Set to Music

By Negeen Papehn

Dr. Darya Zameeni doesn’t have time for interruptions—in her ER, or in her life. Especially not from the gorgeous man pacing in her waiting room. With mountains of student debt, an ailing single mother, and a younger sister to support, Darya can’t afford to get sidetracked, even though they can’t take their eyes off each other.

Disillusioned Grammy-winning rock star Anthony Castillo’s night wasn’t supposed to end like this—in the ER, panicked after his little brother’s sudden collapse on stage. The band cannot go back on tour without Carlos, but his brother needs constant medical attention. When the beautiful, no-nonsense Dr. Zameeni treating Carlos shows no interest in their fame, he decides she is the perfect candidate for the job. If only he can convince her—and himself—that he wants nothing more.

Darya can’t imagine leaving her job, even temporarily, to follow a rock star around the globe. She’s expected to be the perfect Iranian daughter, after all. But Anthony’s offer comes right as she needs the money and she cannot deny their attraction.

Family is everything to them both. With so much to lose, the smart thing would be to go back to their lives and forget they’d ever met. But doing the smart thing has never seemed so wrong…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Mar 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649371331

Book preview

For Maziar

I’d give anything to sing with you again

Chapter One

Darya

The rhythmic tap-tap-tapping of my black clogs against the linoleum floor of the St. Luke’s Memorial Hospital ER is familiar and soothing.

Halfway through the late-night shift, I need something to focus on other than the unyielding ache in my calves, an unwelcome parting gift from too many patients and no time to sit down. I rub my heavy lids and make a mental note to detour toward the break room for a third cup of the sludge-like concoction we refer to as coffee. But before I have a chance to escape, another slew of charts get racked up for the evening.

"Trina owes me big time."

I try to daydream of the sunny California beach day the forecast has promised me tomorrow, hoping I have enough energy to indulge in it after a few hours of sleep, but it’s no use. My body protests louder than the images can form in my mind.

I spare one more glance toward the double doors leading to my caffeine salvation and huff loudly. Not that anyone’s there to hear me. They’re all dragging themselves around on wobbly legs, too, trying to hustle through the midnight shift as best as they can, just as exhausted as I am.

There’s no use in delaying the inevitable. There’s work to be done, and thanks to my undying devotion to my best friend, Trina is out meeting the man of her dreams while I take her graveyard shift. The pain shoots up to my knees. Remember you love her.

I shouldn’t be complaining. I bet a ton of my classmates would trade places with me in a heartbeat for a position at this hospital. Ranked among the top ten in the country, I was lucky to land this gig right out of residency. I have Trina to thank for that, so I guess giving her a night off while I waste away in emergency purgatory isn’t a big ask.

My stomach grumbles, and I grieve missing dinner at Maman’s tonight. She was making my favorite, khoresh bademjan. Thoughts of my mom’s delicious eggplant stew make the hunger pangs worsen in my belly, but sadly, all these patients won’t take care of themselves. I ignore it with promises of a protein bar from the vending machine once I’m done. I grab the next chart and am met by the head nurse, before we make our way over to room two.

Just a few more hours to go. Lindsey sighs, trying to smile through her own exhaustion. She pulls the curtain aside and lets me pass then steps in behind me.

Lying on the white sheets is a younger Latino man. He straightens up in the hospital bed, tucking the shoulder-length strands of his chestnut hair behind his ear when he sees me, a small smirk teasing the tips of his lips.

Two men flank each side of his bed. One is tall and tank-like, his frame towering in the tiny space. His hands are clasped behind his back and his eyes facing forward like a soldier. The other is small in comparison, fit but shorter. Persian, I think. His dark goatee is precise and his eyebrows shaped to perfection, but his eyes are concerned as he looks between the patient and me.

Hello, Mr. Castillo, I say to the patient. I’m Dr. Zameeni.

Well, hello there. His piercing eyes bore into me, their intensity evaporating off my white coat in puffs of steam. For a man who was just rushed to the hospital, his undeniable confidence has been left unaffected. I divert my gaze to the chart I’m holding, too sleepy to be flattered by his obvious interest. Focusing on the words scrawled across the pages is hard enough. I scan his details: twenty-five-year-old male, occupation guitarist, no history of medical conditions. That explains why he’s trying to be all cool with his I’m the shit vibe, like he’s some legit rock star.

