8. Gemma
Chapter eight
Gemma
Rule #5: You're not my doctor.
A net of spikes had wrapped itself around my insides, squeezing the life out of me. White-hot, serrated pain sliced through my lower abdomen, and a sheen of sweat crested my upper lip as I stumbled down the bright street. It was cold for once, and the wind chilled the perspiration on my neck and face as I struggled to put distance between me and the building. How was I supposed to fall apart if I was sharing an apartment with Robot Boy and his Bruce Wayne look-alike BFF? They had both been all shiny and muscley after working out, but all I wanted was to crumble under my pain like a ball of tin foil. I didn't need an audience for that.
Mini wanted to run, but I could barely keep up. My ankle grazed the curb, and I wished there was a sidewalk here. But this part of the street opened up to an industrial area with a few abandoned warehouses and some overgrown lots. Another cramp seized me, and I gave up. I curled into a ball and hugged my shins, burying my face in my knees and willing the menstrual pain to go away. The first two days were the worst. I just had to get through today and tomorrow and then I could use heat packs and acetaminophen to get me through the rest of it.
Mini bounced in circles around me, and then she quieted down, sniffing me before coming to sit at my side and lean her weight against me. Her warmth was comforting, so I reached out and pulled her into a much-needed hug. She let me hang onto her, sitting strong as I pulled her to me and leaned my face against her soft coat. "Mini," I groaned.
She grumbled, reaching over to lick at my forearm. Of all the crazy things I'd done, adopting Mini from a Doberman rescue operation had definitely been the best. I'd made friends with Ruth right out of college, but my family life had been a mess. So, despite having a solid bestie, I'd always craved touch and love in stupid quantities. It had been a gut instinct to adopt Mini, and she had been there for me during my loneliest moments. I'd had no idea how important Mini would become to my sanity, but that's what she was now. She was my lifeline, and I hung onto her when I was sinking.
My phone chimed, and I dragged it out of my hoodie pocket with shaking fingers. It was the portable game app that I'd downloaded for messaging. Handy when I had to leave a game or message a party group away from my computer.
Emmaculate94:
Hey, did u lose connection? Your char froze n then u died. I tried 2 help but u weren't moving.
GemsNLace178576:
Yeah sorry, had to take the pup out. She waits for no man.
Emmaculate94:
Lol oh ok. I have bookclub so I'll see u ig tomorrow.
GemsNLace178576:
What book? Romance?
Emmaculate94:
Obv. Chase Me, Daddy Gray.
GemsNLace178576:
I knew I liked you.
The sound of running feet drew my attention, and I picked up my head. "No," I moaned. "Not people. I can't do people, Mini." She whined like she agreed. The sound was coming from behind me, so I hazarded a peek over my shoulder. It was so much worse than just "people." It was Rook. "Ah fuck," I hissed. I tightened the laces of my boot, trying to play it off like I'd been tying my shoe.
When I stood stiffly, he came to a stop a foot from me. His chest rose and fell a little faster, and his wheat-blond hair looked a little ruffled, but otherwise, he looked perfectly composed as always. He'd traded his sweat-soaked shirt for a long-sleeved Henley, but he still wore the same shorts he'd had on when I'd left. When he gave me a sweeping once-over, I knew he was looking for a reason I might have been hurt. How had he known, though? "What happened?" he asked.
"Nothing," I answered quickly. "I was just tying my shoe."
"For ten minutes?" he asked with an eyebrow quirk. Ah. So, he had seen me from the window and then booked it down here to make sure I wasn't dying, most likely.
I clicked my tongue. "Tricky buggers, shoelaces."
Rook looked unconvinced. "I know we're basically strangers—"
"Yeah, I probably shouldn't even be talking to you," I said deadpan.
"—but you can trust me," Rook continued, ignoring my oozing sarcasm. "Are you lightheaded? You look pale."
