10. Caroline
10
CAROLINE
I can’t sleep. Brock’s guest room is swanky, and the bed with the thick duvet is super comfortable, but I can’t seem to do anything but toss and turn.
It was absolutely adorable to see how nervous he was to have me in his home. And it was both surprising and a huge relief that he doesn’t normally have women stay here. But no matter how hard it is, I have to force myself to maintain some type of professional distance with him.
We’ve already crossed some boundaries. That can’t be undone, but I’ll do what I can to make sure no further breaches occur. My job is too important to me to risk it further by having an inappropriate relationship with a man who most likely merely views me as his latest conquest.
It’s obvious by the way he looks at me that he wants me, but I’m sure after I leave here tomorrow morning, he will move on to the next woman in line. I would love to believe that I am special to him, but handsome and athletic men––like Brock––are not known for their loyalty and commitment to one woman.
Stopping this insane, wildly inappropriate crush I have on him in its tracks is my only viable option.
My stomach lets out a loud rumble, reminding me that I scurried off to hide in this bedroom without having any dinner. After recovering from the life-threatening scare that I had in the pool, my body is ready for some comfort food, but it feels a bit pushy and presumptuous to sneak in and raid Brock’s kitchen.
Knowing that I’ll never get to sleep with an empty stomach, I mutter to myself that he did tell me to ‘make myself at home’ as I slip quietly out of my bedroom, intent on finding a snack.
Part of me is relieved that the living area of the house is dark, but there’s no denying the tiny surge of disappointment that lets me know that I was secretly hoping to run into Brock out here.
I use my phone’s flashlight to guide me. Even though I am intent on trekking to the kitchen, I am distracted by the bookshelves in the living room. I’d been so preoccupied by Brock’s nearness as he led me through the house earlier that I hadn’t taken note of the organized shelves brimming with books.
Unable to restrain myself from taking a peek at what he likes to read, I make a beeline for the built-in shelves. I’m pleasantly surprised to discover a well-rounded array of classics and current bestsellers. It’s obvious by his book collection that the man has diverse interests.
I’m inspecting a long row of beautiful, hardcover poetry books when I sense his presence in the room.
“Are you checking to see if they are just cardboard facades?” His voice sounds more rumbly than normal as he turns on the overhead lights.
After shutting off my phone’s light, I turn to face him, trying not to let my embarrassment show in my expression over being caught rifling through his personal collection of books. “No, I had the feeling there was more to you than just sticks and pucks.”
In a purposely slow voice, he responds, “Yes, Brock can read.”
The amused chuckle bursts out of me at his self-effacing humor. When my laughter subsides, I say, “I had no doubt about that, but I must admit, that I wouldn’t have guessed you to be a poetry aficionado.”
“Apparently, I’m full of surprises,” he responds with a knowing smile.
Nodding, I turn back to continue exploring his intriguing bookshelves. When I reach the end, shiny copper catches my eye. I’m unable to contain my delighted gasp when I realize what his bookend displays are. Turning to him with wide eyes, I ask, “You collect pennies?”
“I do. It was one of my first interests as a child, other than hockey. Since we didn’t have much money, I always searched through all of our change in the hopes that I would find a rare, collectible penny that was worth big bucks.” His eyes are alight with joy at the obviously fond memories of looking for hidden treasure in a seemingly worthless pile of coins.
“Did you ever find one that you were looking for?” I ask, truly interested in the answer.
“Nah,” he shakes his head and stares down at the ground. “But it kept me busy and hopeful to look for them.”
I nod my head, understanding that need to keep your eyes on the prize to stay motivated. I’d pushed myself through medical school with that same sort of optimistic determination.
Looking back up at me, he adds, “I’ve bought most of the ones I wanted from collectors, but it’s not quite the same as finding a really rare one out in the wild.”
“I get that. My grandma always gave me two-dollar bills in my birthday cards, and I was convinced that one of them would be my ticket to financial freedom. I’ve never been able to bring myself to spend any of them.”
It feels good to have something in common with him. Deciding to double down, I add, “I’m a bit of a penny collector myself.”
This revelation gets his attention. His eyes widen as he asks in a surprised tone, “Really?”
I nod in answer before continuing, “Yes, any time my family went on vacation, I used the touristy crank machine to stamp the location on a flattened penny. I have a whole display book of them representing all of my travels. It’s the perfect cheap, portable souvenir.”
His startled look, verging on disgust, is not at all the reaction I had expected from my personal story. He blinks several times as if he’s struggling to absorb what I have shared. Finally, he asks in a croaky voice, “You kill pennies?”
It dawns on me then why he looks so appalled. For a man who grew up cherishing and placing his hopes and dreams on pennies to find out that I smash them for fun is probably quite a shock.
Uncertain how to defend myself, I say, “Oh… Umm, yes… I guess I do. I truly never thought about it that way.”
“It seems like a doctor should know better,” he lightly chastises me, but I can see from the glint in his eyes that he’s teasing.
“I guess I should have,” I admit. After thinking it over for a moment, I say, “I’m in way too deep to stop collecting them now, but how about if I promise to check the pennies to make sure they aren’t rare before I stamp them?”
“Murder them,” he corrects me.
Just when I begin to think he might truly be angry with me, he begins chuckling.
Soon, we are both laughing at how ridiculously opposite our hobbies are. When our giggles subside, I find myself feeling comfortable enough with Brock to say, “This has been a stressful day––with me almost drowning and being accused of coin murder. Do you have any food in this joint?”
“Let’s go see what we can find,” he offers.
He takes my hand to lead me into the kitchen. I try, but fail, to ignore the zing of electricity that shoots up my arm at his touch.