Chapter 2
Connor Sinclair
A sapiosexual lost in a
lust fog unlike anything
he’s experienced before…
S apiosexual: (n)—a person who finds intelligence attractive or arousing…
I remember the exact moment I realized I was different than other teen boys. I was in the backseat of my mother’s car, on the way to wrestling practice during my freshman year of high school. She was listening to a podcast about the housing crisis. The host, a razor-sharp man with Ivy League credentials was interviewing his wife, an equally brilliant journalist specializing in economic policy.
Their vocabulary was extensive and their take on the subject matter compelling, but that wasn’t what caught my attention.
It was the way they parried back and forth, the speed and playfulness of their banter. They caught each other’s verbal volleys and returned them without hesitation, gently challenging each other’s assumptions and layering fresh understanding into their answers based on the feedback they received, allowing them to penetrate to deeper levels of comprehension than they could have alone.
Or if they’d been chatting with someone who didn’t match their intelligence…
As I listened to them speak, my pulse beat faster and my nerve endings buzzed. This interview about the housing crisis—something I couldn’t have cared less about as a fourteen-year-old—was doing things to me.
It was making me curious, alert, and a little…envious.
By the time we reached the gym, I’d realized why.
I wanted what the host and his wife had. I wanted to talk to someone like that, specifically, a girl someone. I wanted to delve into deep conversation with someone capable of keeping up with me, someone who wouldn’t trust that I knew what I was talking about simply because I’d always been the smartest kid in school. I wanted to dance the intellectual tango with a girl who liked getting into the scientific and philosophical weeds as much as I did, then take her out for ice cream and kiss her.
Even at fourteen, I understood there was an erotic element to my longing. By sixteen, I was frustratingly aware that I needed that mental connection to feel anything more than friendship for my date. It didn’t matter how beautiful she was, if she didn’t share my curiosity about the world, or needed me to define too many vocabulary words, I was out.
My friends were dumbfounded when I gently broke things off with Ginger, captain of the pom squad and a dead ringer for a young Britney Spears. When I tried to explain, they clearly didn’t get it.
Then someone—I suspect, Brian, an idiot we allowed to hang with our friend group because he had a hot tub—spread a rumor that I was gay. I found out about it when Ginger approached me after wrestling practice to sweetly tell me that she was an ally and that her feelings were much less hurt now that she knew I wasn’t “really into girls” after all.
Conflict avoider that I was back then, I weakly thanked her for being a good person and fled without denying or confirming her assertion.
From then on, most of the girls at school assumed I was batting for the other team.
Participating in a sport that involved rolling around on a mat half naked with other guys didn’t help “straighten” my reputation out any, either, but I wasn’t about to quit. I was on track to landing a wrestling scholarship, and there wasn’t anyone at Bad Dog High I wanted to date anyway. There were a few really intelligent girls in my AP classes, but they either weren’t my type or were already hooked up with someone else.
In college, I dated my fair share of women—even had a few serious relationships—but I never found the spark I was looking for. There was always something missing. Intelligence was key, but I was also a man who appreciated a sense of humor and a pretty face. It was a shallow aspect I was a little ashamed of, but human beings are hardwired to be attracted to symmetrical features.
It was science that beauty drew me in the way it did.
It wasn’t until after my senior year of college, when I was working part time at a lab in Minneapolis for the summer, that I finally had the chance to experience that electric volley of words and ideas for myself.
Coralee, a stunning redhead, worked at the station next to mine. One morning, she made a joke about the respiration of mealworms that destroyed me, and we launched into a twenty- minute discussion on evolving cultural perspectives on animal experimentation and whether a mealworm is capable of self-awareness or free will.
We fell hard and fast and spent the summer immersed in bacterial slides and each other. Luckily, we’d both been accepted into the same pre-med program in Iowa, so come August there was no need to say goodbye.
For the next four years, we were inseparable. We lived together, studied together, went to the gym together—she even changed her specialty so that we’d both be on track to being pediatricians. After school, our residencies took us to cities six hours apart, but we made it work.
