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He swallows; I notice the slow bob of his Adam’s apple.
Apart from that grave way he was watching his dad’s photo, this is the first reaction I’ve seen from him or at least, the reaction that he’s shown me. That swallow. But before I can really marvel over that, he clips, “No.”
Something heavy sits on my chest. It’s not my illness. That’s where it comes from sometimes. My chest. This is different. This is for him, and for that pained reaction.
“Why are you fixing a house you don’t even live in?”
His eyelashes look thick, like a forest around his eyes, as he scans my face. “Because I have to.”
I accept his answer with a nod. I know his answer. I do a lot of things that I have to do, too.
Like lying.
I’ve lied all my life. For my mom. I’ve disappointed her a lot. The fact that I struggled with school, with making friends. The fact that I never took much interest in the things that she had an interest in. My cousin took to our store, fashion, cosmetics, jewelry, right from the beginning. My mom wanted that for me too, but I never gave her that.
When I was diagnosed, she was so heartbroken. I saw it in her eyes.
Lying and pretending were the only ways I could keep her safe. I could keep myself safe from her disappointment.
Until The Roof Incident.
I splay my palm on his chest. “You like fixing things, don’t you?”
Kinda like a hero.
He goes all stone-like. The breathing chest under my hand, just… stops. It stops moving. Stops being alive, even. I think he’s going to ask me to move my hand. He’s going to step back because he hates my touch.
But he simply says, “It’s my job.”
God, what is it? Why’s he so sad?
“Why did you move here? From Massachusetts?” I ask, thinking about the rumors.
Stupid fucking rumors that I don’t believe in.
People can be so cruel sometimes. Ask me. I know all about it.
A frown forms in between his brows. A suspicious, almost defensive frown. “Why?”
I shrug, appearing as casual as I can. I’m no threat to him. But I probably look like one because I’m asking the questions.
“I’m just wondering if you’ll go back once Dr. Martin is fine and back to work.”
The vein on the side of his neck has become taut. “I might.”
“Do you miss it? Boston, I mean.”
“Not really.”
“What about your friends? Colleagues?” Then I add, because I can’t stop myself, “Girlfriend?”
It sounded casual, right? I mean, there’s no way he can know I’m fishing for information. About his earlier job, his life before Heartstone.
I hope not.
Dr. Blackwood’s frown gets deeper. “Is this your way of fishing for information?”
Damn it.
I purse my lips, and admit, “Yes.”
“And what information would that be?”
His smell wafts through my nose as he shoves his hands inside his pockets. There are tons of things I can ask him. Tons of things I want to ask him. But I don’t think I can. I don’t have the right.
Though there’s this question that’s burning in the forefront of my mind. In my mind, I see him with Josie. Chatting, smiling.
And I’m jealous, despite the fact that I shouldn’t be.
The pads of my fingers dig into his chest, and as I realize his muscles are so toned, so sculpted that there’s absolutely no give, I ask, “Do you have someone special, Dr. Blackwood?”
Someone you kiss? Someone you grab and pull into a dark alley and press against walls?
I don’t say that but I’m definitely asking that.
It’s like he hears the unspoken questions because the heat of his body seems to have doubled. Like his blood is rushing in his veins with an uncanny speed.
With flaring nostrils and a hard jaw, he answers, “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m busy.”
I want to smile. Actually, I’ve never wanted to smile this hard. Ever. His answer calms me but it also makes me restless to move closer to him. I want to trace my palm over the arch of his chest and see if I got it right in my dreams.
But I don’t do any of those things. I don’t want him to take away this small concession he’s given me.
Why is he even giving it to me? I’m not complaining. But still.
“Busy with patients?”
“Busy with my job. Yes,” he says, all professional-like.
That’s what he is. Professional and distant. Dedicated to his job and fixing people. If Mass General let him go, then they are idiots.
I’m an idiot, too, in this moment.
Instead of backing off, I want to do something. Something that might crack his cool façade. Maybe reaching up and messing up his no-nonsense hair.
What would he do? If I did that? If I grabbed his collar and pushed him against the wall?
And kissed him?
My eyes drop to his lips, his soft, soft lips. There’s a cleft in the middle of his lower lip. I want to taste that cleft, dig my tongue in it, wet it, suck on it, bite it.