When my eyes meet his again, the fierceness in his expression hasn’t faltered. He definitely gets an A for effort, I’ll give him that much. I fix a generic smile on my lips, trying to adhere to proper bedside etiquette, as I suppress the chuckle taking shape in my chest. I imagine laughing at his attempt to woo me with his bad-boy stare would surely bruise his unwavering ego.

Mr. Castillo, would you like me to have your…friends step outside? I don’t know what else to call them.

Nah, they’re cool, he answers. And call me Carlos.

My face scrunches up at his lack of taking this conversation seriously. His carefree exterior irritates me, cocky and full of himself. But just as I’m about to reprimand him, he exchanges a worried glance with his companion. One completely at odds with his badass persona.

Okay, Carlos, it says here that you fainted. Have you ever fainted before?

Nope. This was the first time. He shifts uncomfortably in the bed, folding his hands in his lap. The gesture makes him appear small and vulnerable. But just when I think I may have pegged him wrong, he grins up at me, and the humility disappears.

Do you remember anything before it happened? Any symptoms you were experiencing?

Not really.

Shortness of breath? Or feeling lightheaded before you fainted?

Um, maybe a little lightheaded, but that’s not abnormal.

So you feel lightheaded often?

No. I mean yes. But only when I’m up on stage dancing around and stuff. Music bumping, hotties grooving, you feel me? He fist-bumps the burly man to his right. The Persian guy winces.

I see, I answer, returning to scribbling notes on the chart. I hear him grumble something to his companions, but I let it go, entirely not interested in how uptight this guy thinks I am. How about tightness in your chest? Heart palpitations? When he doesn’t answer, I look up and smile again, thinking he needs some sort of reassurance to urge him forward. Most attention seekers do.

What are those?

He diverts his gaze to the stark white sheet pooling around his waist, pulling the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. A look of boyish embarrassment claims his once confident features.

It means an irregular heartbeat. It may have felt like it was beating too fast. Or some describe it as a strange flutter. Do you remember any of that?

Yeah, actually. But we had just finished ‘Cariño Extraño’ and the crowd was electric. Major adrenaline rush, you know?

I don’t know, but I widen my grin as if I have a clue what he’s talking about.

He takes it to mean I want to hear more about this concert of his, so he turns to his bodyguards and says, James, how many people would you say that was? His expression lights up with childlike enthusiasm.

I’m expecting James to say one hundred, or maybe two.

Easily five thousand, bro.

I almost choke, earning me a satisfied chuckle. Oh shit, he is a rock star!

Come on, mamita, did you think I was small-time?

Mamita? Who does this kid think he is? I quickly regain my composure, molding my features back into the business expression of an ER doctor. I did not spend eons in medical school so this guy could call me by a pet name. One I don’t even like. Your career isn’t any of my concern, I answer. And it’s Dr. Zameeni.

Jeez. When I give him a hard glare, he raises his hands in surrender. Okay, sorry doc.

Mr. Castillo. His mouth opens in protest but then he decides otherwise as I continue pinning him to the bed with my focus. Do you have any family history of heart disease?

My father died of a heart attack. Does that count?

Yes, that counts. I’m hoping my dry tone convinces him I’m unamused. His energy becomes somber as he watches me scribble more notes in his chart.

Is that bad? The trepidation in his voice forces my attention back to him. I’m met with the uneasiness of fear in his now-slackened expression. Despite my better judgment, I get the sudden urge to ease his worries.

It could be nothing. But I’d like to make sure. I step up beside him. I’m going to do a physical exam now. Carlos nods. I begin my assessment as I play musical chairs with his two companions. Everyone looks uncomfortable and I’m about tell them to head to the waiting room. Did you hit anything when you fell?

No, he answers. Mike caught me.

The Iranian man gives me a humorless grin. We were talking and he pitched forward so I grabbed him. The rest of the band members came down then and helped me move him to a chair. He shifts on his feet, oddly nervous about the admission.

Well, he’s lucky you were there. I smile, hoping to ease the tension. I turn toward Lindsey. Let’s get a complete blood panel, chest X-ray, and an EKG.

Okay, doctor.

Lindsey, Trina, and I have been friends for years. Ones who Uber to dinner so we can all wash away the hectic stress of our work week in cranberry and vodkas without the annoying worry of assigning a designated driver. But unless it’s just us, Lindsey makes sure to refer to Trina and me as doctor when we’re on the clock. As head nurse, she’s responsible for setting the proper boundaries, but it always makes me feel strange to have her speak to me so formally.