We survived the trials of maintaining a long-distance relationship and were happily reunited in Minneapolis three years later, right back where we started. We worked at different private practices, but we were able to get our schedules synced so we had more time to spend together than ever before. The next three years passed in copacetic bliss.
Then, thanks to an inheritance from my grandmother, I had the chance to purchase a private practice in Bad Dog, my hometown. I was still young and relatively inexperienced, but felt confident that I could pull it off. Coralee supported me completely, thrilled that our dream was coming true a little earlier than we expected. We’d talked about opening a practice together someday dozens of times. The fact that we were making that happen in our early thirties was more evidence that we were meant for each other.
Together, we were unstoppable.
Almost two years into our successful transition to owning our own business, I proposed, and she said yes. (After teasing me about what had taken me so long.) We set about planning our wedding for the following spring and life was even better than ever. I was so happy, so smugly certain that I’d found my partner that I didn’t see trouble coming until it was too late.
By the time I realized Coralee was more than friends with the sculptor across the street from our office, she was pregnant with his child. She told me about the pregnancy over our twelfth anniversary dinner. She calmly explained that, for her, our connection had run its course, and promised she’d have her things moved out of the house and office by the end of the weekend.
She didn’t cry. Neither did I.
We didn’t shout or argue or fling insults at each other. I simply asked her why she wasn’t honest with me from the beginning, when she first started having feelings for someone else, and she said, “I don’t know, Connor. I guess sometimes even logical people do illogical things when it comes to love.”
Love…
Hearing her say the word in reference to someone else cut through me with a surgeon’s precision. She carved out my heart and left me sitting at the table alone with a happy anniversary dessert for two. I gave the cake to a teen couple sneaking cigarettes in the town square and went to stay with my parents until Coralee was finished moving out.
That was when the idea of Petey joining my practice was born. My mother insisted it would be perfect—Petey was only one year away from finishing his residency in pediatrics. I could hire a physician’s assistant to help me manage my patient load until then, and then he would step in to fill Coralee’s shoes.
But Petey could never fill Coralee’s shoes. Not in any way. Not as a business partner and sure as hell not as a physician.
My brother barely passed his courses in pre-med, slipped through med school by the skin of his teeth, and has already received two written warnings for negligence during his residency. He’s a nightmare with zero empathy for others, and I love my patients far too much to expose them to Dr. Petey Sinclair.
I told myself that’s why I sold the practice—without my help, my brother won’t be able to practice in our hometown, and the kids I care about will be safe—but that’s not the complete truth.
A part of me is desperate to get out of Bad Dog, away from my overbearing parents and the ghost of Coralee haunting our condo.
Getting away from the very alive Coralee currently wandering around town, hugely pregnant and glowing with love for her artist husband is also pretty high on my list.
Until tonight, I couldn’t wait to leave. The hours were dragging by with torturous lethargy.
Then, I ran into Wendy Ann McGuire, all grown up and as beautiful and brilliant as any woman I’ve ever met, and suddenly I’m wishing I had more time.
“Your move,” she says, her eyes glittering across the chessboard as she reaches for her glass of wine. “That is, of course, if you can find one that won’t lead to certain doom.”
I glance at the pieces but almost immediately find my gaze drifting back up to my date’s flushed cheeks.
Can this really be considered a date if all I did was kidnap her from a wedding, bring her home, and ply her with wine, cookies, and chess? Even if we end up sleeping together, this won’t really qualify as a “date.”
In the car on the way over, the possibility that we might not end up in bed never entered my mind, but once we arrived at my condo, she seemed nervous, her big blue eyes darting anxiously around the room as I led her into the kitchen and asked her what kind of wine she’d prefer.
She didn’t fully settle until I suggested a game of chess while we enjoyed our wine and maple cookies, but I understand cold feet. I almost proposed to Coralee ten times before I was finally ready to pop the question. One of the major drawbacks of having an active brain is the tendency to overthink things.
Sometimes, I actually envy my little brother’s impulsivity. Sure, it usually leads to chaos, but at least he gets things done…even if they’re the wrong things.
“Do you need a hint?” Wendy Ann asks. “There’s still one choice that won’t put you in checkmate.”
