Chapter 7
Stuart
The morning sun is barely over the horizon when I see Jonathan slipping out of Lottie's front door, his clothes wrinkled. I'm returning from my early run—a futile attempt to outrun the thoughts that have plagued me since the dinner party—and the sight stops me cold on the sidewalk.
Jonathan's attempting to be stealthy, closing Lottie's door carefully, but his satisfied expression gives everything away. His shirt is untucked on one side, his hair standing up at odd angles. He's carrying his shoes, walking barefoot across the dewy grass.
"Walk of shame?" I call out, my voice carrying across the quiet morning air with more venom than intended.
Jonathan freezes mid-step, then turns slowly to face me. There's no guilt in his expression, just a careful wariness mixed with something that might be pity. "Stuart."
"You slept with her." It's not a question.
The evidence is written all over him—mussed hair, that particular relaxed set to his shoulders, the way he's smiling like an idiot.
There's a lightness to his movements that I recognize from other mornings after his conquests, but this time it's different. This time it matters.
"I did."
The simple admission hits me hard. My hands clench into fists, nails digging into my palms hard enough to leave marks. The endorphins from my run evaporate instantly, replaced by something hot and violent.
"After everything we discussed yesterday? After you knew how I—" The words stick in my throat, unable to voice what we both know—that I'm completely fucked up over this woman.
"After you treated her like shit last night?" Jonathan's voice hardens, his usual easy-going nature replaced by something steelier. "After you dismissed her entire profession to your colleagues? After you made it crystal clear you weren't interested in her?"
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" He moves closer, and I can smell her on him—that lavender scent that's haunted me since our night together, mixed with something muskier.
Sex. He smells like sex and Claire. "You had your chance, Stuart.
Hell, you had multiple chances. But you chose your pride over her, every single time. "
"You're supposed to be my friend."
"I am your friend. Which is why I'm not going to watch you destroy something good because you're too scared to be vulnerable." He runs a hand through his already messy hair, and I notice scratch marks on his forearm. I clench my jaw. "She's incredible, Stuart. And if you can't see that—"
"I fucking know she's incredible," I snap, the words tearing from my throat like shrapnel. "I've known since that first night—" I stop, unable to voice how she made me feel things I've spent years avoiding, how she cracked through my carefully constructed walls without even trying.
"Then why?" Jonathan's expression softens slightly, genuine confusion replacing his defensiveness. "Why push her away?"
"Because I can't... I don't know how to do this.
To want someone this much. To need—" The admission sticks in my throat like broken glass.
"Trisha left because I couldn't give her what she needed emotionally.
She said I was cold, clinical, that I treated our marriage like a business arrangement.
What makes you think I could give Claire anything different? "
"Because Claire isn't Trisha. And because you're different with Claire—or you could be, if you'd let yourself." Jonathan sits on the low stone wall separating our properties, suddenly looking exhausted. "Do you know what she said about you last night?"
I don't want to know. But yet, I need to know. "What?"
"She said you make her feel alive in a way that scares her. That you challenge her, push her, make her want to be better." He meets my eyes. "She also said you hurt her more than her ex did, because with him, she expected disappointment. With you, she had hope."
The words gut me.
"It doesn't matter now, does it? You've already—"
"I've already what? Shown her she's desirable?
Made her feel valued? Given her the attention you've been withholding?
" Jonathan shakes his head. "She still wants you, you idiot. Even with everything, she still looks for you in every room she enters. When we were... together... she said your name. I don’t think she even knew she did it, but I heard her. "
The admission should comfort me, but it only intensifies the churning in my gut, the cocktail of jealousy, arousal, and self-loathing that's become my constant companion.
"And now she wants you too."
"Maybe. Or maybe she needs different things from different people." He pauses, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes. "Dane kissed her, you know. In the library. Two nights ago."
Another blow. Of course he did. "Naturally."
"We could share," Jonathan says carefully, testing the words. "You know Dane and I have before."
"I don't share." The words come out as a growl, something primal and possessive. "I'm not built that way."
"Then you're going to lose her completely.
