both love the same TV shows.

You really like British crime drama? My God, SO DO I!

I examine him closely. I admire his chest underneath his shirt. Fuck—he’s so hot. I mentally shake myself—wait until I tell Estelle about this! Lucas Lang, after all these years, finally at my fingertips!

Speaking of fingers, I look down to where his hand rests on my thigh and feel a bit short of breath when I see how huge his hands are. His fingers are massive. My mouth goes dry. Wow. He probably has the most perfect penis.

Maybe being a junior doctor is a bit like Grey’s Anatomy after all, I think, as I take in the truly fantastic sight of Dr Lucas Lang, top cardiothoracic surgeon, moving his hand further up my leg.

‘You look lost in thought.’ He smiles at me.

I decide immediately that I’m sick of thinking, I’m sick of worrying, I’m sick of the bloody hospital and all its associated stress and anxiety, and instead of doing the sensible thing and changing the topic to mitral valve regurgitation or, even better, quickly escorting him out, I let my vagina take over and I leap across the couch.