Doctor dearest, p.12
Doctor Dearest, page 12
His guilt sours the mood even more, pointing out that what we’ve just done was wrong. His reaction forces me to carry the weight of guilt too. I do. Immediately.
I think of where we are and how badly I need to clean myself off.
I feel wetness between my thighs and my cheeks grow hot.
I can’t get out of here quickly enough.
“Let me,” Connor says, rushing forward as I start to push off the ledge to stand on slightly wobbly legs.
“I’ve got it,” I lie, taking my hand back from his.
How is our moment crumbling so quickly? How did we get here? We should be basking in a surge of oxytocin and endorphins, but instead, we’re forced to endure the inevitably awkward event of escaping this room that has turned back into what it’s always been: stark and empty. There is no love in here, only feelings of wrongdoing, and I think the sooner I get out of here, the better.
“I just need to find a bathroom,” I tell Connor, trying hard to keep myself from looking at him as I retie my dress behind my neck.
I don’t want to see his face again. He has too much power over my emotions, and I’m worried I’ll find that he looks even more guilty now, or—God forbid—regretful, and then I’ll crumble. I will. Tears will be shed and words will pour out of me, so instead of looking at him or speaking, I push the chair out from in front of the door, turn the handle, and rush out into the hall.
I immediately run into a warm body.
A man curses. “Jesus, where’d you come—”
“Sorry!” I rush out, keeping my gaze on the ground and hurrying toward the stairs that lead back to the first floor. I’m immediately crushed by a wave of people. The silent auction is still taking place down here and everyone’s hurrying to get in one last bid before it ends. It’s startling to be thrown back into the real world so quickly. It feels like it’s been years since Connor and I first sneaked off into that room. I glance up and spot people I recognize from the hospital, and that can’t happen. I reek of sex. I have remnants of him all over me—his fading teeth marks on my neck, his handprints on my thighs, his cologne in the air.
I see a sign pointing toward a restroom and haul ass toward it. Of course, there’s a line. Women with crossed arms and terse expressions are annoyed to be shuffling forward one step at a time. I want to cut. I want to shout to everyone in front of me that I’m seconds away from having a nervous breakdown. They’d all understand. You just had crazy sex with a guy you’ve loved forever? Upstairs? At this fundraiser?! Jesus, girl, get up front and clean yourself up. And here, you want my drink?
I shoot furtive glances over my shoulder, looking for Connor. I feel nervous about the idea of him following me—though maybe it’d be worse if he didn’t? I’m not sure. I’m glad when it’s my turn to escape into a stall and unroll ten feet of toilet paper as if that will prove just as helpful as a shower and soap and a fresh rope I could wrap around myself. I clean myself off as best as possible and then out at the sink, I wash my hands like I’m scrubbing in for surgery and get a few weird looks. I cool it, turn off the faucet, and only then do I glance up in the mirror.
Holy hell.
I look like I’ve just walked through a tornado and lived to tell the tale. My hair is a messy riot of curls. My lipstick is smeared halfway across my chin. My tears left a trail of mascara down my cheeks.
A laugh sputters out of me as I wet a paper towel and attempt to clean up the damage. It’s really no use, but at least as I walk from the bathroom to the curb outside, I don’t draw too many awkward stares.
Lindsey’s been texting me, but I don’t look at my phone until I’m in a car headed back to the townhouse.
Lindsey: Hello? What’s with the disappearing act lately?
Lindsey: I’ve looked for you everywhere! Are you okay? Did you leave?
Lindsey: Not cool. Text me back. Where are you???
Natalie: I’m sorry for disappearing. Got into it with Connor and needed to escape. I’m headed home. All safe, promise. I’ll make it up to you.
She texts back right away.
Lindsey: Oh no! Sorry you had to leave. I could have come with you.
Natalie: It’s okay. Didn’t want to ruin your night. How’s Logan?
Lindsey: Boring. :/ I ditched him a little while ago. Think I’m going to head home too.
Natalie: Want to get dinner tomorrow? My treat?
Lindsey: Yeah, you can fill me in then.
* * *
Back at the townhouse, I unlock the door and flip the light on in the foyer. My high heels come off immediately and I sigh with relief once my bare feet touch the ground. It feels good to be home. The bottom of my dress is gathered in one hand along with my clutch as I walk through the hallway to the great room.
Movement catches my attention and my heart leaps into my throat when I spot Connor sitting on the couch, illuminated only by the dull glow of the light over the kitchen sink.
His tuxedo jacket has been tossed aside. His bowtie hangs limp around his neck. His hair has been mussed up from his hands, and when he turns to look back at me over his shoulder, his angry glare stops me dead in my tracks.
He huffs out a low laugh and turns back around, linking his hands between his spread knees.
I wonder how he beat me home, but then I remember the line to get into the women’s bathroom. It probably wasn’t that hard to leave the fundraiser before me.
I have no idea what I should say to him. His anger is surprising, though I’m not certain it’s aimed at me.
We were together, intimately, not thirty minutes ago. Now, it’s like we’re strangers.