I was lightheaded. And nauseated. And bleeding to death. But who was counting? "I guess so. I'll go drink some water." Unable to help it any longer, I wrapped an arm around my middle and winced. There were definitely twelve washerwomen in my womb wringing out every ounce of bleeding tissue I had in there. I felt like an abused sponge.
Rook diverted his attention to my midsection. "Is it stomach pain or cramps?"
I sighed disgustedly. Of course. He was an OB/GYN. I'd have better luck hiding crack from a drug dog. "Fine, it's cramps. It's not a big deal."
"Depends on the cramps. Walking is good, but sometimes if they're painful enough, you're just going to make yourself miserable."
"I do not need you to mansp—"
"Do not throw the 'mansplain' term at me," he replied briskly. "I'm not man explaining anything to you. I'm an MD with years of experience in female anatomy and treatment. I'll try a different tactic. Get your ass back to the house if you're in so much pain that you have to stop in the middle of the road."
I stared at him in surprise. Guys never talked to me this way. They were always syrupy or hesitant to say the wrong thing. Rook took my stubborn pride and colored all over it with a black permanent marker like an indignant preschooler. He did not give a fuck, and because it was kind of refreshing, I folded like a well-used Venetian blind. "Okay."
"Do you need help?" He asked it like a flight attendant, so I shook my head and made my way back to the building. I hadn't wanted to drag myself out of my chair in the first place, but it wasn't like I had any privacy in that apartment. It was only day two, and already, I was over it.
He took Mini's leash from me, and without another word, he walked her to the left through an abandoned lot, let her do her business, and then jogged around with her, letting her jump and leap the way she'd wanted to. That kind of made me feel crappy—she was my dog, and sometimes, I was too out of commission to run around with her. But she seemed happy to run with him, and I had to take a mental snapshot of them. Stoic Rook, straight-faced and somber like he was performing a hysterectomy while running alongside the world's happiest but intimidating dog. It made them an oddly perfect match.
When we got back into the apartment, I headed straight for the couch, but Rook pointed to his bedroom. "In bed."
My lip curled. "Your bed?"
"Yes, my bed. Is there something about me that you find so repulsive that you can't go lie down in my bed?" He blocked my path to the couch like a concrete wall.
I peered up at him, arms folded tightly over my middle and my insides screaming. "Is this where you make a joke about women usually loving your bed?"
He blinked. "Is this where you ask me how many women have been in it?"
"Egh," I pulled a face. "Never mind. I'll just… pretend it's a hotel bed."
"Those are so much dirtier," he pointed out.
"Shut up. Please. I'm begging you." I shuffled past the kitchen and dining room, through the living room, and into his spacious bedroom. All those windows let in so much light, it almost felt like being outside. But now that it wasn't "show worthy," I saw the evidence of Rook's slightly disheveled lifestyle. His sweaty shirt had been thrown next to the hamper, he had a basket of clean laundry unfolded on the black leather armchair by the window, and he kept pill bottles, books, water bottles, and haphazardly strewn chargers on his bedside tables. The man was a menace.
I tried to turn back around, but Rook was already in the doorway, stopping me with the sheer size of his body. It was only then I realized Rook had never touched me. Like… ever. When he had assumed I was an intruder, he had grabbed me, but that was the only time I could recall him intentionally making physical contact with me. Odd. Interesting. Was it on purpose or did he generally not touch people? If that was the case, how did he do his job?
My train of thought about Rook's behavior carried me to his bed and allowed me to overcome my discomfort at using his personal space. And then I was sliding under bleach-scented, white sheets, and my body was melting into a memory foam mattress, and… I sighed. Okay. This was nice. Part of my brain registered how intimate this was, to share his space and lie down in his bed that still smelled like him, even under the bleach and detergent. But the other part was so grateful to sleep on a bed instead of a couch that I silenced my reservations with a firm, internal snap.
Rook— Knox, I reminded myself—went into his bathroom and opened the mirror cabinet. "Have you taken pain relievers yet?"