Because Claire isn't the type to pine after someone who won't commit.
She's been through too much, given up too much already for a man who didn't value her.
" He stands, brushing off his jeans. "She's working on my shoulder at ten. Try not to be an ass to her this time."
He walks away, leaving me standing there in my sweat-soaked running clothes, fury and desperation warring inside of me.
I spend the next three hours in my office, attempting to review notes for next week's procedures. I have a complex tumor resection on Tuesday—a challenging case that would normally consume my complete attention. But I can’t stop thinking about Claire and Jonathan together.
Imagining what they did, how she sounded, how many times he made her come.
Did he make her laugh? Of course he did—Jonathan makes everyone laugh.
The thought of his hands where mine have been, his mouth tasting what I've tasted, makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
At ten o'clock, Claire arrives. I hear her voice in the foyer, professional but warm as she greets Jonathan. The sound sends an unwanted surge of possessiveness through me, my hands clenching on my desk until my knuckles turn white.
"How's the shoulder?" she asks, her voice carrying clearly.
"Better. Whatever you did yesterday really helped with the mobility."
"Good. We'll work on strengthening those external rotators today."
I force myself to stay in my office, but my concentration is shot. Every laugh that filters through the walls—and there are many—every moment of silence that could mean anything, drives me closer to the edge. I type the same sentence twice and have to delete it.
When I finally emerge for water—an excuse to walk past the gym—I find them in what appears to be an intimate stretch.
Claire is behind Jonathan, her body pressed against his back like before as she manipulates his arm, and they're both laughing at something.
She's wearing fitted athletic wear that showcases every curve, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail that exposes the elegant line of her neck.
They don't notice me at first, too caught up in their easy rapport. It's the casual intimacy that gets me—the way she touches him without hesitation, the way he leans into her presence like he has every right to be there. They're lovers now, comfortable with each other's bodies.
"That's perfect," she says, her hands adjusting his position. "Feel how that opens up the whole posterior chain?"
"I feel a lot of things," Jonathan replies, his voice carrying an undertone that makes my jaw clench.
"Stuart," Claire says when she spots me, immediately professional with a slight flush in her cheeks. "How are you?"
"Fine." The word comes out clipped, cold, nothing like the storm raging inside me.
"Is that so?" she asks, those green eyes seeing too much, cataloging my clenched jaw, rigid posture, the way my hands are fisted at my sides. "When's the last time you did some stress management?"
"I manage my stress perfectly well."
Jonathan snorts, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Right. That's why you've been rage-typing for the past three hours. I could hear you on the keyboard from downstairs."
"I've been working."
"You've been brooding," Dane corrects, appearing in the doorway. "The keyboard assault was audible from my room. I had to use noise-canceling headphones."
Claire looks between us, clearly sensing the tension thick enough to cut with a scalpel. "I should go. Jonathan, keep doing those exercises three times a day—"
"Stay for lunch," Dane suggests, his dark eyes knowing. "I'm ordering Thai from that place you mentioned you liked."
"I couldn't—"
"Please stay," Jonathan adds, sitting up and rolling his shoulder carefully. "Have you eaten anything yet today?"
His concern for her has me grinding my teeth. Why is it any of his fucking business if she’s eaten yet today?
She admits she hasn't eaten, and thirty minutes later we all end up around the dining table with various containers of Thai food spread between us.
The normalcy of it is torture—watching Jonathan and Claire's easy intimacy, catching Dane's knowing looks as he observes us all like we're characters in one of his novels.
"So, Claire," Dane says conversationally, serving himself pad Thai, "I've been thinking about your suggestion regarding meditation for creativity. You might be onto something."
She lights up, her entire face transforming with enthusiasm. "Really? Have you tried the technique I mentioned?"
"The body scan? Yes. It's surprisingly effective for getting unstuck with plot problems." He pauses, studying her. "Though I found myself distracted by... other thoughts."
There's something in his tone that makes Claire blush, her eyes darting to him then away. They share a moment of understanding that makes my stomach churn.
"Stuart, you're not eating," Claire observes, those observant eyes finding mine with laser focus.