Chapter 11 #3
He glances around, suddenly looking like he’s not acting anymore. “I can’t escape you in this elevator, but worse, I can’t escape my own solitude with you so permanently etched inside my thoughts.”
He winks at me, stalking toward me like I’m his captive.
Then his furious persona crashes down, a gentle hand extending to tuck in a stray hair behind my ear.
My pulse throbs.
“So what should I do to punish you for your crimes?” he says, leading my hand above my head, and then high-fiving it loud enough to make it sound like we just slammed into each other.
God save his future wife.
“I did theater in high school,” he whispers into my ear. His breath coasts along my neck, making me shiver. “Am I doing a good job?”
At driving me mad? Absolutely.
My thoughts are dizzying.
“Yeah,” I whisper to him. This elevator feels suffocating, stuffy. “I don’t think David is capable of more than two sentences of declarations, much less pulling that off.”
Kane dips his head into the crook of my shoulder to suppress his laugh.
“Well, you know what they say,” I say, “the enemy of good enough is better. Why wait to get to a better venue than here?”
His eyes twinkle, craning his neck to whisper in my ear. “If you ever try to drag hospital talk into the bedroom, your future husband is going to—”
“Try for five?” I ask sweetly.
The distant sounds of coughing make me smile bigger.
“Percy,” Kane chokes out, low and stuttering. “Who has ever had five—”
“Not you, evidently,” I murmur back, and he looks like he’s about to laugh again. “Besides, Esther said that her max with her husband is ten—”
“Ten,” he coughs, “can that man walk?”
“Kane Goodyear,” I say loudly, “between the two of us, that’s a very reasonable three for me and two for you.”
“How selfish of you,” he says, moving our combined hands so that he’s holding my hand like he’s about to shake it. He brings it to his lips.
“Can I?” he whispers.
I nod, and he presses his lips to it, first kissing gently, then loudly.
It’s sweet, and then so wet, loud, and ridiculous, I step closer to him.
“We can do better,” I tell him, and then reach for his head. He lets me trail my fingers up his neck, tilting his head down while my chin moves up. The hand connected to mine squeezes, and I squeeze back.
He dips down, gently, and his lips press into mine.
Soft as a feather, my heart trembling, he teases me like we’re still having a conversation, timid enough that I can pull back at any moment.
I press in harder.
He groans, the raw, masculine sound making my core heat, and yanks me closer into him. He savors me, dipping his body closer, molding himself to me while he attacks me with his lips.
Flames lick up my body as his other arm connects me to him, kisses finding my neck, my collarbone, the hollow of my throat.
Then he spins us around, me crashing into him, and I feel like I’m on fire as I devour him with my mouth.
The call room door clatters open, and Calypso and David storm out, grumbling something that sounds like “fucking whore,” and “rich fucking tramp.”
I step back, head swimming, while Kane’s pupils are blown wide.
He’s got a devil-may-care grin as he says, “Do you think he meant rich, fucking, tramp, like a series of adjectives to describe myself, or is the ‘rich-fucking’ tramp yourself?”
I can’t stop myself from laughing. “I claim the ‘rich-fucking’ tramp role,” I decide, “which makes you my ‘fucking whore.’”
“An honor,” he purrs.
Both of us are breathing heavy, mesmerized, blind to anything other than each other.
I hope David and Calypso feel unsatisfied, separated, and, most importantly, obsessed with what could have been.
A rattling groan shakes the shaft, and the mouse peeks its head out of the jacket.
Kane breaks eye contact to catch it. He slides the mouse into his back pocket, who squeaks in appreciation, and puts the jacket back on as we rumble to the first floor.
Voices mumble through the door as the rickety elevator shimmies back down.
We both look at the doors and back at each other.
“They might be out there,” he whispers.
“Well then,” I say, stepping closer and waiting for the doors to ding open.
“Pretend again?” I whisper as the button beeps.
The enemy of good is better in healthcare means that you shouldn’t torture yourself to find perfection when what you have is good enough.
It’s often said to surgical trainees that it’s better to suture quickly and well than to keep the patient under anesthesia longer than they have to, and that sometimes, what’s best for the patient is the best you can do at the moment.
The doors creak open.
Kane takes me in his arms.
He pulls me in for a kiss, twisting me around with dramatic flair just as the doors croak open.
His lips meet mine, for the first time with a public audience, and a voice that sounds suspiciously like my ex hisses and storms off.
And as he wraps me in his arms, I wonder, am I actually going to find anyone better than Kane Goodyear?
And did I ruin what we have by committing to a relationship that’s completely fake?
In dating, is the enemy of good, better, too?