"See, this is why I said 'mansplain,'" I replied with sleepy irritation. My eyes were already fighting a losing battle. I'd been up all night with painful cramps. "Of course. I've been rotating ibuprofen and acetaminophen in the highest doses I would dare to take."
"By 'highest doses,' you mean the correct doses, I hope." His voice had an echoey quality to it from inside his bathroom as he rummaged through his cabinet.
"Oh, totally," I murmured dryly. I definitely hadn't popped four pills instead of two. Considering the hell I went through every month, did it really matter if I rounded up?
When he returned to me, he had three pill bottles and a blue, electric heating pad in his hands. "Which did you take last?"
My ears and cheeks warmed. This couldn't be happening to me. It was bad enough to be on my period while sharing a house with a dude, but to have him help me was downright humiliating. "You know what," I said suddenly, my voice a touch too chipper. "I just decided—I think I'll go play Thornwind." I sat up, fighting against the tangle of sheets that had somehow snared me in their depths.
Knox leaned forward, blocking out the sunlight as he tossed the pill bottles onto the bed beside me. His hands caught the blankets on either side of my body, and then he pressed his weight into the mattress. The blankets sucked me down into the mattress, trapping me. The warmth from his arms radiated through the charcoal gray comforter, and suddenly, there was so much of him—his scent, his strong frame, his cerulean stare that speared me with its intensity. He angled his head, inches from my shocked expression. "Maybe you didn't hear me the first time. Stay in bed."
My heart squeezed, forcing the air from my lungs. For one long moment, I found myself fully captured by his nearness, but then I remembered where I was and who had me trapped between his strong, corded arms. The comforter had partially covered my chin and mouth, and I wriggled, trying to escape it. "Are you doing this because of the doctor thing?"
"I'm doing this because of the human thing." His eyes traveled all over my flaming face. "Wait, are you embarrassed right now?"
"What?" I challenged. "Women never get embarrassed in your practice? Of course, I'm embarrassed."
"You're not my patient, Gemma." He smiled with mild amusement, and my insides turned into molten lava cake. He had such a great smile. It softened his high cheekbones and sharp eyes. "You're my roommate. I can help my roommate, right?"
My mouth went dry. "I guess." I glanced at his arm, and before I could stop the projectile word vomit, I asked, "Why don't you ever touch me?"
"Touch you?" He considered the question, still trapping me firmly beneath the blankets. His warm breath tickled my hairline as he huffed. "I guess I don't touch people often in general."
"How do you do your job?" I wiggled again, trying to get my arms free.
He pressed me down tighter, still looking away in thought. "When I'm with patients, that's work, and I don't have a problem with it. Also, I wear gloves. In my personal life, I don't touch anyone I don't know or who I—" he paused. His eyes flitted down to mine. "Well. I have boundaries. That's all."
"Weird," I said ruthlessly.
It only made him smile again. "Sure. I'm the weird one here."
"I never said I wasn't weird." I sniffed. "You can let go. I'm sufficiently mollified now."
"You sure?" he asked seriously. "Because I was absolutely certain you were about to go lock yourself in the powder room."
I totally had been about to do that. "I am absolutely sure this whole thing is not normal. Get off me."
"Well, I've definitely never helped women with their periods before," he said with the same perfectly straight face. "But sure, make it weird." But he eased away from the mattress, loosening the blanket.
My face flamed. "You're making this worse. Stop saying the word 'period.'"
"Menstruation," he smirked.
I groaned, rolling over to press my face into the pillow. "I hate you."
"Do you know how many laboring women have said that to me? Here." He plugged the heating pad into the outlet above his nightstand and then pressed it to my stomach over the blankets. "Adjust it however you want. I'll get you some water, and you can take another acetaminophen."
"Nngrf," I grunted into the pillow.
"Stop being such a baby," he chided, but I heard the smile in his voice. "What kind of tea do you like?"
"Ew." I scrunched up my face and exposed one eye to glare at him. "Gross."