“How’d you get home?” he asks, his voice a hair’s breadth away from rude. “Tell me you didn’t walk.”
“I took a cab.”
He pushes to his feet and grabs his jacket, clasping it roughly in his hands as he rounds the side of the couch.
“Are you upset with me?” I venture.
“I just think a few parting words would have been nice. See you later, Connor. Thanks for the fuck.”
He tries to pass by me, but I step in front of him, blocking his exit.
“Are you kidding?”
He looks down at me with a haughty, closed-off expression. His mouth tips into a sarcastic smile when he replies with, “No, I’m not, actually. I shouldn’t have even bothered putting a chair in front of the door. It only slowed you down.”
I scowl. “What’d you expect me to do? Sit up on that ledge half-naked while you tried to piece together a nice way to let me down? Jesus. You should have seen yourself—you looked absolutely horrified by what we’d just done.”
He shakes his head. “If I looked horrified, it was because of how you looked, like you were this glass doll about to break into a million pieces. Terrified. And then just like that, you left. Ran, in fact.”
“To save face.”
“Right, well…you saved it.” He tries to step around me again, and again, I block him, the tips of my heels pushing against his chest.
His jaw clenches as he looks down at me.
“This is what would have happened if I’d stayed,” I point out, eyes narrowed. “We were going to have to deal with reality no matter what. You can’t do something like that and then shake hands and return to normal life as if nothing happened. I was trying to avoid this.”
His chuckle drips with disdain, and then he shakes his head as if fed up with me. “Get out of my way, Natalie.”
“No. You’re pissing me off.”
Suddenly, he grips my arms in his hands, picks me up off the ground, and pushes me against the wall, out of his way. I jerk away from his hold, only succeeding in ramming my elbow into the wall and wincing at the pain.
“Well now we’re both pissed,” he says, walking away. “So mission accomplished.”
“What do you want with me, Connor?” I ask as he heads up the stairs. “That’s it?! One night?!”
“You’re the one who put parameters on our relationship,” he shouts back as he continues putting distance between us. “You’re the one who wanted one night, and there it was. Hope you enjoyed it.”
Then his door slams and I curse up at the ceiling, wishing it wasn’t too late to throw one of my shoes at his head.
Chapter Thirteen
Connor
Last night was the kind of shitshow I’m unaccustomed to dealing with in my life. Shouting matches aren’t usually how I follow up earth-shattering sex. My recent relationships have followed adult patterns of long-term commitment. I’ve had lazy breakups over wine, a few casual flings that ended amicably and swiftly. Most of the time my feelings are more in danger of freezing than boiling over.
Not with Natalie.
No.
Last night, I lost my temper.
Natalie left me in that study room with my fucking dick in my hand—literally. She bolted, and it had nothing to do with what she said last night. I know because I saw the truth with my own eyes. She has real feelings for me. It’s not just physical attraction. It’s more. I saw that last night—I felt it—and now she knows I know and that’s why she ran.
She told me she was scared of rejection, but there was no need to be scared. I wouldn’t have left her in that room. I would have helped clean her up, wiped her tears, kissed her straight. I would have assured her there was no one outside to catch us, laughed with her while we bolted out of the library and out onto the curb to wave down a passing cab. We wouldn’t have been able to keep our hands off each other on that drive home. I would have wanted her again right away. I barely got a good look at her in the study room, but I would have fixed that gross injustice back at the townhouse. I would have hauled her over my shoulder and carried her upstairs to my room. On that bed, I would have peeled off her dress and worshipped every inch of her from her head to her toes. We wouldn’t have slept. I wouldn’t have let us.
But that’s not how our night went.
The next morning, I’ve slept off the sharp edge of anger, but the low-burning embers are still there in the pit of my stomach. I sit on the side of the bed with my head in my hands and worry about whether or not I should go downstairs. This is her house, not mine. I shouted at her last night and now I feel like I’m encroaching on her space like a guy who doesn’t know how to take a hint. She probably doesn’t want to see me.
I want to see her though.
I always want to see her.
That’s the root of this whole issue.
I tug a hand through my hair and stand up, opening my door so I can head downstairs. With my luck, she’ll be in the kitchen and we can talk this out. I take a step down the stairs and pause when I catch sight of her in the hallway, practically tiptoeing toward the door. She’s in her running clothes, AirPods in, clearly about to make an escape. She unlocks the deadbolt gently, as if not wanting to make a peep. Then she cracks the door a few inches and rushes out, closing it softly behind her.
Well, there’s my answer. I guess we’re not going to talk it out over our morning coffee like adults.
I turn back and head up the stairs, shower, and get dressed. When I’m done, I take myself out for a long breakfast then head over to my house for a meeting with my contractor. We do a walk-through with the designer and the project manager. Everything is coming together. Tile is getting plastered onto walls, grout is getting smeared to blur the edges. It’s a masterpiece I should really care about.
“We’re only two weeks behind schedule, which is actually pretty good, all things considered,” the contractor says with a laugh.
