CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Emery
I give myself one hour.
That’s it. One solid, focused hour to finish charting, finalize notes, and to send the last round of updates to coaches, management, and the PT team before I shut my laptop and do something wildly indulgent.
Like buy colorful throw pillows. Or a plant. Or maybe I’ll go wild and buy a few candles that smell like flowers and happiness and not antiseptic.
It is Saturday after all and while I love work, I also need to sort out the rest of my life here.
I sit cross-legged on the couch, tablet balanced on my knees, enjoying how the afternoon sun spills across my living room floor. My place is still painfully bare—even with the boxes I had here already unpacked and broken down flat on the floor by the door.
And those purchases I’ve been thinking about will happen today. Later. Soon. I just need to finish my work first.
“You’re always working, Emery. What happened to the fun-loving girl I fell in love with? I didn’t sign up for this kind of life. All work and no play,” Jared says, disdain—or is that disgust—edging his voice.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and bite back the contempt I feel. This will be the new complaint, now? That I work too much?
“My job is a lot. Do you think I love bringing work home? Of course, I don’t but I haven’t worked this hard to be half-assed on something. The hospital was slammed yesterday and it’s important that I finish—”
“Oh yes. Important this, important that. Who knew I was going to be married to someone so goddamn important, right, Dr. Porter?” He rolls his eyes and my gut churns.
“I’m running on fumes here,” I say as tears of frustration fill my eyes. The battle between fulfilling my dreams and goals and balancing the fragile ego I never realized Jared had is getting so fucking old.
“Fine. Run on fumes by yourself. I’m going out. I refuse to stick around here, waiting for crumbs from the illustrious Dr. Porter’s table.”
I shake the memory away.
How many times did I sit at home waiting for him to come home—or wondering if he would? How many nights did I blame myself for the strife in our relationship despite knowing how goddamn hard I was working to balance both sides of my life?
In the end, it didn’t matter. His inability to be happy for my success was our downfall.
Who I was becoming, the reputation I was making for myself, was benefiting us both, but all he could see was me trying to one-up him.
And in hindsight, I know it didn’t matter what I did or how I did it, Jared would have found fault with it.
Knock. Knock.
I freeze, the sound jarring me from my thoughts.
If I stay quiet, whoever it is won’t know I’m home. Because let’s face it, no one knocks on doors anymore without texting a heads-up. No one but people trying to sell shit. I almost ignore it and then hear, “Doc, it’s me.”
Lucas.
I move everything off my lap and when I open the door . . . I forget how breathing works.
He stands in my doorway with a towel wrapped low around his waist and soap everywhere.
In his hair.
On his shoulders.
Trailing down his chest in lazy, foamy rivulets like he got distracted mid-shower and decided to ruin my concentration instead.
His skin is flushed. Clean. Bare.
Very bare.
My brain short-circuits.
“Hey,” he says casually, like he isn’t standing there half-naked and dripping on my welcome mat. “I know I’m crossing several lines here, but . . . can I use your shower? Mine just”—he gestures vaguely over his shoulder—“stopped.”
I stare.
At the soap. At the towel. At the water droplets sliding down his stomach like they’re auditioning for something illegal.
Speak, Emery. Say something.
Word. Use words.
“You—” I clear my throat. “Your shower . . . stopped?”
“Yeah.” He grimaces as if I’m not standing here stuttering. “I was mid-lather when it died. Clearly a very tragic and untimely death.”
Tragic. That’s one word for it. Another would be catastrophic—to my synapses, which are not firing.
I step aside before my common sense can object. “Uh. Yeah. Sure. Bathroom’s down the—right there. Probably like yours is.”
“Thanks.” He smiles, completely unbothered, and steps inside like this is a total neighborly interaction.
It is not.
I close the door behind him and immediately regret every decision that led to this moment.
Especially the one where I watch him, his very nice back and even nicer ass, leave a trail of water and suds as he moves to my bathroom.
He closes the door and within seconds, I hear the shower turning on.
I sink back in the couch and stare straight ahead.
Do not imagine things, Em.
Do not imagine him without the towel.