"Juvenile," he repeated. "I might have hot chocolate somewhere. Either way, if you're having severe cramps, then you need to relax, and warm drinks will help. It'll lessen the symptoms."
That made some sense. It was usually when I was at work or meeting new people that my cramps became unbearable. They were pretty bad anyway, but I'd gotten nervous meeting Spencer. The heating pad warmed my pelvis, and I sighed, already melting into the mattress. "You're not my doctor, and I still dislike you, for the record."
"Honestly, that sounds like an upgrade from hate, so we're getting somewhere." Knox left, and I reached over to where he'd left the pills. They wouldn't do much, but they were better than nothing. The heating pad was doing wonders, though. My eyes fell closed, blocking out the bright morning light, and the heavy tug of sleep submerged me into soothing darkness.
When I opened my eyes again, the light had shifted, and a muggy warmth permeated the air. I blinked groggily. Knox's bed was amazing. It was like sleeping on meringue, and I had no sense of how long I'd napped or if I'd even moved. Judging by the soreness in my hips and arms, I hadn't so much as twitched. I took stock of the rest of me—cramps, better. Pad and tampon combo, dubiously intact. Brain, confused. I looked around the room, and a modern, numberless clock told me it was just after one. I swung a look to the left and found the bathroom door open and emitting a heavy cloud of steam.
Knox walked out in a towel, drying off his hair and making all the toned muscles on his abdomen and along his arms do a tasty ripple thing. I pulled the blankets up to my chin and openly ogled. That man's body could make the Mojave Desert soaking wet. He pulled the towel off his head, and his eyes found me. He paused, stopping in the middle of the room and going still.
I didn't even bother to look embarrassed. "Is this going to be a habit? The naked strolling thing?"
"Are you going to eye fuck me every time I do it?" he asked smoothly.
I almost choked, but I managed to keep it together. "Probably."
"Then sure." He didn't even smile when he said it. He just turned and walked into his huge closet and shut the door. The more I interacted with Knox, the more I found that he was like one of those crazy creations on "Is It Cake?" He looked like a bowl of plain nacho chips on the outside, but on the inside, he was some kind of melty, fudgy, sex cake. It was maddeningly interesting.
While he was getting dressed, I forced myself out of the warm comfort of his bed and back through the living room to my half- bathroom sanctuary. I changed my tampon and pad, washed my hands, and then patted cold water on my face. When I looked in the mirror, I winced. My two little space buns had gotten mussed and looked more like mouse ears, and I'd managed to cry off some of my mascara at some point. Had I cried? I didn't remember doing that. Then my stomach grumbled, and I had an intense craving for fried chicken and potato salad out of nowhere. Food. I needed food.
When I got out of the powder room, Knox was already in the kitchen. As I joined him, I took in the tidy sweep of his wet, blond hair, the fresh shave across his jaw, and the relaxed fit of his soft navy T-shirt and sweatpants. He looked… good. Really good. Never mind. He's not a bowl of tortilla chips. He's always been a fudge cake. You just weren't paying attention, batter-brain.
He glanced at me as he spread mustard on a spinach wrap. He went still again, taking in my appearance with swift passes over my face and down my crop top. "You look like a texel mouse."
I pulled up one side of my upper lip. "A what?"
"You know," he gestured to me with his knife. "Those goofy-looking mice with big ears and curly hair."
"Oh, well, as long as I'm goofy looking," I muttered.
"Humility won't kill you." He left the mustard-covered butter knife on the counter. On it, without a plate or a napkin or anything. What a fucking disaster. "But you do look less pale."
"I appreciate that. I think." I paused, and then added for good measure, "But you're not my doctor, so knock that shit off."
Knox chewed the inside of his cheek like he was biting back his words. Finally, he said, "If that's what you want."
