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I start out giving her short answers, but the more she interrogates me, the easier it is to open up to her. Plus, I’m missing my family back in Honey Hill, so it’s nice to talk to someone and tell them about my life.
I tell her about the bakery my Grammy opened over fifty years ago. I tell her about my cousin Davis who’s running for mayor. And Jasper, whose wife writes romance novels for a living. And my sisters—Maya, Ruby, Corri and Naomi—who are disturbingly obsessed with the color pink.
But I want to talk about her, too.
Soon my eyes hook on the crumpled rejection letters peeking out from under the couch. I turn the tables on her. “I meant what I said the other day…”
She slow-blinks. “What you said…?”
“The fact that you didn’t get into med school this round—it doesn’t mean anything about you, Karli. You really are brilliant.”
A thick fog of sadness veils her eyes. She reaches down, scoops a fistful of letters off the floor, and holds them up. “These rejection letters would say otherwise.”
I don’t like it that she’s letting those stupid pieces of paper define her. I shake my head. “Half the time, those assholes in admissions don’t know what they’re doing.”
At the moment, she looks perfectly sober. “Again—don’t patronize me,Mason.”
“I’m not patronizing you,Karli.”
“You got in, didn’t you?” she questions rhetorically, one eyebrow shooting up to the sky.
“I…I did.”
“So you’re saying those admissions people made a mistake?” she challenges me.
I scoff. “What I’m saying is, they’re looking for med students who fit their cookie cutter mold. I fit. I’ll admit it—I’m boring and traditional. Most of the time, I put my head down and stick to the script. But when someone shows up who’s bold and tough and questions the damn script? Those admissions committees don’t know what to do with a person like that.”
“Hmm…” she utters simply. I don't think she believes me. At least she doesn’t argue with me on that point, but I can practically see her slowly closing in on herself. She’s an evening primrose, shutting her petals for the night. I hate it.
I’m enjoying this interaction and I selfishly don’t want her to clam up on me. So I do something I absolutely know I shouldn’t. I get out of my armchair and wedge myself onto the couch beside her.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her forehead crinkled skeptically.
“Come here, Tough Girl,” I demand, my voice low, my arms spread wide to receive her.
Her head tilts to the side. She blinks like I’ve grown a second head. “Mason, you don’t have to do—”
“Come. Here.” I don’t waiver.
Slowly, Karli’s lips tilt upward at the corners. There’s another moment of hesitation. But then she crawls across the space between us, and she collapses into my waiting embrace.
My heart is pounding madly as I close my arms around her. For a long, loaded moment, we just stay like that. Holding each other. Holding our breaths. Like we’re waiting to see if the couch will grow fangs or swallow us whole.
After the longest while, Karli releases a deep, pained exhale. Her body relaxes. And I hold her tighter.
“Fuck—I needed that,” she whispers into the collar of my shirt.
I bury my nose in her hair and breathe her in, unable to deny how good she smells. How good her curves feel.
Can’t lie—I needed that, too.
My hand slips down the length of her back before sliding upward and flexing at the base of her neck. Electricity courses beneath my skin. Tension builds in my groin and I try every trick in the book to will my growing erection away.
Karli doesn’t seem to notice my silent battle. Her tiny hand clenches in the fabric of my shirt as she innocently nuzzles closer to me, like she’s thirsty to lap up all of my affection. She whimpers contentedly and the sound goes straight to my groin.
I really don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold off my growing hard-on. This is becoming more ‘hug’ than I bargained for.
Careful, Mason.
