Chapter 25
The door slams and I wait for the tears to come. I wait to feel bad about what I said or did. I expect regret and remorse to consume me. I wonder when what he said will begin to bother me.
Instead…I get nothing.
The fire in my palm turns to ice.
I’m numb.
I’m a rock.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and looking back at me is a blank canvas. Nothing to connect to. Nothing to interpret. Absolutely zero symbolism in the curves of my face. If I was to say a pun about myself, I’d say, “‘Much ado about nothing.’”
This…is me.
As the days pass by back at work, the same four words continue on repeat in my mind.
I’m charting.
“I’m falling for you.”
I’m setting a bone.
“I’m falling for you.”
I’m eating lunch.
“I’m falling for you.”
I’m having a conversation with Prichard.
“I’m falling for you.”
Speak of the devil. I feel my mobile vibrate in my pocket while walking out of the post-op room where I was checking on a patient, whom I did a shoulder replacement on earlier this morning.
I answer my mobile and adjust the iPad chart in my hand. “Hello, this is Dr. Porter.”
“Indie…Prichard here. I just realised that I’m going to be in the OR for the next four hours with a double knee replacement.”
“Okay,” I reply, hearing the buzz of the OR behind him and realising he’s probably operating as we speak.
“That Harris footballer is coming in today for another MRI. I want to make sure his graft is looking perfect, so I’d like you to be the one to take him to radiology. Not an intern. Got it?”
My chest feels tight. “The radiologist will be doing the scan, so I don’t know why it matters who takes Mr. Harris to the room.”
“Indie,” he warns. “Harris is a VIP and I want you on it. We’re representing the hospital here. I shouldn’t have to explain myself.”
His tone is final, and I know I’ve already argued more than I ever would have regarding any other patient. “No problem, Dr. Prichard.”
“Cheers.”
He hangs up and leaves my stomach swirling. I knew Camden was coming in today because I can read a schedule. But my hope of avoiding him until his surgery was just thwarted by the man who’s supposed to be my mentor.
It’s been ten days since I screwed Camden Harris on that chair in my flat. That stupid, stupid chair. My stupid, stupid brain.
I thought I could fuck away the feeling. I only had intercourse a handful of times and I suddenly thought I could use it as a dagger through the heart? What’s wrong with me?
I’m not ready to see him. I can’t even cope with everything that was said between us that morning in my flat or the night before in my bed. Now I’m being forced to pull my big girl knickers on and face the man who touched me in a way no one ever has.
Bloody hell.
I hate sex!
And of course we had every kind of sex imaginable. Oral, slow, kinky, hard, tender. Earth-shattering. Then he had to add personal sentiments on top of that. Why? The words he spewed at me were so intense, my chest could hardly stand it.
What did he expect to happen? Did he think I’d drop everything and start up a relationship with him? My patient? Relationships for me are difficult enough when sex isn’t involved. I can barely keep up with Belle’s mood swings. Plus he’s so clearly on another level. It would be an utter disaster.
I’m not a footballer’s girlfriend. I’m a planner with goals. I make a course for myself and focus on the steps I need to get me there. I checked the Penis Number One box! This is why I never should have tolerated him pretending to be a number two.
The more I stew on it, the angrier I get. Camden veered completely off my course. He went rogue and didn’t give a damn what I wanted.
The worst part of all is that…I let him.
Just for a moment…I let go.
Guilt consumes me as I recall how I let him hold me—how I let the warmth of his body comfort me instead of terrify me.
I allowed myself to feel him, skin against skin, inside of me, and it didn’t send me into a panic like I thought it should have.
It felt…right. He whispered those words in my ears, and I closed my eyes and let myself believe them.
I let myself be a different person. I thought, just for the night, I could play the part.
I could feel cared for. Protected. Treasured.
Just for the night.
Then reality crept in with the morning sun.
It was as if I turned back into a pumpkin.
I lost it.
Like, completely lost it. I turned back into the self that craves space because she doesn’t know any different. The self that didn’t grow up cuddling with a mum in a rocking chair, or even holding her gran’s hand when she crossed the street.
I had to put a stop to what Camden and I were doing and give us both a strong dose of reality. He knew I had a plan, yet he tried to bulldoze himself right past it without a thought about what I needed. I wouldn’t be taken advantage of like that.
So now, here I sit, at the hospital—the place where it all began—trying to convince myself that what happened with Camden in my flat was nothing.