I shake my head, a smile curving my lips. “No, I don’t need a hint. I was just wondering if you’d like to go on a date with me tomorrow night.”
Her brows lift and some of the sparkle leaves her eyes.
I lift a hand, fingers spread. “Or not. No pressure. If you’re only up for tonight, that’s fine.”
“It’s not that.” She takes another sip of her wine, holding it in her mouth for a beat before she swallows. Then, she sets her glass carefully down on the table beside the board, sighing as she adds in a softer voice, “I just… I’m having a really wonderful time.”
Spirits lifting, I say, “Me, too.”
Her lashes flutter faster. “Like, really wonderful. Maybe…the best time I’ve ever had on a date.”
Spirits full on soaring now, I reach beneath the table, resting my hand on her knee. “Me, too. The second we started talking on the dock, I just… I’ve never felt this kind of instant connection.”
“Me, either,” she says, her mouth parting in a way that makes her plush bottom lip look even more kissable. “And I’d love to keep feeling it, but you’re leaving. What if two dates is too much?”
“In what way?” I ask, my skin tingling as she reaches beneath the table, twining her fingers through mine.
“Enough to make us sad,” she whispers.
I hold her gaze, reluctant to do anything to make this incredible woman sad, but also completely unwilling to let go of her hand. “Well, we could have a safe word, I guess. If one of us starts feeling sad, we say the word and end the date.”
Her lips twitch. “Aren’t safe words usually for kinkier things than dates?”
I smile. “Yes, I think so, but I’ve never used them in a kinky way before.” I reach under the table with my other hand, curling it around the back of her knee through the silky fabric of her dress. “I’m pretty boring in bed.”
She laughs and her eyes start to glitter again. “Is that right?”
I nod in mock seriousness. “Yes. Terribly boring. That’s why I have to ply women with cookies and wine before I try to kiss them, just to add a little excitement.”
“But you forget, I kissed you before I had wine or cookies,” she says, leaning across the board.
“I didn’t forget,” I murmur, mirroring her lean.
“So, I know you’re lying,” she says, her lids dropping to half-mast. “You’re a very exciting kisser. I especially liked it when you made a fist in my hair and pulled me against you like you couldn’t stand a sliver of space between us.”
Blood rushing faster, I murmur, “I can’t stand it. It’s fucking awful. I want you in my lap right now. Or, better yet, with your legs wrapped around my waist while I carry you to the bedroom.”
She bites her lip and a hint of anxiety flickers across her features again, but it’s gone by the time she says, “Okay, but don’t you dare disturb the board when you pick me up. I intend to finish kicking your ass in chess as soon as we’re done kissing.”
“You’re not going to kick my ass,” I say, smile stretching wide as I release her under the table and shove back my chair. “I’m going to have you in checkmate in three moves.”
“Lies,” she says, coming eagerly into my arms when I reach for her, scooping her up and guiding her legs around my waist. “I’m going to have you in two.”
“You’re going to have me right now,” I assure her, kissing her hard, moaning as her fingers fist in my hair, claiming me the way I claimed her by the lake. We kiss hard and deep, our teeth bumping together beneath the skin as our tongues stroke and spar.
“Better than cookies,” she says, nipping at my bottom lip.
I return the favor, my cock swelling thicker behind my fly as her thighs squeeze tighter around me. “And wine,” I agree. “Can I take you to bed, Wendy Ann McGuire, and show you what a fan I am of every single inch of you?”
Her hands leave my hair, stroking over my shoulders as she pulls back far enough for her gaze to lock with mine. “Yes,” she says, the hunger in her voice making my fingers dig deeper into the soft swells of her ass. “Our safe word is dark matter.”
“Perfect,” I murmur against her lips as she kisses me again.
And she is perfect.
The way she clings to me as I lay her down on my bed and lengthen myself over her gorgeous body, the way she sighs and shivers as I unzip her dress, the way she blushes once she’s wearing nothing but panties, gazing up at me with fascination as I unbutton my shirt…she’s a dream come to life.
A dream I wish I could keep dreaming for a hell of a lot longer than one or two nights…