Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Out of Her League by Ava Rani, which is out now.

Dr. Isabelle Mercado is this close to having it all. Top of her class at the country’s most competitive orthopedic surgery residency, a dream career within reach, and a golden ticket to the wedding of the year in Paris.

There’s just one problem: her ex—the one who got away—is going to be there… with his perfect new fiancée.

Desperate to save face (and maybe spark a little jealousy), Isa enlists soccer legend and global heartthrob Austin Cade to be her fake date. It’s the perfect match: after an injury and some unfortunate encounters with the press, he needs good PR and the kind of elite connections this wedding will attract. Plus, her ex just so happens to be his #1 fan. Win-win.

But between champagne toasts, macaron baking classes, and stolen glances under the Parisian stars, pretending starts to feel a lot like the real thing. Isa’s always been all-in on her career—love was never the goal.

But maybe, just maybe… this time, the heart has its own agenda.

EXCERPT

Some people found balance when they exercised. Other people read. Some people wrote. My best friend, Selena, loved photography.

For me, it was the operating room.

The cool air, bright overhead lights, and my thoughts. A steady stream of information and ever-changing circumstances. Moving with an assassin’s dexterity but a sniper’s precision. Circumstances changed, I adjusted.

After over a decade of training, there was no place on Earth where I felt more capable than in here.

“Blood pressure one- ten over seventy, tracking up,” the anesthesiologist reported from the other side of the patient.

“Almost done here.” I glanced up to my attending, Dr. Thomas. The corners of his eyes— the only part of his face I could see with everything else covered by masking and surgical garb— lifted. He nodded encouragingly.

I drew back to get a better look at the surgical planes, going through the mental checklist of all the steps in a compound-fracture repair.

In the OR, I was a maestro leading an entire symphony muddled with sounds of bone saw and the occasional cautery. The minutes melted together and, in that time, every single piece of medical information I’d collected up to that point dovetailed into an opus.

“He’s ready to close,” I called, glancing up at vitals. Heart rate, steady. Blood pressure, normal. Blood loss, minimal. I took a quick, proud breath, and my shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit.

Coming out from the concentration felt like landing after a long flight—the palpable thump as the jet’s tires hit the runway telling you that you were no longer floating.

The serene quiet lifted.

“Good job, Dr. Mercado.” Dr. Thomas helped guide a younger resident into appropriate closure.

Some people sang. Some people danced. I mended mangled bones.

And I was damn good at it.

I matched into the best orthopedic surgery residency in the country. I was always the attendings’ first choice to assist. I was the first resident in my class to complete cases solo. I wrote the most research.

I had a future, a legacy, waiting for me.

Proof that all the sacrifices I’d made for this career were worth it.

I flicked a quick look at the clock and cursed silently to myself.

“I’m going to head to the floor,” I told Dr. Thomas. He answered with a nod, and I made my way out of the OR.

All the thoughts I hushed for surgery kicked back on. Without the overhead OR lights to dim it, the reality that the world never paused was glaring.

I turned the corner from the OR anteroom, got changed out of my OR scrubs, and went through my post-op checklist in my head while also trying to time how long it would take me to get to the bridal boutique.

I walked through the hospital on autopilot, the elevator doors opened, and I was met with the physical manifestation of everything I had to do.

“We have seven post-ops, three discharges, and that trauma case you just completed is coming up from PACU in a couple hours,” Ami listed off. She was waiting for me the second I got off the elevator.

Dressed in what felt like a uniform—mint scrubs, the fleece pullover all residents seemed to wear, and a mildly agitated smile—Ami was the perfect junior resident. Always prepared, every question her juniors had was addressed, and if she didn’t know the answer, she’d expend every bit of energy she had to get the answer on her own before bothering a senior resident.

“Great.” I threw my fleece over my scrubs, already freezing in the cold hospital air.

“That case you just did, it was the compound fracture, right?” Ami kept in step with me as we made our way down the hall, her question bursting with at least ten more. “It’s probably a good one to recall for the—”

“Winthrop fellowship application?” I grinned. Ami reminded me of myself. When she reached my level of experience in three years, she’d be a force to be reckoned with.

“It was, and Dr. Thomas let me do the whole case.”

“Wow.” Ami practically mooned over the idea of completing a case start to finish. I was about to start my last year of a six-year residency. And now, I was leading the surgeries. Surgical attendings acted as a watchful eye while I did what came so incredibly naturally to me. “If you pioneer a new procedure, what will we call it, since the Mercado Technique is taken?”

My nerves ticked.

“I’m partial to the Isabelle Maneuver,” I joked, but the reminder sent a thorny prickle down my spine. I was the daughter of two surgeons. My father, in particular, had made such a mark on the field that everyone either expected I’d be exactly like him or assumed his daughter would fall short.

But I planned to be better. I planned to be the best.

And the prestigious Winthrop Reconstructive Surgery fellowship was how I would do it. It encompassed traumatic, athletic, and pediatric reconstructive orthopedic surgeries. Deeply rooted in research and innovation, the surgeons who left that program had entire methods named after them.

“Lucky.” Ami handed me the list of patients, which I gave a quick review as we made our way to the post-op unit. I folded it lengthwise, then tucked it in my back scrub pocket. “I am itching for more OR time,” she said.

“It’ll be you soon enough.”

We walked over to the nursing station.

“Yeah . . . I know,” Ami said with a little doubt in her eyes, but nodded. “I’ll get the team.”

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