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His brows arch, and that magical bubble of peace bursts when he shakes his head and very calmly, very confidently delivers a firm, “No.”Chapter FifteenNatalie“Excuse me? Did you just say no?”
“I’m uninterested in that arrangement,” he says sharply. “Is that all you need? I’ve got to get back to work.”
Of all the coldhearted…smug…egotistical…
“No,” I bite out through gritted teeth. “That’s not all. I’m trying to make peace here.”
He steps closer and keeps his gaze over my shoulder. We’re being watched, of course. We’re in a hallway with a dozen people rushing past—occupational therapists, nurses, residents—and they pay us passing glances, no doubt wondering why we look so angry. It’s not unheard of for doctors to argue, especially when they’re from different specialties. General surgeons and plastic surgeons have different ways of doing things. We fall into different departments with different bosses, and hopefully that’s what they think is happening here, a simple work-related dispute. That’s all.
“You’re not making peace. You’re being a coward.”
“You’re wrong. I’m trying to keep things civil between us.” I step toward him and lower my voice, cognizant of the horde of medical students walking toward us. “Y’know, you should be the one trying to make amends right now. You should be the one apologizing after Saturday night.”
He lowers his gaze back to me and levels me with a cool stare, pointedly not apologizing. I’ve seen this before. It’s the way he used to look at me when I’d bump into him with Noah. Like he was looking straight through me. Like I didn’t exist because he deemed me invisible. I resist the urge to shrink.
I thought I was being the bigger person here, offering up a truce so he and I could carve a way forward using the path of least resistance. His outright rejection is unexpected and leaves me feeling completely out of my depth.
“Is that all you need, Dr. Martin?” he asks, cold as ice.
No. Actually, hold still so I can jab my pen into your heart.
I offer up a sugary-sweet smile, forcing myself to play his game. “That’s all, Dr. Easton.”
I purposely bump him with my shoulder as I brush past, and yes, it’s juvenile, and yes, it hurts me more than it hurts him, but it feels good to lash out somehow.
As I walk away, it’s as if a fictional bell tolls overhead, marking the beginning of round one. It feels like we’re two wrestlers standing in opposite corners of a ring, rolling out our necks, hopping side to side on light feet, about to go for blood.
I make it to the end of the hall, turn back, and find he’s right where I left him, watching me walk away.I arrive home after work to an empty townhouse. It’s late, nearly 8:00 PM. Connor should be here. I dip my head up the stairwell, listening for noise. None. Then I tiptoe toward the kitchen. All the lights are off, which means either he’s not here or he’s going to suddenly appear out of the hall bath or the pantry and scare the shit out of me. Just the thought of that has me scurrying quickly to get what I need. I head straight to the fridge, whip it open, grab a cheese stick and some yogurt, steal the remainder of Noah’s chocolate stash from the pantry, and then keep trucking right out into the garden. The second I’m in the guest house, behind a locked door, I take a deep calming breath.
Then I peer over my shoulder and realize he can see in here, through the windows, if he wants to. I yank the drapes closed with a heavy hand, plunging the room into darkness. I have to fumble around to get to the light switch, and I crash into a side table. My pinky toe gets hit AGAIN and my yogurt crashes to the ground, splattering across the floor. Both of these grievances get added to Connor’s list of transgressions, obviously.
I never find out what time he returns home that night. I purposely keep the drapes closed as I get ready for bed and then I go to sleep early. My stomach grumbles as I sulk under my blanket and I want more food, but I’ll be damned if I go into that house right now. I’d rather gnaw on my own arm and tell myself it’s a steak.
In the morning, I dream of strolling in to find an empty townhouse, but I spot Connor through the back windows as soon as I step out into the garden. He’s in the kitchen, eating his breakfast at the kitchen island, looking handsome in his scrubs with his freshly washed hair. I contemplate going around the side of the house, climbing over the A/C unit, and scaling the fence as a means of bypassing him altogether, but I’m not looking to take a trip to the ER with an ice pack shoved down my pants. My pubic bone is grateful as I open the back door. My heart is not. It races like it’s late for the most important meeting of my life.
