3. Athena #2
My cheeks heat immediately. I swallow and force a small laugh that doesn’t feel convincing. “I’m fairly sure your son would disagree with that assessment.”
Nathan sighs. “My son makes a lot of mistakes.”
“And I clearly was one of them.”
He pushes away from the wall and strides toward me, the confidence in the movement making my pulse pick up in a moment of panic. I stay seated on the edge of the bed while he stops a few feet away.
“You were never a mistake,” he says.
I shake my head. “You’re being kind.”
“I’m being honest.”
His eyes drop briefly to my hands then back to my face.
“I saw you this morning in the hallway outside the pediatric wing,” he continues. “You were explaining an IV pump to a frightened six year old like it was the most important conversation in the world.”
“That’s my job.”
“You’re very good at it.”
Compliments from Nathan Clarke don’t arrive lightly. They also do dangerous things to my nervous system.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He watches me for another moment before speaking again. “So, my phone got this message from you.”
The air leaves my lungs slowly while the humiliation I’ve been trying to suppress all morning surges back to life. “Oh god,” I mutter, pressing my hands over my face.
“Athena.”
“I am so sorry,” I say quickly. “That was not meant for you. I was drunk and angry and my life was falling apart and I clearly should never be allowed near a smartphone again.”
Nathan moves a little closer. “I know it wasn’t meant for me.”
I bite down on my lower lip to keep myself from screaming and look up at him reluctantly. “Then please forget you saw it.”
He shakes his head once. “I can’t.”
My heart stutters as I consider what he just said. “You should,” I say weakly.
“I should,” he agrees. His voice drops slightly. “But I won’t. In fact, it’s all I’ve been thinking about while waiting for you.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. “Why are you telling me this?”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “Because it forced me to admit something I’ve been ignoring for a long time.”
My pulse stutters. Of course it does. He says it in that maddeningly level voice, like he isn’t standing there dropping matches into a room already soaked in gasoline.
For one ridiculous second all I can think is this is it, this is the moment some buried, humiliating fantasy claws its way into daylight and smiles at me.
My breath catches slightly. “And what is that?”
His expression barely shifts, but something in his eyes deepens, darkens. “That I’ve wanted you since the first day you walked into my department.”
The words hit low and hot.
For a second I just stare at him, because surely my brain has snapped clean in half and built this man out of bad judgment and wish fulfillment.
Since the first day? Since the first day I showed up in my neat little scrubs pretending I was calm while secretly noticing every inch of him—the broad chest under his coat, the roughness in his voice after a twelve-hour shift, the impossible steadiness of those hands? Since then?
I stare at him. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
My mouth goes dry. He still hasn’t looked away.
That almost undoes me more than the words themselves, the fact that he’s letting me see this, really see it, instead of dressing it up in politeness and restraint.
I can feel heat rising under my skin, sharp and embarrassing and impossible to hide.
Part of me wants to step back. The other part—the louder, more dangerous part—wants to cross the distance and find out if he kisses as thoroughly as he looks.
“You’re my boss.”
“Yes.”
“You’re my ex-boyfriend’s father.”
“Yes.”
“You’re twice my age.”
“Not quite,” he replies calmly.
The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself, because it’s so typical of him that’s what he corrects.
Of course this infuriating man hears a whole list of reasons why we should absolutely not be standing here having this conversation and decides to quibble with the math.
My heart is pounding hard enough to make me lightheaded.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“I’m aware.”
His hand settles at my waist then, not roughly, not even possessively at first, just firmly enough to make my whole body go alert.
Every nerve in me seems to wake at once.
He doesn’t pull me in immediately. He just leaves it there, thumb resting at the curve of my side like he knows exactly what that small contact is doing to me.
God.
This is what I wanted.
The thought flashes through me so suddenly I almost flinch from it.
Not wanted in some vague, harmless little daydream way.
Wanted like this. Cornered by his attention.
Seen through. Held in place by a man who has spent far too long pretending he didn’t feel the same electric thing every time I walked into a room.
He watches my face as if he can hear every reckless thought.