Get comfortable, Mr. Castillo. It will be a little while. I give him one last courtesy nod before I head out the door.

Sounds good, m—

I glare at him.

Pretty doctor lady. He stretches out on the bed, putting his arms behind his head, seemingly satisfied that he’s come up with an alternate name for me. Back is the flirty assuredness he wore when I walked in. Obviously, the potential for heart disease isn’t enough to rid him of his swagger. I shake my head, letting it slide for now as I make my way to room four.

I’ve never wanted to be a doctor to the rich and cocky. God help me, it’s going to be a long night.

Chapter Two

Anthony

Gracias, Los Angeles! We are Ternura! I shout into the microphone and wave blindly out to the audience as the fading notes of our encore echo through the venue. My T-shirt is drenched. I yank it up over my head, needing to shed the layer of wet fabric sticking to my skin. The crowd goes crazy. Nothing like a bare chest to really get them screaming for more.

Fame is a strange beast. All smoke and mirrors. And hours in the gym. My life belongs to the band and the fans. It’s a waste of time to wish things were different­­, but sometimes it’s hard to stop. I toss one last smile over my shoulder. It’s a look magazines plaster in their pages, and it’s my job to keep up appearances. But all I want to do is get the fuck out of here so I can make sure my brother is okay.

I ball up my shirt and throw it into the anonymous mass of people as I head offstage. The roars get more intense, following me down the steps.

A stagehand gives me another T-shirt and I pull it on as I’m hustled out of the venue through the back doors where two black SUVs are idling. It’s been five years and I’m still not used to the flashing lights of the paparazzi’s cameras. Blinded, I fall into the vehicle’s backseat as Travis, my bodyguard, climbs into the front.

Jesus Christ, I mumble under my breath. I can’t see shit when they do that.

Irritating as hell, Travis agrees, offering me a bottle of water and a towel. I wipe off the sweat and stage makeup from the concert and start to feel almost human.

How fast can we get to the hospital? We’re waiting on the rest of the guys, but I’m ready to get a move on.

I can have you there in about fifteen minutes, sir, the driver replies.

That’s ten minutes too long, but there’s not much that can be done about Los Angeles traffic. We’ll be lucky if it’s only that long.

Don’t worry, Travis says. I’ve been in contact with my men the entire time, and Carlos is doing fine. The doctor has seen him, and they’ve run some initial tests. They’re waiting for the results now.

Travis’s dark blue eyes are sharp and alert as he takes in our surroundings, always watching for the next threat among the chaos of stardom. He’s been head of my security for years now, morphing from an employee into a trusted friend. And he never lies. A condition earned from years in the military and one of the reasons I trust him implicitly. If he says all is well at the hospital, then I know it is. I nod, turning my attention out the window.

Breathe, Anthony. He’s okay. Carlos is okay.

It doesn’t matter how many times I repeat it, the weight of dread feels like a punch to the gut. Images of my father—hand clasped to his chest, sprawled across the living room floor—flash through my mind. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memories as I flex my fingers into fists. The thought of Carlos inheriting that bastard’s heart condition fills me with rage.

Emmanuel slides into the seat beside me. Okay, let’s go. Hugo and Mateo will be right behind us. Are you going to call your mom?

He holds out my cell phone, but I shake my head. It’s late and she’s sleeping. I don’t want to worry her if there isn’t anything to worry about.

Are you sure? He raises a brow. Mamá Carmen isn’t going to be happy about that.

No, she definitely will not. I know. I just can’t deal with her twenty questions right now.

Okay, but if she calls, you’re picking up your own damn phone.

Why? You know she likes you better.

Exactly. I’m trying to keep your mom on my good side. She terrifies me. He shudders, even though we both know he loves her just as much as she loves all the guys associated with the band.

If I call Mamá now, she’s going to fly into a total panic. I wouldn’t be surprised if her and Tía Amelia jump in the car immediately and head over. I’ll call her after I know what’s going on, even if she kills me for it.

The driver turns left and my cell slides across the seat, smacking my thigh like a warning from the universe.

Emmanuel pats my shoulder. He’s fine, compadre.

I give him a tight-lipped smile and try to distract myself with the city streets.

