Chapter 4
Four
Lacey
Whenever I permitted myself to daydream about how that perfect man would walk into my life, it was always through the front door at The Chestnut.
I mean, it’s kind of romantic, right?
He’d come in, tired from traveling and looking for nothing more than a decent place to crash. Except, he’d open the door and spot me sitting at the desk, waiting for him, and suddenly, getting some sleep wouldn’t seem quite so urgent.
It was a daydream, though, not something I ever expected to really happen. Even if it did, my overactive imagination wouldn’t have conjured up a scenario where I got that fluttery, excited feeling for two men.
Two men who have unexpectedly reappeared in my life at the same time, and seem to have a history of their own, and a whole lot of tension that does not strike me as platonic.
You don’t look at someone that way unless you’ve seen them naked. You just don’t.
No sooner has the door closed behind Wells than August draws closer to the desk, offering me an apologetic grimace. There’s a brown paper bag clutched at his side. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Oh! It’s fine.” I wave him off, giving him my best casual customer service smile, the one that says: stuff like this happens all the time and you don't have to worry about it, but don’t forget to tip generously.
August is still frowning, though, and my heart flutters as he approaches the desk. “It’s not. I shouldn’t have…” He seems to shake himself, his bright hazel eyes on mine. “We were seeing each other for a while. Years ago, when I was in medical school.”
“Oh,” I say, a little lamely. It’s the best I can manage when blood is rushing to my face and I’m resisting the urge to crouch behind the desk to hide out there until both of them have gone home.
After seeing each of these men naked and having pretty darn incredible sex with both of them, this piece of information is doing things to me.
Confused, horny things that I’m kind of shocking myself with. I mean, who would have guessed the respectable, almost always professional manager of the local B this past summer, when Wells held my legs open with each of his enormous hands, and put his mouth—Okay, I need to go outside and sit in the snow to get myself calmed down.
“I honestly shouldn’t have done that,” I tell August with difficulty, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “You’re a guest. It was inappropriate.”
The doctor’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “Life is short,” he reminds me. “We should do what makes us happy, right?”
Before I can formulate a response to this, which isn’t blushing or spluttering, he chuckles, taking a step back toward the door. “You know, I think I will go have a word with Wells.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s… yes. Good.” I’m too flustered to speak in complete sentences, apparently.
With one last smile in my direction, I watch as Doctor August Vogel leaves The Chestnut, trying to talk down the swarm of butterflies that have recently taken flight in my belly.
The quiet noise of the door closing is followed, almost immediately, by the repeated thud of my head against the wall.