“I can practically see you arguing with yourself,” he says.
“That’s because I am.”
“Who’s winning?”
I let out a shaky breath that almost becomes a laugh. “Unfortunately, not my judgment.”
That does something to his mouth, not quite a smile, something lower and rougher than that. His fingers tighten slightly at my waist, and the tiny movement sends heat skating through me.
“I should go,” I say, and I don’t move.
“You should.”
I hate how much that answer affects me. No chase. No pressure. No easy excuse to blame this on him. He leaves the choice with me, and somehow that feels more intimate than if he’d backed me against the wall and kissed the sense out of me.
Instead he just stands there, close enough that I can smell him, clean soap and starch and something darker underneath, and I realize with a small internal collapse that if I leave now I will think about this moment for the rest of my life.
My hand lifts before I can talk myself out of it. My fingertips brush his tie then flatten against his chest. Solid. Warm. Very, very real.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
I swallow. “You wanted me all this time?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
A pause.
“Because wanting you and acting on it are not the same thing.”
Not a game, then. Not some impulsive indulgence. He held the line because he thought he had to, because there were rules and consequences and lines decent men did not cross no matter how badly they wanted to.
I glance down, smoothing my hand once over his shirt as if that will steady me. If anything, feeling the heat of him under the fabric makes it worse.
“I used to think about you,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
His hand at my waist goes still.
My face burns. “Which is humiliating, so ideally that confession dies here.”
His voice drops. “Athena.”
I look up.
“What did you think about?”
There should be laws against the way he asks that, like he already knows the answer will ruin us both and he wants it anyway.
I laugh once, breathless and nervous. “You really want me to say it?”
“Yes.”
I should keep one shred of self-preservation. Instead I hear myself say, “I thought about what it would be like if you ever stopped looking at me like you had to be careful.”
His gaze darkens.
“I thought about you touching me,” I continue, because apparently once I start destroying my own composure I prefer to be thorough. “I thought about what your hands would feel like. I thought about what kind of man stays that controlled all the time and what happens when he finally isn’t.”
His exhale is slow and measured, which only makes it hotter, because it tells me he is still trying—still making some last effort to hold himself together while I stand here confessing years’ worth of extremely inadvisable thoughts.
“Oh my god,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “This is actually happening.”
His other hand comes up, knuckles brushing lightly along my jaw before his palm cups the side of my face. The tenderness of it nearly wrecks me. I was prepared for hunger. I was not prepared for care.
“This is what you wanted?” he asks quietly.
The honesty rises in me before I can tame it. “For a very long time.”
Something in his expression gives then, some final restraint loosening under the surface.
“You could have said something,” I whisper then immediately shake my head. “No, that’s unfair. I know why you didn’t.”
“It would have been reckless.”
His thumb drifts once over my cheekbone, and my whole body leans into the touch before I can stop it. “Then why now?” I manage to ask.
He holds my gaze for a long moment, and when he answers his voice has gone deeper, roughened around the edges.
“Because I’m tired of standing in front of you and pretending I don’t think about you when I shouldn’t.
” His hand slides from my face to the back of my neck, slow and sure.
“I’m tired of watching you settle for boys who don’t know what to do with a woman like you.
” His eyes move over my face with unbearable focus.
“And I’m tired of imagining how you’d look if I finally put my hands on you and showed you the difference. ”
A shiver runs straight through me.
My lips part. “Nathan—”
“No.” He steps closer, just enough that my back nearly brushes the wall behind me. “You asked me why now.” His voice lowers further. “Now because if I wait any longer, I’m going to start resenting every second I spent pretending this was nothing.”
Heat blooms low in my stomach, thick and dizzying.
I can barely think. Every fantasy I ever had about him was vivid, yes, but none of them got these particular details right: the way he doesn’t rush.
The way he uses restraint like foreplay.
The way he says things that make my knees weak while barely moving at all.
I wet my lips. “And what exactly is the difference?”
His gaze drops to my mouth again. “You really want me to answer that?”
My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to. “I really want you to.”
His hand tightens at the back of my neck, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold my attention exactly where he wants it.