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She swallows, and I can tell she’s mulling the question over in her head. I know she wants to ask if I find her sexy, if I find her fucking irresistible.
It’s just a question, but she can’t form the words. Her mouth opens and closes again. A blush creeps up her neck and cheeks.
“I can’t.”
I cluck my tongue against the roof of my mouth and push off the counter. “It’s for the best. We shouldn’t really be having this conversation with your brother in the house.”
“But he leaves tomorrow,” she says, nearly pouting as I head out of the kitchen. “Then what?” she calls after me.
I smile toward the dark hallway. “Then it’s just you and me.”
I reach the threshold between the kitchen and the hall and turn to glance back at her. Her eyes are wide. Her lips are tinged red. They go well with the rosy blush on her cheeks. I feel the nervous energy emanating off her even though I’m across the room.
I can’t resist pushing her a little more. I can’t resist telling her the truth.
“And for the record…yes, Natalie, I find you very attractive.”Chapter SevenNatalieIn my dreams, I chase Connor up those stairs, tackle him to the ground, and ravage him. We have sex wherever we land: half-on, half-off the stairs, in the hallway, pushed up against the door to the guest room. We don’t care that Noah is in the house. We don’t care that if he woke up and found us, he’d likely kill Connor and be very disappointed in me.
We. Don’t. Care.
When I wake up the next morning feeling like someone’s smacked me in the head with a frying pan, Connor’s words from last night are the first thing that come to mind. Connor Easton finds me attractive. I was not so drunk that I missed that earth-shattering declaration.
I rush to get dressed and catch sight of myself in the mirror, feeling different now that he’s shared that information with me. I can hear my mom chiding me in my head. You are not defined by a man. You are not better or worse because of the opinion of others. YEAH OKAY MOM BUT THIS HOT SURGEON JUST BASICALLY CALLED ME SEXY. LET ME HAVE THIS.
Once I’m dressed, I grab my stuff and rush to the kitchen so I can down some more Pedialyte and find a granola bar. Normally, I don’t eat in the mornings. I know, bad Natalie. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, yada yada. Hello, I know that—I have a medical degree. It’s just that, for me, I’ve found that food can sometimes make me feel sluggish in the operating room. It’s why I normally opt for coffee first thing and then I eat a big lunch.
Of course, this morning, Noah and Connor are in the kitchen too. Everyone is getting ready to leave. Noah has his last day at the hospital. He flies out tonight after dinner.
“Hey? Want to walk over with us?” he asks me, and lo and behold, five minutes later, I’m walking down the sidewalk sandwiched between him and Connor.
When I catch Connor’s eyes, there’s a twinge of amusement in them. No doubt he’s remembering the moment when he found me huddled in the kitchen howling like a wounded animal. Such class. Such grace. How does she do it? Maybe it’s Maybelline. Maybe it’s four shots of sake courtesy of peer pressure. The other residents were all, Come on, Nat. Man up! And I was like, Um, I’m sorry, I have to be at the hospital before dawn. They didn’t care. It’s why my head is pounding even now. It’s why I insist we stop into Boston Beans so I can grab another tea from Gina. It’s my fourth one this week. I’m addicted. She said it’s not officially on the menu yet because she’s still testing it out, and I feel special that I’m one of her guinea pigs.
Connor and Noah opt for coffee. While we wait for our drinks, I glance between Connor and his calendar photo. There’s a decade’s difference, but I think Present Connor is even hotter than Past Connor. It’s what happens to good-looking guys—they only get better with age. For him, time is a gift in the form of a sculptor’s chisel.
He catches me comparing him to his photo then groans and tells me to hurry up for rounds. He’s one of the attendings on duty today, and though I’m tempted to hang back, drink my tea, and nurse my hangover, I can’t. I have an hour and a half until I have to be in the operating room, and I need to get my shit together before then.
In the BICU, Lois is quick to tell me I look like hell.
I thank her and ask if she got any of the pastries I brought in on Monday. “Thought they were a little dry,” is what she says before walking away. I will win her loyalty and adoration one day, just you wait and see.