It feels like a lifetime before the driver says, We’re here.

There’s already a group of ten paps huddling around the entrance, with more joining the ranks as we undo our seat belts to get out of the van.

What the fuck? How did they already hear about this?

Emmanuel shakes his head, as frustrated as I am. Nothing is private anymore. I exhale sharply. Despite the shitstorm we’ll inevitably face once they publish these photos, I can’t worry about whether Carlos’s collapse has them staking out the ER, and if the news has already hit all the major outlets. All I can think about is my brother and getting inside.

I stalk into the ER, shielding my eyes from the camera flashes. I ignore the faces that turn in my direction. Travis is beside me, making sure the path is clear. Two of his men arrive seconds later and the three of them create a wall between me and the ER waiting room.

I walk up to the front desk and barely take note of the young receptionist gaping at me. I’m looking for Carlos Castillo.

He’s in room two. She continues to gawk at me, starstruck, blinking rapidly as if she’s unsure whether she’s dreaming.

I give her a polite nod. Thank you.

Wait, I need your ID, she blurts out, pulling my attention back to her. You can’t go back there anyway. He’s been taken for a chest X-ray so you’ll have to wait. She hesitates, a worried crease finding her forehead. I work my jaw but manage another tight nod.

Travis is already scanning the waiting room, no doubt taking inventory of our current spectators. Our luck, the ER is packed. Some people are visibly too sick to care who I am, but others are staring intently at me as I make my way across the room. Travis and his men create a semicircle around me as we lean against the wall in the corner.

The crowd is getting bigger outside, Travis points out. I wonder if there’s a back way we can use to get out of here.

Won’t matter. The vultures already have enough footage to build some asinine story for the blogs. I huff.

Emmanuel paces the waiting room floor, one phone pressed to his ear, locked in a hushed conversation while his fingers fly across the keyboard of another. Damage control at its finest.

Don’t worry boss, he’ll get in front of it. Travis juts his jaw in Emmanuel’s direction.

Can we find out how much longer it will be? I ask.

Suddenly, the hospital doors swing open and Hugo and Mateo shuffle in. They keep their heads low and walk quickly to our circle, trying to remain unseen. As if that’s possible. They each clasp my hand and hug me as the other people in the room take notice.

It’s going to be okay, amigo, Hugo says.

Any news? Mateo lifts up onto his toes and tries to get a glimpse of the ER through the glass cutouts in the double doors. Has a doctor talked to you yet?

No, he’s getting an X-ray.

What did Mamá Carmen say? Is she coming? Hugo looks at me expectantly.

Haven’t called her yet.

Bro, he says, eyes wide. She’s going to kill you.

Emmanuel takes a minute from his multiple phone calls to raise an I-told-you-so brow at me. Yeah, yeah. I wave him off. We don’t know anything yet.

Mateo whistles, a mischievous look on his face. She’s going to kick your ass.

No doubt. Hugo fist-bumps him. You know what that means, right?

No, what? I’m losing patience.

Every time the golden boy pisses her off, she gives us extra attention. In the form of treats.

I hope she makes us pozole. I love when she does that. Mateo gazes up at the ceiling and licks his lips as if he can already taste it.

"Golden boy? Screw you guys."

They both laugh in unison. I swear they were twins in a past life.

A group of six twenty-somethings come barreling into the waiting room. It’s late, and they’re loud, making it obvious that they’ve been out partying all night. A guy with a bloody towel pressed against his head stumbles toward the receptionist. He begins checking in as he laughs obnoxiously while unnecessarily giving his recount of the evening’s events to the receptionist, who’s staring at him with mild interest. The rest of his crew plops down in seats against the opposite wall from us. Mateo’s and Hugo’s attention is suddenly piqued.

Here we go…

A blonde sitting against the opposite wall notices Mateo first. She perks up as she realizes who he is, leaning in to the girl next to her, and whispers something. Two seconds later, they’re heading toward us.

Oh, holy hell, Travis mumbles. I told you we should have left them at the hotel. Can’t take these two anywhere. I could easily have him break this up, but we don’t need a scene. Especially with the piranhas lurking on the other side of the entrance.

They’re relentless in their flirting, flipping their hair, batting their eyes, touching the guys every chance they get. Giggles get louder as the boys turn on their charm. Pretty standard when these two players are involved.

