Chapter 7 #2
“Here you go …” I say, my voice echoing down the hall. But as I turn the corner, I come to a full stop in the doorway. My mouth falls open, but words do not come out as I stare at Brooks. Oh, no.
He looks over his shoulder from his seat at the table, grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my chest rising and falling so fast that I’m dizzy.
“Just drinking my tea and waiting on you.”
My computer is in front of him. The screen is open, just as I left it before I went for my walk this afternoon, but he must have bumped or moved it, because it's bright and awake. And my Whimsy List shines from the screen in all its glory.
Crap.
I spring across the room and snap the lid shut. My face is on fire—heat rolling from my cheeks in thick waves, red enough to match his arm. I know he saw my list, and I’m certain he read it. And I’m even more certain that I just want to dissolve into the floor and become one with the earth.
“I just slid the computer back, and it turned on.” He shrugs innocently. “What’s a whimsy list?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“It’s fascinating,” he says, watching me intently. He’s either unable to read my reaction, or he’s reading it just fine and not caring that I’m toeing the edge of hysterics.
Gianna hasn’t seen that list. Astrid hasn’t either. No one knows about my curated secrets but me … and now the hottest guy I’ve ever known.
My eyes close, and I release a silent, internal wail.
“I’m assuming it’s yours,” he says, a tease to his tone that makes me want to punch him. “The pink font at the top was a dead giveaway.”
My eyes fling open, and I toss the cream and bandage box on the table. Then I turn toward the sink. “It’s nothing. Forget you ever saw it.”
“If you think that I can forget that you have orgasm with a man on a wish list, you’re out of your fucking mind.”
Kill me now. I consider how long it would take to run to the door, jump in my Jeep, and speed off the ranch. But I don’t know where my keys are, and I certainly have to take my computer with me. There are too many steps to pull it off quickly enough for him not to intervene.
“It’s complicated, okay?” I say, taking a deep breath and facing him.
He’s leaning back in his chair, wearing a cocky grin and still no shirt. “It’s really not that complicated. I can teach you, if you want.”
I grip the countertop behind me so tightly that my knuckles turn white. Yes, I want him to teach me. I’ve had several orgasms while thinking about him over the past few days. Having one with him would be a dream come true—but that’s not going to happen. Not after he knows how pathetic I am.
“Can you leave?” I ask.
“Sure.” He narrows his eyes, studying me. “But can I give you a piece of advice before I do?”
“Will it get you out of here faster?”
The seconds between us grow. The stillness sinks around us, and the silence softens the stress of the conversation. Brooks watches me without judgment or pity, just with patience. The quiet isn’t threatening or awkward. Surprisingly, I feel … safe. And with that sense of safety comes relief.
He grins softly. “Hesitation gets you hit, Doc.”
“What?” I ask, my brows pulling together.
“Boxers who overthink situations hesitate, and hesitation gets them hit.”
My pulse kicks into overdrive. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m just saying that if that list over there is yours, and it’s a list of stuff you want to do, then you should stop thinking about it and do it before it’s too late.” He shrugs. “Life has a way of smashing you in the face if you wait too long. And your nose is too cute to be broken.”
My lips press together, but his words infiltrate my brain anyway. You should stop thinking about it and do it before it’s too late.
This has been the weirdest day. Lunch alone in a new place, my surgical debut, and now discussing my deepest, darkest dreams with Brooks Dempsey? I don’t know how I got here.
But what I do know for sure is that my ribs feel cracked open, and the anxiety and uncertainty building inside me are pouring onto the floor and pooling at my feet. I knew it was time to make a change in my life. Now it feels destined.
“I may be having an existential crisis,” I say before I thoroughly consider sharing it with him.
“Is that a medical issue?”
Laughing softly, I grab the chair in front of me. “It’s more of an identity crisis with a dose of personal philosophical questions for fun.” My smile falters. “That probably sounds crazy.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, not really. I’ve looked around a time or two and wondered if I’m in the right place doing the right thing.”
“If you don’t want to be here, I’d be happy to escort you out.”
He chuckles, pointing a finger at me. “You’re not getting out of this that easy.”
The distinct sound of Hartley’s truck heading up the driveway does the work for me.
I sigh, a mixture of disappointment and relief, as it grows louder and effectively ends our conversation.
Brooks stands, takes a bandage out of the box, and then squirts some of the cream onto his cut.
I bite my lip and turn my head, unable to watch him tend to his wound.
“Thanks for helping me out today,” he says, tossing the tube on the table. He takes our empty glasses, rinses them quickly, and places them in the dishwasher.
“You can’t sue me if you have to get your arm amputated. And please, please get a tetanus shot.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He heads for the door—still shirtless—and seems to ignore my plea. He pauses with his hand on the handle and holds my gaze for a few moments. It’s as if he doesn’t know what to say and is struggling with words … just like me.
Finally, he gives me a smile that feels a lot like a hug that I desperately need. “Later, Doc.”
“Bye, Brooks.”
The door opens and closes before the sound of his boots rattle against the porch. I don’t look out the window like I want to. Instead, I wait by the sink for Hartley’s truck to roar to life. And when it does, I sag against the cabinets.
I have a lot to think about, and I have no idea where to start.