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I point to my chest. “You’re talking to a guy who did an extra pathology rotation.”
Her nose scrunches up, her face only illuminated by the dash and the large computer screen. “Ew. Why?”
“I don’t know. The science of it is fascinating.”
“You’re a total geek,” she accuses, but there’s no hiding her smile or mine. Or the way we can’t stop staring at each other.
“You say that, but you haven’t seen my Marvel collection yet.”
She giggles, reaching out and ruffling my hair. “God, you’re cute. Let’s do this. Midnight’s burning. Come meet my parents.” She cackles as she climbs out of her car, nearly flashing me her ass as she does and catches me staring. “I saw that.”
“You’re the one wearing that. I’ll look because I don’t think I can help it, but I promise not to touch.”
“Maybe I should have you take off your shirt,” she tosses out as I get out of the car and walk around to her. “You know, even things up a bit.”
“I feel like that’s a bit disrespectful given where we find ourselves.”
She taps her bottom lip with one hand, grabbing my hand with her other as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As with every time we make skin-to-skin contact, I feel the warmth she radiates vibrate through me.
“Perhaps,” she agrees. “Here. This is them.”
She releases my hand and takes a seat on a stone bench right in front of the grave. She gives a little wiggle and a small shudder as the cold stone touches the bare skin of her legs.
Without offering, I unbutton my shirt and drop it over her shoulders. It isn’t very thick, but it’s better than nothing.
“Boo. You’re wearing a tank top undershirt. Though I do appreciate the arm candy, I was hoping you had changed your mind.”
She slips her arms through the sleeves andfuck. Her wearing my shirt is something else.
I ignore the arm candy comment even if my still semihard dick doesn’t. “Definitely not. And thank you for not calling it a wifebeater.”
She shakes her head. “Never.” Her face tilts down toward her parents' grave. “Hi, Mom and Dad. This is Callan. He’s my professor.” She laughs, her head flying back and everything.
“Ha. So very funny.” I pinch her side and she squeals, bouncing in place and smacking at my hand.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. Actually, I did so I’m not really sorry.” She turns back to the grave. “Anyway, happy birthday, Mom. I haven’t had a chance to come here in a few months. I miss you guys and I have so much to tell you.” She launches into an account of what happened with her ex and Dr. Lawrence dying on her and her apartment flooding and how she’s moved back in with Amelia and Oliver and her nieces.
All the while, I sit here and listen, watching her, unable to drag my gaze away for even a moment. Hell, I hardly want to blink.
I’m infatuated with her. Fascinated by her every thought. Enraptured by her every move.
I’m wholly, completely, irrevocably cast under her spell.
And as I sit here beside her, teasing her, touching her, laughing with her, telling her stories from when I was on tour with the guys as Central Square, talking with her until the wee hours of the morning on a bench in a graveyard, I’m not doing anything to stop it or change it.
I’m allowing myself to be dragged in. Tugged along. My smart, responsible side is telling me to cut it out and get my shit back together, but it’s not driving this bus.
The parts of me she already owns are.
Still, despite all that, I won’t cross any more lines with her.
Layla Fritz became off-limits to me the moment she walked into my classroom. And that’s how she’ll stay until we go our separate ways.
9
The emergency department can be like Candy Land to healthcare workers. Some days, you hit it right and you sail through your shift, reaching the end in flying rainbow colors. Other days, you keep pulling up those damn gingerbread or candy cane cards and are sent back to the beginning.
Today is the latter for me.
