Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Time to hit the hay, I’d say.
“Eight-thirty.”
His tone carries a hint of amusement. How does he do that, restrain himself so easily?
“Oh.” My brows hit my hairline.
He laughs then, and it’s a pinprick to my ego.
“You know you have nothing to worry about,” he says, sounding so cool and confident I want to punch him. “What is it you think will happen now that Noah is gone?”
“Oh, just…” My cheeks are Rudolph Red as I look down at the ground. “I don’t know. It just feels like something is about to happen.” I look up at him from underneath my eyebrows. “Is it?”
“Ten seconds after your brother drives away?” He shakes his head. “No.”
Disappointment hits me like a ton of bricks. I feel like I should be flattened like a pancake on the ground.
Knowing I’ve put myself out there already, I take another step into the abyss. No going back now, right?
“You feel it though, right?” I ask gently. “The weight between us?”
His eyes look like they do on the coffee shop calendar, smoldering blue. “It’s more like a tug, don’t you think?”
Yes. A tug.
He feels it and he’s not making a move. He’s staying over there and I’m here, and what are we doing? Pacing around each other? Trying out a little torture to see if we like it?
He steps toward me and I step back, my hands splaying against the door behind me. It’s instinct, I think. He’s in control here, not me. It’s natural for me to want to know my escape routes. I can either bust through this door or try darting past him. What? No. I don’t have to flee. He won’t hurt me. I gulp. I don’t think.
“You’re tired,” he notes, a touch of concern behind his gaze. “You were out late last night, and I could probably use some rest myself. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He brushes past me and heads up the stairs, and I exhale a shallow crazed laugh as soon as his door closes behind him.
He’s right, of course. I could use some rest. Some really restorative rest. Some relaxing rest wherein I go lie down on my bed and close my eyes and fall asleep and forget that Connor is upstairs at this very moment, probably stripping out of his clothes so he can take a shower or put on his pajamas.
A car honks outside and I bolt, scrambling for the guest house like my feet are on fire.
During lunch the next day in the hospital, I’m sitting with Lindsey in the doctors’ lounge, flipping through Tinder profiles with her. She’s on the app. I’m not. I tried it once, but it felt really weird to shave myself down to a few hundred characters and a half-dozen photos. Everyone I talk to says to post whatever you want—Be yourself!—and then they whisper, But, honestly, bikini pics don’t hurt. Lindsey is trying to go about it the modest way. Her profile includes a picture of her on the beach, sure, but she’s wearing a coverup. She also has a picture of her in scrubs and one of us finishing a half marathon together, hand in hand.
“He’s decent,” I say, trying to zoom in on the image of a guy who looks suspiciously close to Matthew McConaughey. “Wait, that is Matthew McConaughey. This guy is using Matthew McConaughey’s picture! Is that allowed?”
Lindsey groans and swipes to the next guy.
An audible hush falls over our section of the lounge and I look up to see Connor walking in. He doesn’t usually eat in here. I think he takes his meals in his office, though I try not to pay that much attention to his life because it makes me feel slightly stalkerish to know those sorts of details about him.
Connor looks around the room (looking edible, mind you), spots me, and starts to walk over. I straighten immediately, conscious of my hair tossed up into a lazy ponytail and the fact that I likely still have lines from my surgical mask imprinted on my face.
He, of course, looks divine. Clean-shaven, thick hair unperturbed by his surgical cap, eyes the color of morning mist. What does morning mist look like, you might ask? Hell if I know. I’m scrambling as he nears us.
Without hesitation, Connor stops across from my seat and leans forward, eyes pinned on me.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
TALK?
Here?
Can’t we do that back at the house? When we’re alone and there isn’t a roomful of people staring us down?
“I’m eating,” I say, lamely, pointing to my half-eaten chicken wrap.
“Yeah, pull up a chair. Join us,” Lindsey says, patting the open seat beside her.
“It’s important,” he says, and that’s when I catch the stern set of his brows and his jaw, clenching tight.
I have a hard time swallowing. My throat is closing up as he continues staring me down. He always looks intimidating, but right now, he looks rather intense. Is he upset with me? What the hell did I do? I haven’t even seen him since last night. I went straight to the guest house, pretended to sleep, woke up early, did rounds, completed two surgeries, and now I’m here like the good doctor I am.