Chapter Twenty-Six Vanya
Thank you, Vanya, for being the best doctor Jeremy could have.
The words echo in my head even after she walks away. I glance at Jeremy who is watching me intently. That familiar stab of guilt, however, barely registers. Because at the moment we aren’t a doctor and a patient, we’re two people who can’t seem to stop wanting to be together.
Would it be so bad to indulge that desire for one night? Would my ability to help him as his doctor suffer if we get this persistent attraction out of our system? Maybe it might even improve my ability to help him, right?
“You look like you need a drink. Or a cookie.” Jeremy expresses concern about my expression.
“No more cookies, thank you.”
He places a hand on my elbow to lead me to the back door that connects directly to the community center’s parking lot.
“Then let me take you out to a real dinner. We were too, um, busy to grab food earlier.”
“We were,” I agree, warming to the idea of spending time with Jeremy without fully facing the consequences of what we did in the locker room.
Consequences, Vanya? Is that what we call blow jobs now?
He walks me to my car.
“We could order food, or I could cook you something,” he offers and waits patiently for my response.
As if to answer for me, my stomach growls. With a tap on my car’s hood and a gorgeous smile, Jeremy acts like the decision is made. I nod because he’s right. I don’t want our time to end. Stomach growling aside, going home alone is unthinkable at the moment.
In his own car, Jeremy follows me to our street. The drive gives me time and privacy to reflect on the afternoon. This truly was the best Christmas I’ve ever had. The setting was unexpectedly warm for a simple community center. The people—the kids most of all—made me feel welcome. Like I belonged, instead of a person passing through Columbus for a one-and-done year. And then there’s Jeremy, so caring and thoughtful.
And so unbelievably hot.
I lick my lower lip, relishing the phantom taste of Jeremy’s orgasm, rich and manly. The memory of him caressing my head and daring me to take all of him ticks my heartbeat to sprint levels. To be on my knees for a man was not on today’s agenda, but should I even be surprised at this point?
I want to do things with Jeremy. Things like volunteer at a community center on Christmas Day or suck him dry in a locker room while Santa trousers pool over his feet.
You did both, Vanya.
Oh my god, where is my self-control? Minutes with Jeremy is all it takes to lose decency and sense. And now we agreed to dinner. Does he expect more after what we did in the locker room? Do I ?
As soon as he parks in his driveway, Jeremy jogs across the street where I’m still waiting for the garage door to open.
It should feel odd for Jeremy to open my door once I’m parked. It should be awkward to walk into the house together, like its ours . Yet there’s no weirdness. No hesitation. It’s the most natural thing in the world to spend time with a man who preoccupies my thoughts and seems to know my body better than I do.
I don’t realize my mistake until it’s too late.
In fact, I don’t realize my mistake until Jeremy’s jaw slackens. Following the path of his stare, I see the boudoir album opened at a photo of me looking at the camera while my arms are over my head. My full breasts are encased in red lace, dark hair strewn over silky cream sheets. It isn’t the most revealing picture in the book because you don’t see the curve of my hips or a deep cleavage, but my face reveals the playful sexiness I felt that day.
Ashley and I agreed to send each other one picture from our books. This is the one I sent her via text before I left the house.
I lunge to close the album, but there’s no beating the speed of an NHL goalie. He has it pressed against his chest, eyes bright with mischief.
“You weren’t supposed to see that!” I say while tugging at his forearms.
“I know, I know! For the record, I’m not looking at it unless you let me,” he promises. “But you’ve got to hear me out, Vanya.”
“Hear you out?” Laughter accompanies my question.
There’s something playful and intimate about Jeremy seeing my favorite picture. Not that I’m any kind of supermodel, but the photographer made me feel beautiful and free.
It occurs to me that’s exactly how Jeremy makes me feel. Beautiful and free.
“Christmas is a day of charity and goodwill. Letting me see these pictures is definitely a good deed.” The ridiculousness of his line of argument feeds my giddiness.
“I believe I have logged quite a few good deeds today, Jeremy,” I say with a barely restrained smile and one raised brow.
His eyes travel to my lips for a second before he continues the persuasion. “Can I just look at that one picture? Think of it as a gift to a friend who cooks for you.”
“I thought you wanted to cook for me.”
He blinks rapidly, like I hurt him. “Of course I do.” His voice is mired in regret. Regret slackens his grip.
I grab the album which he releases easily.