Do you think we could take a selfie with you? the blonde asks, pulling her lower lip between her teeth.

Sure, Hugo answers.

She whips out her phone and they pull in close, the guys throwing their arms around the women’s shoulders like old friends. They take about a hundred different pictures.

I don’t get it. The last thing I want to do is be photographed any more than I already am. We can’t breathe without it making front page news. But Carlos, Hugo, and Mateo eat this shit up. They never seem to get sick of all the attention.

The rest of the crew seems to have realized they’re missing out on a very rare opportunity and join their friends. Their voices get louder as they talk over one another, hungry for attention. People around us start glaring at them. I’m about to give Travis the go-ahead to break it all up when the ER doors swing open.

A woman dressed in a pair of blue scrubs and a white coat that reaches past her thighs breezes through. I presume she’s a doctor, not only from her outfit, but from the boss-like intensity she carries. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, stray strands framing her face and running down her neck. She swipes one behind her ear, intently focused on the commotion.

Excuse me. Her voice is tight and her tone stern, demanding order.

The group of six is oblivious that she’s talking to them.

Hello? she says, this time waving her hand and moving in their direction. Her cheeks redden with impatience. She inserts herself into the middle of the group, catching them all off guard. They finally fall silent. This is a hospital, not a magazine photo shoot! We have sick patients here. Keep it down or I’ll have to ask you to leave.

The blonde appears to have something to say, but the doctor pins her to her spot with a don’t-mess-with-me glare. Her mouth abruptly snaps shut. She turns to Hugo, who she’s been hanging on for the past few minutes, with a look that yells, are you going to let her talk to me like that? He’s about to stupidly defend her honor until I give him a small shake of my head.

The doctor catches our exchange and marches up to me. In a low, firm voice, she says, I assume you’re the one in charge here, so I need you to understand that I can’t have your guys disrupting my ER. No one wants to feel like crap and be surrounded by some sort of fan meet-and-greet. So please, keep your men in check.

She stares me down—or up, I guess, since she can’t be more than five-foot-three—and whatever connects my brain to my mouth misfires. Worse, my heart trips and falls at her feet like I’m some fourteen-year-old kid who’s just come face-to-face with his hot next-door neighbor for the first time. What the hell is wrong with me?

Before I can get my shit together long enough to respond, she gives me a short nod and turns on her heel, heading back inside.

I stare at the door long after she’s disappeared through it.

Bro, I don’t think she knows who you are, Mateo says.

Nope. She definitely doesn’t, Hugo adds. They both crack up. I’m not sure what the hell there is to laugh about but I ignore them. I’m too busy being in awe.

Travis leans in close. It’s been a while since I’ve seen that look on your face.

It’s been a while since I’ve felt it. Maybe I never have. And I’m pretty sure the boys are right about her not knowing who I am. Very few people in my world don’t, and all the rest have some preconceived notion of who I’m supposed to be.

I’ve never been so happy to go unnoticed before. Pair that with her fierceness, and she’s got my attention.

Chapter Three

Darya

Lindsey hands me Carlos’s results. As I scan through the numbers, the man from the waiting room heads into the ER. He’s flustered and disheveled, a contradiction to his earlier demeanor. He scrubs his face as he searches the walls, presumably for room numbers, but gives up quickly and heads to the nurses’ desk for assistance.

When he places his hand on the counter, his black T-shirt stretches tightly across his broad shoulders and barely keeps from tearing in half. An abundance of artwork twists and turns down his forearm, bleeding out onto his fingers. I can see the edges of more images peeking out from beneath his collar and onto the base of his neck.

He smiles kindly at the nurse, politely asking where room two is. She damn near melts in her chair as she swoons.

Who’s that? I ask Lindsey as she steps up beside me.

That’s big brother.

How do you know that? I cock my head to the side. I mean, they don’t really look that much alike. Brother’s onyx features rival Carlos’s lighter ones. Other than the tattoos, they don’t share much else.

He heads in the direction the nurse indicates, and the Persian guy steps out to meet him. They speak in hushed tones for a minute and then Brother pulls him into a hug. He hesitates, looking like he’s going to follow the first guy into the room, but then decides not to, and goes back to meet the others outside.

The Persian guy’s affiliation to this group confuses me. It’s not every day that you find an Iranian part of some rock star band. Niloo would love it.

You have no idea who they are, do you? Lindsey appears thoroughly