Page 109 of The Love Operation

Heat flares inside me, licking at places I’d prefer stayed dormant. My breasts tighten under my scrubs. My skin tingles, every nerve suddenly alert to its proximity to him. Then my mind betrays me—imagining those hands on me, sliding up my bare sides and—

“Oh my goodness!” I blurt, horrified.

Benedict startles. “What? What is it?”

I can’t exactly say I was just kicking off a sexual fantasy starring your hands, so I lie: “I just remembered something. I really need to go in there.” I point vaguely toward my bedroom. “Actually, would you mind if I took a quick shower?”

I don’t wait for a reply. I launch myself out of the room before my hypothalamus hijacks my moral compass and I do something deeply regrettable. (Technically, it’s more of a limbic system slash prefrontal cortex tag team, but close enough.)

This is just sleep deprivation. This is just sleep deprivation. This is just sleep deprivation.

I chant this as I prepare myself for a cold shower. I don’t get my hair wet. Just a brisk, cold shower to douse the hormones, then a towel dry, and the least suggestive pajamas I own. I don’t want my imagination getting any more ideas.

I’ve spent years mastering my body—its sleep cycles, stress responses, even my resting heart rate—and it’s all undone by one minute of him on my couch.

When I return to the living room, Tad Cooper is back in his cage, pressed against the side nearest the couch—where Benedict is . . . asleep.

He looks like he just tipped over in an I’ll-just-rest-my-eyes moment.

“Benedict,” I whisper, then once more for due diligence. “Benedict.”

He doesn’t stir. His breathing has that heavy, surrendered rhythm of true sleep.

I grab a throw blanket and drape it over him. It’s laughably inadequate—the man’s too large—so I dart to the guest room, rip the quilt off the bed, and cover him properly.

I pause, fingertips hovering near his jaw. He’s so beautiful and heartbreakingly familiar. Watching him sleep now is like experiencing a version of my life I almost had. I don’t know what scares me more, wanting to curl up beside him or how easy it is to picture this life.

Before I slip and caress his face, I bolt to my room and close the door, pulse pounding, stomach tight.

I hurl myself into bed and consider diving into a memory as a way of escape or further discovery, but then my intuition and last shred of common sense kicks in.

I need sleep.

When I wake, I jolt upright like the parents in Home Alone, sure I’ve overslept. But I haven’t. It’s 5 a.m. My alarm didn’t wake me—the cold, harsh hands of guilt did.

I ease my door open, needing to confirm. Benedict’s still there. Still asleep on my couch.

This morning’s me would’ve handled last night very differently. Like maybe not emotionally imploding over a lizard and my ex.

Isaac wouldn’t like this. I wouldn’t like it if a girl stayed over at his house.

I text him anyway, just needing the connection, even if I can’t bring myself to explain the situation.

Me: Can’t wait to see you today.

Then I pace.

My life is slipping off the rails. I need to fix this. I need to work through it and get Benedict out of my system. Out of my life.

That’s what I need to do. There’s too much else to focus on.

I sit on the edge of the bed, spine like a rod, and let it in—the one memory I’ve kept sealed off like a biohazard.

It’s time. Even if it breaks me.

The memory sucks me under.

I see Benedict’s face across the picnic table—drawn expression, bloodshot eyes. He looks wrecked, like someone scooped his soul out of him and left a hollowed-out shell in its place.