“I’m gonna put this away and you can decide if we should order in or defrost the sweet potato and bean casserole,” I announce from the hallway leading to my bedroom where this private album will be safely tucked away for my eyes only.
He makes a grumbling noise while heading to my kitchen. When I return, he’s poking his head in the fridge.
“Not much to work with here,” he says.
Jeremy opens a few cupboards till he finds the one that serves as a pantry. Holding up a sad box of penne, a can of diced tomatoes, and a dusty glass container of olives, Jeremy looks victorious.
“Those olives were there when I moved in,” I say, leaning against the counter and enjoying the view of Jeremy shoving his sleeves up to reveal sinewy forearms.
“Have a little faith. Magic’s about to happen here, Vanya.”
I bite back a laugh. “Magic pasta with old olives?”
He puts a hand over his heart. “They’re vintage, thank you very much.”
I cross my arms, curiously watching him rub his hands together like he’s preparing a five-course meal instead of some pantry improvisation. First, he gets water boiling for the pasta. Then, he finds a small onion that somehow escaped my grocery neglect, giving it a quick chop and throwing it into a pan with the last bit of olive oil I have left.
The onion starts to sizzle, filling the kitchen with a savory aroma. Jeremy glances over at me, a sly smile tugging at his lips.
“Don’t get too comfortable. I’m putting you to work as my sous chef.”
“At your service. But if it isn’t a salad or microwavable, you risk ruining a decent meal,” I warn, stepping closer.
“Let’s live on the edge,” he teases. Jeremy hands me a wooden spoon. “Stir the onions, please. Try not to burn it. I’m entrusting you with this critical task.”
I laugh, nudging him with my elbow when I take his place. I give the pot a stir. He moves behind me with slow intent, looking over my shoulder. I turn my head to find him staring at me with a sultry grin.
“Look at that form,” he says, although he’s looking at my lips and not at the pot.
I’m overwhelmed with the impulse to kiss him. But instead, I clear my throat and continue to stir.
“So, chef, what’s our next move?”
He opens the can of tomatoes and dramatically tosses them into the pan. They splatter a bit, but he dodges the splash with a wink.
“Now, we add… a mystery ingredient.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Is the mystery ingredient vintage olives?”
He gives me a look of exaggerated offense, then pulls out the olives, delicately sprinkling some on the pan. “You’re ruining the magic here, Vanya. It’s all about imagination.”
I can’t stop smiling, watching him cook as if he’s on some high stakes cooking show. He sprinkles salt and pepper with flair. After scrounging deeper in the cupboard, he’s rewarded with a container of dried herbs. Jeremy adds them liberally while I stir the concoction.
“Alright, taste test,” he announces. Jeremy grabs a teaspoon and scoops up some sauce. He holds it out for me. I lean in to wrap my lips around the utensil. Jeremy stares at me intently. His Adam’s apple, at my eye level, bobs erratically.
I make a sound of appreciation, because the sauce is surprisingly good.
“I’m impressed. Not bad at all.”
“Now it’s my turn to taste,” he declares confidently.
Instead of dipping the spoon for a taste, Jeremy kisses me. I’m surprised, at first. The delectable warmth of Jeremy’s taste mixes with the succulent herbs and caramelized onions in the sauce. He slides his tongue into my depths. The rush of pleasure overtakes my surprise.
We kiss passionately, my breasts rub against his sculpted chest. His hands wrap around to grab my bottom. His dick indents my stomach. Apparently, our time together can be sweet and friendly one moment, and fiery fervor the next.
Jeremy ends the kiss first, but his hands tighten around my hips. “I don’t want to stop, but I promised to feed you.”
“Technically you already did,” I say playfully.
His eyes flash with recognition of my joke. Before we throw all plans of dinner out with the empty can of tomatoes, I pull away.
“I’ll set the table while you bring the food over. Is that OK?”
He places a tender kiss on my nose before turning back to the stove. While grabbing the plates, I’m struck by how easy it is to be together.
Without constant reminders of my duties to my profession, my colleagues, my research agenda, it’s possible to focus on who is in front of me.
Jeremy. A man who takes my breath away and makes me laugh. With him, I exist in the now. I don’t have to prove myself as a worthy daughter or an exceptional doctor or a successful woman.
He desires me as I am. And although that’s not a sentiment I should get used to, it’s one I’m not so willing to give up just yet.