Hey, lovely readers—
I can barely contain my excitement… Wistful Whispers is almost here, and I finally get to share Chapter One with you today!
This book has my whole heart. Writing Seamus McGloughlin’s story—our quiet, intensely focused youngest brother—completely swept me off my feet. From the moment he walked onto the page as a neurosurgery resident (and became known as the “Orgasm Whisperer” at his hospital), I knew his story would be special.
Pairing him with powerhouse attorney Marcella Delgado—who’s brilliant, curvy, and eight years his senior—gave me the emotional, steamy, high-stakes romance I’ve always wanted to write. Their chemistry?
Off. The. Charts.
And the twists? Let’s just say their forbidden connection turns into a storm that could take down everything. Careers. Reputations. Their last shot at love.
So here’s your first peek. I hope you love it as much as I do.
The pre-op room is quiet.
Humming with the weight of too many emotions in too small a space.
I’m nearing the end of my third year in my neurosurgery residency at University of Washington Medical School so I’ve been here before.
It never gets easier.
Especially when a patient is so young and vibrant.
Miranda Black sits on the exam table, her scrawny legs swinging like a metronome of nervous energy, oblivious to the gravity of what’s about to happen. She’s twelve—too young to shoulder the dread etched into her parents’ faces.
Instead, she looks at me with big, brown eyes, radiating a kind of trust which makes my gut twist. This little girl should have a long future ahead of her. Filled with childhood memories. Sleepovers and scraped knees, awkward kisses and graduation caps—everything she deserves but might never get.
I’d burn down the goddamn world to give her a shot at all of it.
“You ready for your big day, superstar?” I crouch slightly so we’re at eye level.
She grins. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Will I be able to feel it?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “You’ll be asleep the whole time. When you wake up, all those nasty tumors will be gone, gone, gone.”
Miranda giggles and Myra, her mom, makes a choked sound behind her. I glance up, meeting Mrs. Black’s eyes. They’re rimmed red. Her fingers are clenched so tightly her knuckles have gone white. Beside her, Miranda’s father, Daniel, stands rigid. His face is carefully blank and his arms are crossed like they’re the only thing holding him together.
How I conduct myself now is, in my opinion, the most important part of a critical case like Miranda’s. Her family deserves hope. Trust. Honesty. We want to give them their daughter back. It’s important to coach them through what to expect.
I gesture to Layla, the nurse practitioner. “Can you take Miranda into the children’s waiting room and give her one of the iPads? We need to chat with her parents.”
“Sure.” Layla winks at me and leads Miranda from the room, looking over her shoulder with a distinct nod toward the exit sign.
Yeah. I’ve been there. Not going back for seconds.
My longtime mentor, Bryce Caldwell, clears his throat from the other side of the room, reminding me he’s in charge.
“Mr. and Mrs. Black. We’ll be using MRI-guided laser interstitial thermal therapy.” He doesn’t see the benefit of being soft—a point of contention between us on occasion. “Lasers make this surgery minimally invasive, and our goal is to remove as many of the tumors as possible while preserving healthy brain function.”
Myra sucks her bottom lip over her teeth. “What are the risks, again?”
“Either way, they’re severe.” Bryce doesn’t sugarcoat. “The tumors are deep. Near the brainstem and the motor cortex. There’s a significant risk of bleeding, swelling, and neurological damage. Surgery is our best option.”
“Which means there are bad options.” Mr. Black chokes back a sob.
Bryce barely inclines his head. “Leaving the tumors in will make life agonizing. Along the way, Miranda will endure debilitating headaches. Seizures. All sorts of complications. There are always risks in neurosurgery. In my opinion, this operation is the only option.”
Jesus. He’s like a robot. I step in before the conversation turns completely mechanical. “We’ve gone over Miranda’s case extensively. Dr. Caldwell is the best. I’ll be assisting every step of the way.” I meet their eyes, my voice steady. “We’ll take care of her like she’s our own.”
Mrs. Black bursts into tears. “Do you promise?”
Something clenches in my chest. “I promise we’ll do everything we can.”
It’s not the answer she wants.
It’s the truth.
The OR is cold, sterile, and humming with focused energy. I feel at home here, in a room where nerves don’t exist.
Where they can’t exist.
Miranda looks impossibly tiny on the table, her head secured in a rigid frame. I’ve assisted in dozens of surgeries. Something about this one feels different. Maybe it’s her age, maybe it’s the way she looked at me before they wheeled her in here.
Maybe it’s because I need this to go well—not for her. For me. For my career.