Do not imagine steam or skin or being the bar of soap or—
I groan and scrub a hand over my face.
“You are losing it,” I mutter to an empty room. “Absolutely losing it.”
This is what happens when you work too much. When you don’t have a life outside of it. When the last time you explored anything new involved a bar, a bad decision, and waking up sick and scared.
Clearly, I need something more in my life than work and exercise if this is how I react to seeing a wet, toweled man.
But that man is . . . attractive. Sexy. Nice. Maybe a little dangerous.
My phone alerts a text.
Trish: Long time no talk. How’s work? Any sexy players I can look up and stalk for you?
I groan and toss my phone face-down on the couch beside me.
If only you knew, Trish.
The water shuts off and naturally, my pulse spikes. Here goes round two. Because it’s not like he brought any clothes with him so just a towel it will be.
Lucas emerges a few minutes later, towel still firmly in place. His hair is damp, but his body is dry and soap-free. He looks irritatingly relaxed.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Apparently, the plumbing issue that prevented you from moving in early is still an issue. Didn’t mean to interrupt your . . . whatever this is.” He gestures to the tablet and my notes strewn about.
“My thrilling Saturday plans of memorizing my patient notes?” I deadpan. “You’re forgiven.”
“You’re working today?”
“Yep.”
He frowns. “That’s criminal.”
I snort. “Says the man who I’m sure put in reps on the field this morning and who is now standing in my living room in a towel.”
He glances down at himself and shrugs. “Emergency circumstances.”
“Uh-huh.”
He leans against the counter like he belongs here, is fully dressed, and hasn’t just hijacked my thoughts and brought them to places they shouldn’t be. “C’mon, Doc. You need a day off.”
“I’m fine. It’s the end of week two, and I still have so much to figure out.” Wasn’t I just telling myself to stop working and leave the house?
“Liar.”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough,” he says easily. “You run when you hate it, you work when you shouldn’t, and you haven’t explored the city yet.”
“Says one Type A to another.”
“True, but still . . .”
Something tightens in my chest because he’s right.
“The last time I explored, I ended up drugged in a bar.”
His expression shifts instantly. “That wasn’t exploration. That was someone else trying to rob you of your free will.”
The knot under my breastbone loosens a fraction.
He straightens as if he just had an epiphany. “Come with me.”
“What?” I laugh out. “Where?”
“Anywhere.” He grins. “Flea market. Coffee shop. You said something about home décor before—so let’s do that. I’ll even pretend to care deeply about throw pillows or curtains or whatever it is you want to buy.”
I laugh despite myself. “Don’t you have other friends you need to drag around?”
“Nope.” He shrugs. “Haven’t made any that I know I want to hang around with just yet.”
“Says the man who willingly stands for hours after practice and rehab talking and listening to every player who approaches him. I don’t buy your story for a second.”
“At times. Other times not so much.” He shrugs and clearly lies. “Sometimes mixing friends with business doesn’t always work.”
“Except for me.”
“There’s always an exception.” He resecures the tail of his towel into his waistband. “Besides, it’ll be nice spending some time with you when you’re not panting and cursing exercise.”
“Rude.”
“But accurate.”
I chew on my lip as if there really is a choice. My tablet is already half-forgotten.
“Fine,” I say finally. “But I need a minute to look more . . . presentable.”
He tilts his head. “What’s wrong with that?” He gestures to my leggings and oversized tee.
I roll my eyes, pointing to his towel. “About the same thing that’s wrong with wearing that out.”
“I’ll wear just the towel if you wear that. It’ll save us the time to change.” His eyes and smirk meet mine in challenge.
“Give me ten minutes.”
“Five,” he counters.
“Ten.”
“Seven.”
“Lucas—”
He laughs. “Ready. Set. Go.”
He goes back to his apartment, and I retreat to my bedroom, but my heart is racing, and I’m smiling like an idiot.
When I open my door—hair done, outfit changed, a touch of makeup on—he’s in the hallway, fully dressed waiting for me like this was always the plan.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod.
And for the first time in a long while, I shut the door behind me without thinking about everything I still need to do.
Just about where we’re going.
And who I’m with.