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As I pause at a sidewalk, stretching a calf while I wait for the pedestrian crosswalk light to turn, a memory from med school hits me. There was a study. Harrison found it. Of course, he did. Back then he was the king of sophomoric humor. But the study concluded fertility rates increase when orgasm is achieved.
Now, there were all kinds of issues with the study. For one, the study was one hundred percent dependent on self-reported survey data. Harrison made his normal cracks about it.
I wonder if Sunny would laugh if I told her about it. Probably not. The study might convince her that her sperm in a cup approach won’t ever take. It’s not like she could try the real thing with one of those donors from the clinic.
My thoughts ramble on as I re-enter my apartment with a sweat-soaked shirt and achy muscles from pounding the sidewalks. After toeing off my running shoes and heading down the hall, I halt, slack-jawed.
The morning sun reflects off Sunny’s golden strands and cast a halo around her. Coffee mug in hand, she’s taking in the sunrise in a tight, cropped pajama top and loose, low-slung pajama pants, exposing a smooth, creamy, slim waist.
When she turns, her pale pink lips slowly blossom into a warm, from-the-heart smile. Her blue eyes stun beneath barely-there light eyebrows.
“So, you go running like that?”
I glance down at my running shorts and white ankle socks. The hand with my balled up wet shirt shifts, holding it away in case she smells it, but her gaze remains locked on my midriff.
“Took my shoes off at the door.” Sunny’s tongue traces her top lip. “And my shirt got wet.”
She blinks rapidly, as if waking up, and gestures to the coffeepot. “Would you like coffee?”
“Already had some. Thanks, though.” I lean against the wall, watching as color floods her cheeks. Is she flustered because of me? If this buzz of attraction is mutual, then I might have a fantastic proposition for her.
“Don’t you have work?” She steps past me into the kitchen, grabs a kitchen towel, and wipes away at nothing while still holding that coffee mug in one hand.
“No. Like I told you yesterday, I worked the weekend and didn’t schedule any surgeries today. You said you were coming to visit. I’ll go in this afternoon to check on a few patients who are recovering.” Her attention remains on the dish towel. “I’m going to go shower.”
She nods, and her hand stills.
I force myself down the hall, leaving her to her thoughts and whatever flustered her.
In the shower, I lather up with the minty body soap she brought and afterwards apply a woodsy smelling lotion. If I stink now, it’ll be her fault.
But what did that blush mean? Was it a blush? Her cheeks bore as much color as on New Year’s. We’d been dancing then, both of us hot and sweaty. But that kiss had been some kind of hot, too. I’d brushed it off as a New Year’s one-off. Assumed she didn’t think twice about it. That it had meant more to me because she’d always played a starring role in my fantasies.
And yeah, that had to have been it. Sunny Turner isn’t interested in me. She probably didn’t feel comfortable with a smelly, half-naked man in the kitchen. Discomfort doesn’t equal attraction.
Oliver mentioned a few years ago that he thought Sunny still wasn’t over Sam. The fact she refuses to be in the same room with him lends credence to his theory. Mom’s hinted that she shares Ollie’s theory.
Her heart might belong to my older brother, but her attention definitely focused on my body. In biology classes, they cover attraction in medical terms. While literature describes it as a force akin to gravity, science explains it as an increased blood flow to the ventral segmental area of the brain, or the VTA. When ignited, the VTA produces dopamine, also known as the “feel good” neurotransmitter.
I don’t require a brain scan to confirm my attraction to Sunny. She’s the first girl I jerked off to. Yet another piece of personal history I plan to take to my grave. But now, so many years later, is it possible my presence is igniting her VTA? Probably not, but all things considered, the question warrants an observational test.
I wrap a white towel around my waist, brush my teeth, and run a comb through my wet hair. My wet hair looks like I applied too much hair gel, so I grab a towel, run it vigorously over my head, then use my fingers to put it back into a semblance of order. Then I exit the bathroom and cross the hall to the guest room.
She sits on the narrow twin bed with a magazine spread out. Those blue eyes travel from my face to my chest, then dive a little lower.Interesting.
“Can I take you out to breakfast? It’s Monday morning, so my favorite place won’t be packed.”
“Sure.”
I stroll over, mindful of the wrapped towel, and sit near her. The mattress sinks with my weight, and her torso leans in my direction. I could be mistaken, but I suspect her chest is rising and falling more rapidly. A light glow of color blossoms across her cheeks.
“What’re you doing in here?”
“Just reading.”
“About?”
She closes the magazine, and those blue eyes settle on my abdomen. “How do you have time to work out?”