Maybe it was all a scheme. He’s a player after all.
He probably just wanted more sex. He hasn’t called or texted.
That has to mean something. Not to mention, there’s no way a man like Camden Harris—a football-playing, lady-chasing, vagina-ruining bloke—could fall for the awkward, introvert with intimacy issues.
End of.
This MRI today will be a piece of cake.
“Hiya there, Doc,” Tanner says brightly as I round the corner to the waiting room where the nurse told me Camden Harris is currently waiting.
I thought my stomach was going to drop when the nurse paged to tell me he arrived. But seeing him in the flesh, sitting right next to his grizzly bear of a brother, is a thousand times worse.
His blonde undercut is longer than the last time I saw him, but he has it lazily swept off to the side and it looks perfect in that unkempt sort of way.
He’s dressed in jersey shorts that reveal an ample amount of his muscular legs, black trainers, and a fitted blue T-shirt that makes his dark, smouldering blue eyes look positively dirty.
But there’s a hardness around the edges as he looks at me.
I swallow and adjust my canary-yellow glasses. “Hello, Tanner, nice to see you again. Camden,” I add, looking back at him and trying not to let my insides turn into pudding.
“Dr. Porter.” His voice is low and flat. Emotionless. And extremely formal.
Tanner leaps up out of his chair. “You’d be proud of our boy, Doc. He’s been doing two-a-day workouts all week.”
My brows lift as I watch Camden stand up slowly from his own chair, clearly much less enthusiastic than his brother.
Seeing the look of surprise in my eyes, Tanner adds quickly, “They’re all physical therapist approved exercises, don’t worry. He’s just a machine ready to get back out on the pitch. He’s probably worried I’ll steal his spot with the Gunners if he’s not careful.”
My jaw drops and I turn my wide eyes to Camden. “You got an offer from Arsenal?” I want to reach out and grab his arm, but I resist…barely.
His eyes narrow and he grinds through clenched teeth. “No.”
Tanner laughs. “I just meant his spot that’s coming to him. It’s only a matter of time.” He pats Camden’s stiff shoulder, frowning inquisitively at him.
“Just shut it, Tanner, will you?” Camden mutters.
Tanner looks even more confused.
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re doing well,” I add, trying to break the tension and gain control of the emotional torment I feel inside of me. Time to be a doctor, Indie. “Erm…if you’ll follow me, I can take you to radiology. Tanner, you can wait here if you’d like.”
“Sounds great. I’m sure I’ll find something to occupy myself with.” He winks at me playfully and flops back down in his chair.
I turn on my heel and grip the stethoscope around my neck so hard I think I’ll leave bruises. I hate that I reacted the way I did at the mention of the Gunners wanting Camden. If he did get an offer, it has nothing to do with me. I shouldn’t have to remind myself of that.
I can feel the heat of him behind me as I weave us down the corridors of the hospital toward the older part of the building that radiology occupies.
His mere presence brings back so many unwanted memories.
Hot memories. Sexual memories. Memories of passion…
Like the way he took me from behind in the Cry Room, the dirty words he said, the firm grip he had on my arse.
He carnally fucked me as if he was a slave to his passion and I was the desired craving.
Just thinking about it causes a stirring between my legs.
Feeling the deafening silence thickening, I slow down so he can walk beside me and ask in clipped tones, “So your physical therapy has been going well?”
I chance a glance at him, and his eyes narrow as he watches the air in front of us. “Very well. My knee feels fine.”
“Good. That’s good.”
More awkward silence.
“Be sure you don’t overdo it, though, all right?” I add as we turn another corner.
He cuts me a look. “What happens if I overdo it?”
My brows lift, extremely comfortable answering this type of question.
“Well, the graft only allows for the natural movements of everyday life. Things like running, walking, jogging, moving around in your home and work.” My cheeks heat as I think about the movements we did together in both of our homes and elsewhere.
“It can be pushed some, but not with the brute force involved in athletics. Twisting, pivoting, things that use the eccentricities of your knee’s full range of motion.
All those movements can injure the tendon the graft is attached to.
Just be careful you’re not pushing the boundaries. ”
He huffs out a laugh.
“What?”
He shakes his head.
“What?” I ask again, adjusting my glasses.
He stops so fast I have to turn and walk back to him. Glaring at me, he says, “I’m aware you don’t like boundaries pushed. I don’t need a reminder.”