"I'm just drawing boundaries. We have to have boundaries as roommates. You not being my doctor is definitely a must." I pulled the sleeves of my hoodie down over my hands and pulled myself into a ball on the barstool. My cramps were coming back, and I hated it. I hated that every one to three months, I had a dramatically bloody exorcism that put me out of commission. The only benefit to having endometriosis—if I could call it a benefit—was that I had irregular periods, so it wasn't every month.
Knox put shredded chicken in the center of two flat wraps. "What has your GYN said about your symptoms?"
I laid my cheek on my knees, watching him. "I don't know. They told me I had endometriosis and to take over-the-counter painkillers."
Knox leaned his hands on the counter and leveled a stern look my way. "You have endometriosis? When was the last time you saw your GYN?"
I pulled a face. "Only you would think I should see one regularly. It's not like they can do anything for me."
"Only you would dismiss management care. You probably don't get your teeth cleaned, either."
I ran my tongue over my teeth. "I floss sometimes." His shoulders hunched like I'd shot him with an arrow. "I'm joking," I assured him. "Have you seen my smile? I have a great smile."
Knox gave me another look, this time longer and filled with a quiet kind of heat that warmed my chest. He glanced back down. "Regardless, you need to make an appointment. We can prescribe you muscle relaxers and show you acupressure points to relieve some of the pain. There are things that help. But not if you ignore it."
"Hm." I wrapped my arms around my knees, still watching him. "Surprising to hear you care, Mister Let-Me-Just-Move-Out-Of-The-Way-While-This-Girl-Smashes-Into-A-Glass-Wall."
"Please, Gemma." He popped one eyebrow. "Mister Let-Me-Just-Move-Out-Of-The-Way-While-This-Girl-Smashes-Into-A-Glass-Wall was my grandfather. Call me Knox."
"I guess I can forgive you since you let me nap in your bed."
"It's yours," he said simply. "I should have given it to you initially." He sprinkled shredded cheese, lettuce, diced tomato, and then avocado into the wraps.
I frowned. "I'm not taking your bed, Knox. And despite what you think about me, I swear, I didn't come into this intending to make your life hell."
"I never thought you did," he replied placidly. He finished folding the wraps and cut them in half. "I was mad, but not necessarily at you."
I got off the stool and started to gather up the ingredients he had strewn around the counters. "I'm not sure how I feel about you being less robotic, Fudgecake. It's freaking me out."
"Fudgecake?" he asked with derision.
"It's an inside joke." I zipped the tortilla bag closed and piled the shredded cheese bag on top of it.
"With whom?"
"Myself, obviously." I waved him away dismissively and opened the fridge to neatly deposit the items where they belonged. "Anyway, thank you for helping me. I'm sorry we're stuck together, but I'll figure something out."
Knox came up behind me and reached his arm around my body to close the fridge with a crisp snap. My pulse sprinted, my body too aware of how near he was and how solid his arms felt on either side of me. Slowly, I turned in his arms, but he didn't remove his hands from the fridge. Those husky light eyes drilled straight into my soul. "Marry me, and we can fix this."
I seized up, and with a strangled voice, I choked out, "Ye Gods."
He gave me a dubious chin tilt. "I think you made that phrase up."
"I didn't," I squeezed out. "And stop saying that."
"Why? You don't like it?" Knox didn't let even a wisp of emotion show through his expression. But the heat in his eyes was unmistakable.
Holy shit, I thought with a dawning realization. This is Rook flirting. And he's good at it. Fuck me dead. I cleared my throat uneasily. "You're teasing me."
"Maybe."
"I'm not sure that's very cordial roommate behavior," I said primly.
"Well, I'm not sure I feel very cordial about my roommate." He lifted his eyebrows. "But that does beg the question—do we need ground rules?"
I could barely think, barely breathe with him this close. I could reach up on my tiptoes just a little bit and press my lips to his if I really wanted to. Which I didn't. Right? I tried to morph my gooey thoughts into something more concrete. "I think rules would be smart."
"Okay then." His eyes dipped down to my mouth and then back up. "Let's make rules."