I nod and try to focus when they list off updates, but I can’t seem to give a crap about any of it even though this renovation is the culmination of two years’ worth of planning.
I have too much on my mind, too much back and forth about whether or not I should have just called out to Natalie before she left this morning and forced her to confront me. Maybe she thinks I’m still angry about last night. Maybe I am still angry about last night.
I hit the gym after I leave the meeting, and that helps clear my head a little. When I check my phone in my locker after I’m finished, I have a text and a missed call from another attending at the hospital. I check the text first.
Brent: Any chance you could possibly help cover my call this afternoon? My wife just called and she’s got a stomach bug. She needs my help with the kids. Let me know. It’s been a breeze this morning. You could probably head home once you finish afternoon rounds.
His text is a welcome invitation. Work is exactly where I want to be right now.
I immediately call him back and tell him I can be on my way in thirty minutes. In my rush to shower and change and get to the hospital, I get another call. I assume it’s Brent wanting to go over a patient with me before I take over, but it’s Noah.
I’m due in the BICU any minute. In fact, I’m about to cross the street and walk through the revolving front door of the hospital. I think about ignoring his call but then groan and answer.
“Hey man.”
“Connor, what’s up? I’ve tried to get through to Natalie all morning, but she hasn’t picked up. Everything good?”
I wipe my hand down my face, not quite sure I have the mental dexterity to carry on a conversation like this with Noah. What would he do if he knew what Natalie and I did last night? Kill me, obviously. I haven’t decided how I’ll handle things with him. Before last night, I contemplated telling him the truth, but now the truth would set him off. The truth is sweaty and pulse-pounding and not PG-rated. The truth is not happening.
“Yeah, it’s fine. We had that fundraiser last night. Maybe she’s getting a late start.”
Or maybe she’s still running from her problems out on the sidewalks of Boston.
“You’re not at the townhouse with her?”
He sounds concerned.
“No. I’m heading into work. Brent called and needed someone to cover for him.”
He chuckles. “Of course you volunteered. They need to just slap your name on the front door at this point.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, looking across the street to confirm the coast is clear before setting out.
“Anyway, if you see Natalie, let her know I called to check in. Nothing important, just lonely out on the road.”
“You aren’t going to cry are you?”
He laughs. “C’mon. Can’t I say I miss you guys? Living out of a hotel room sucks.”
“Yeah, I don’t envy you.”
I stall out on the sidewalk in front of the hospital entrance. I don’t want to carry this phone call with me into the lobby. Voices echo. People are trying to work. Families are sitting in the foyer, awaiting news of their loved ones. It’d be rude.
“Things going okay there? You’re keeping an eye on Natalie, right? Keeping her close?”
I nearly choke.
“She’s a grown-up, Noah. She doesn’t need a babysitter.”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. Old habits die hard and all that. Just do me a favor and be nice to her while I’m gone, okay? Nicer than you usually are.”
“I’m nice to her,” I say, suddenly defensive.
“You tolerate her at best. Natalie tells me when I leave you guys alone in a room together you barely speak two words. I’ve seen it myself. What is it, anyway? You like her, don’t you?”
I swallow a groan and grip the phone so tight I wouldn’t be surprised to find my fingers have left indentions. “Hey—I’m standing outside the hospital and really need to head in. Can we get into this another time?”
Say, never?
“Sure. Yeah. Say hi to everyone for me. I’ll catch you soon.”
I feel like a prick as I walk inside. I’m lying to my best friend. He thinks I barely tolerate his sister. He’s warning me to be nice to her. If he knew the truth, he’d fly straight home and wrap his hands around my neck, no doubt about it. My iPhone wouldn’t be the only thing sporting damage.
I’m screwing this up. In my attempt to control this unshakable desire I feel toward Natalie, I’m letting my emotions get the better of me. I shouldn’t have taken things so far last night. I should have kissed her, sure, but not had sex with her, not used her in that room and then yelled at her at the townhouse after. She was scared…scared and exposed. Sure, my ego was bruised, but she’s more important than my ego.
In my defense, I didn’t think things would go that far. Not even in my wildest dreams. I expected her to outright turn me down last night when I whispered that proposition in her ear. So when she let me kiss her in the hall and then let me drag her into that empty study room, I got greedy. I set out to prove to her how insufficient one night would be, and I failed miserably.
A resident comes rushing out of the double doors that separate the BICU from the rest of the burn unit. I pocket my phone and try to put the outside world and my outside problems away for now.
He’s out of breath, huffing as he leans over to rest on his knees.
“Wh-where have you been?! Where’s your beeper?!”
My beeper is in my office, where it stays when I’m not on call or at the hospital.
I don’t answer him, of course. Last I checked, residents don’t demand answers from attendings. I don’t recognize him, which means he must have just started his rotation in the BICU, but he knows who I am because he immediately launches into a brief explanation of events, albeit with a more deferential tone. “We just got a new admit. Right after Dr. Woods left. Some idiots left a kid in the ambulance bay. Severe electrical burns on her right hand.”
I frown. A new resident shouldn’t be the lead on this.
