“Get over it.” I poke him between his ribs as I pass. “Fewer orgasms, more suturing.”
He gives me a lazy salute, and that same crooked grin returns. “Yes, ma’am.”
Before I push out the door, I catch his gaze cast downward, with slumped shoulders.
I wish I could grab a bite with him, keep him company for a bit. Iknowwhat our schedule’s doing to him. Nate gets it, but I’ve noticed the flicker of annoyance. The frustration of yet another weekend without each other. It’s getting to him, so when my phone buzzes with Nate’s text, I promise I’ll do better by Julian another day.
“Night, Dr. Keller,” I say, smiling.
A shared understanding passes between us. We’ve pushed each other to keep at it since we both got a C- on our first pathology assignment during our first year in med school.
“It’s Kells for you, Dr. Sunshine.” His voice is coated with exhaustion but still warm.
On the way to Nate’s, my shoulders loosen while thinking about seeing him. His barely veiled disappointment flashes in my mind, which I’m about to see again when I cancel yet another Friday date.
I closethe door to Nate’s apartment, energy surging through me as the tension from the day slips off my shoulders. His place smells of garlic and tomato. Kitchen utensils clatter beyond the little entry way to the left. The kitchen’s behind the long wall, connected to both the dining room and living room, in an almost open concept. There’s a column right in the middle between the two areas, “marking the bones of the house,” as Nate says. I’m more taken by him in a gray undershirt and black and white pants, stirring something in a saucepan, with a faint smudge of sauce on his cheek, than I would be by columns and exposed beams. Just seeing himmakes me want to laugh and collapse into him at the same time.
“Hey,” I murmur, dropping my bag.
He gazes up and grins. “Come over here, sweet thing. I’m about to assemble the lasagna, and then it’ll just need about forty minutes in the oven.”
I slip off my shoes and go to him. He’s got a large Pyrex pan on the island across from the stove, with shredded cheese on one side and oven-ready noodles on the other.
“I love this domestic side of you. Mad cooking skills and all.”
He tugs me in for a hug, and I loop my arms around his waist, then every alarm, the beeping monitors, and the endless rounds disappear. With his head tilted, his lips find mine, and his tongue flicks against mine in a slow claiming. His hands fall to the curve of my lower back.
Something rattles, but Nate gives me three more pecks before checking what got knocked over. His deep-chestnut hair brushes my cheek, and it reminds me of rubbing against velvet. His warmth seeps into me even through the clothing—he runs warmer than most people.
“Sorry,” he says, staring at the saucy mess and wooden spoon on the tiled floor. “Got a little carried away.” He averts his gaze to me, and his eyes catch the light. His irises are a unique shade of amber, sometimes closer to brown, sometimes redder. His focus lingers on me before stepping away.
“Can you please turn the stove off?”
I nod but watch him grab paper towels then kneel to clean up the mess. His pants hang low on his hips, and the thin cotton tank does nothing to hide his muscular shoulders. He’s not a gym junkie, but he runs, rows, and bikes. He needs to move, and I couldn’t relate less, but we make it work.
A half smirk takes over his face. “Robyn, stop ogling.” His expression’s a mix of boyish charm and quiet hunger.
Begrudgingly, I turn off the stove and set the saucepan on the cutting board on the kitchen island. Then I grab a large spoon and assemble the lasagna into the pan. He slides his arms around my waist, and he takes the ladle from me and pours. I set the noodles on top, and we both cheese it up until the Pyrex is filled to the brim with beefy, saucy goodness. My stomach rumbles against Nate’s forearm.
“Soon, sweets, soon.”
He pats my butt, tips his chin toward the couch, then slides the pan into the oven. Moving with ease, he opens a bottle of red Cabernet and pours two generous glasses, its scent unfurling into the air.
Our thighs touch when he joins me on the couch. When I lift the glass, dark fruit and oak envelop me before the first sip even grazes my lips.
Turning to face him, I ask, “How was your day?” I scoot even closer to him. “Did you have a good lunch?”
Reluctance flickers across his face, small and quick, but it vanished so seamlessly, I must have imagined it.
“Do you want to talk about blueprints or safety parameters…” The words fade as his fingers trace the inside of my forearm, light and teasing, hairs bristling in the wake of his touch.
The corner of my mouth tilts. “Of course, you care about it.”
He squeezes my elbow lightly, the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “How was your day?” he asks, tugging lightly on my ankle until my legs rest across his lap, then his fingers find the back of my calf, rubbing soothing circles.
“Honestly? It’s been a bitch.” I take a sip, and when I lick my lips, his tongue darts out. “Remember what I told you about the head of neuro?”
“Steinberg, right?”