For my sanity.
Bryce stands at the head of the table, his presence commanding. Movements deliberate. He’s been in the game forever. His reputation borders on legendary. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful to be learning under him.
There’s always an unspoken tension between us—the unmovable old-school mentor and the ambitious resident who embraces a new way of patient care, yet still has to prove himself.
“LITT system ready?” Bryce peers over his glasses.
“Ready,” I confirm, my steady hands poised and prepared.
The MRI monitor glows, displaying the biggest tumor in real-time imaging. It’s invasive, nestled dangerously close to critical structures. Not unbeatable, though.
“Target locked.” I focus in. “Ready for ablation.”
Bryce activates the laser. The heat burns through the tumor, destroying the cancerous tissue while sparing the surrounding brain tissue. It’s delicate, precise work, and I watch every movement with fascination as I do everything he asks of me.
This man is an artist.
For the first hour, everything goes according to plan. The tumor is responding, shrinking under the guided heat. Until—
“Pressure’s rising,” Kendrick Lyon, the anesthesiologist warns. “Intracranial pressure is up to 25.”
I glance at the monitor and panic buzzes where my breath should be. This is way too high. We’ve been monitoring for swelling, however, this spike is dangerous.
Lethal.
Bryce’s expression doesn’t change, he remains calm under pressure. “Thank you, Kendrick. We need to manage the swelling. Seamus, please adjust the laser. We need to move faster.”
I nod, adjusting the fiber carefully and quickly. The pressure has to come down. We can’t afford a rupture.
Then something shifts—something Bryce obviously doesn’t see. A shadow on the monitor. Small. Unmistakable.
A blood vessel. It’s too close.
I hesitate, my instinct and training screams at me to slow down. To reassess. Bryce is already moving, already increasing the intensity.
“Dr. Caldwell—” I bark.
“I see it,” he snaps. “Keep going.”
Except he doesn’t see it. Not really. At least, I don’t think he realizes…
Before I can finish my thought, it happens.
A rupture.
Blood floods into the surgical field, the dark-red liquid pooling fast.
Too fast.
“Shit,” Bryce mutters. “Suction, now.”
I react instinctively, grabbing the tube, working to clear the blood. It’s not enough. It’s not working. The pressure keeps climbing.
Miranda’s brain swells despite our every effort to control it.
“We need to back off. Now!” I cry out urgently.
“No,” Bryce snarls. “We keep going.”
My pulse pounds. This isn’t right. We’ve got to do something.
The monitors blare an alarm.
“We’re losing her,” Kendrick croaks.
“Goddamnit. I know,” Bryce bites out, his hands moving fast.
It’s too late.
My stomach twists. I want to push back—except I’m not the lead surgeon. I’m the resident. I assist. I follow.
Even when I don’t agree.
Bryce finally makes the call. “We need to close. Now.”
The weight of what’s happening slams into me. I manage to keep my hands steady as we work quickly to close the incision, stabilizing Miranda as best we can.
I know the truth before we even step back.
The damage is done and the ICU is quiet in the worst way.
I sit next to her bed. Miranda is still. Machines now do the work her body no longer can. The rhythmic beep of the monitor is the only sound filling the room.
Through the window, I can see Bryce is speaking to her parents. I offered. He insisted. I don’t have to hear the words to know what he’s telling them.
“The surgery didn’t go as planned.”
“We did everything we could.”
“The swelling was too severe.”
“She’s in a state of unresponsive wakefulness.”
Mr. Black is frozen. Mrs. Black crumbles to the ground.
I look at little Miranda, who doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t wake up.
Never will again.
I should walk away. The job is done. I can’t, though. My ass stays planted, my hand clutching hers.
Could we have stopped it? If I’d spoken up sooner, would it have made a difference?
I don’t know. It’s too late now.
All I know is this little girl trusted me to make her better.
The sharp pull of failure settles deep in my chest.
I don’t think it’ll ever leave.
Hate to Love You in KindleUnlimited!
If you’ve been waiting to dive into my Hate to Love You standalones—The Hate Date, The Flirt Alert, and The Tryst List—I’ve got good news! They’re heading into Kindle Unlimited on 6/1/25!
If you’re a KU reader, get ready to binge these hot-and-heavy, high-tension, slow-burn love stories with a glass of wine and no regrets. (And if you’ve already read them… maybe it’s time for a reread before Wistful Whispers drops).
Thanks for being here, for reading, reviewing, and making this wild ride so worth it.
Big love always,
Kaylene
