Chapter Seventeen Will
Chapter Seventeen
Will
“Morning, dear,” Liz says, pouring a cup of coffee when Everleigh opens the back door.
I keep my head ducked, filling my water bottle before my tai chi class. The sight of Everleigh in a tiny sports bra and even tinier shorts, skin glistening with sweat, is not what I need.
“Good morning,” Everleigh chirps on her way to the stairs.
“Coffee?” Liz asks her.
“No. I’m going to shower. That will wake me up. Then I’ll have a nappuccino after we look at properties.”
“Good idea,” Liz says.
The shred of self-preservation that still exists in my brain after spending the evening with Everleigh screams for me not to ask the obvious question.
“What’s a nappuccino?” I ask, losing that shred while I tighten my water bottle lid.
“Daniel Pink?” Liz eyes me.
I shake my head.
“Oh.” She takes a sip of her coffee before continuing.
“He’s an author. Anyway, in his book he mentions drinking caffeine right before taking a short nap.
The effect of the caffeine then kicks in at the end of the nap, and you get an extra boost from combining the nap with caffeine consumption.
Everleigh takes one every day. She schedules out time at work.
I think around one or two in the afternoon.
It’s such a smart idea.” Liz doesn’t question it for a second.
But I do. Who has time to schedule midday naps? Two-year-olds, not doctors with a practice to run and patients to see.
“So smart,” I mumble just as my phone rings. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“I think she’s gone.”
“Who’s gone?” I head upstairs to grab my wallet.
“Your mom. I think she left me for the baby’s real father.” His voice is weak.
“Dad, she’s—” Before I can say another word, Everleigh steps out of my bathroom, dripping water everywhere, towel around her naked body, hair lathered in shampoo.
Her eyes widen when they meet mine. I drop my gaze to her hand and my razor in it.
“Mom’s not pregnant. She had a hysterectomy,” I say to Dad.
“She didn’t have her breasts removed. They’re big as ever,” Dad says.
“My razor broke,” Everleigh whispers. “I’ll return yours when I’m done.”
When she tries to jump past me, I grab her wrist to stop her. “I didn’t say mastectomy, Dad. I said hysterectomy. She had her uterus removed. I’ll call you back in a couple of minutes.” I end the call. “What the hell?”
“I’ll just shave below my knees and return it as soon as I’m done. No armpits. No pubic hair. Not that I have that much, but I have a little landing strip.” She wrinkles her nose.
I glance at the wet carpet beneath her feet.
“You’re supposedly a doctor. How can you not know that sharing a razor is not recommended? It’s like having unprotected sex.”
“Will, the risk of blood-borne pathogen transmission is much lower than unprotected sex. And my shower is running.” She twists her wrist to wriggle out of my hold.
Then she prances on her tippy-toes to her bathroom and kicks the door behind her, but it doesn’t completely shut.
So when she drops her towel to the floor, I see her naked backside through the inch opening that might as well be a foot.
I look away and grab a towel from my bathroom to dry the carpet, but my curiosity gets the best of me, and I sneak another peek.
The splattering of water on the glass shower door doesn’t totally obscure her breasts as she lifts her arm to shave her pit, which she said she wouldn’t do.
As I step on the towel to soak up the water, my gaze lifts a fraction, and she’s staring at me.
“Shit,” I mumble, quickly picking up the wet towel and then tossing it onto my vanity before I fetch my wallet and jog down the stairs.
“Enjoy your class,” Liz says.
“Mm-hm,” I mumble a second before closing the door behind me.
I’ve been practicing tai chi for years. I’m not the youngest person in the class, but I’m close. My friends enjoy razzing me about it, but I’m too secure to give a shit what they think. It’s my favorite way of meditating and bringing everything back into balance.
Except this morning.
My moves are jerky and chaotic instead of gentle and controlled.
Today we’re in the park instead of the studio.
There are plenty of good distractions: the trees, the clouds, the breeze.
Yet, every time I think of Everleigh’s naked body, I get an erection, so I hold my breath as if it’s a balloon that I can choose to stop inflating.
After suffering through the hour of my day that’s supposed to be least stressful, I head home.
Thankfully, Everleigh and her mom are gone, so I make an omelet and toast and then mow the yard. Just as I’m blowing the grass off the sidewalk, the women return.
Liz gives me a quick glance and smile before continuing into the house, but Everleigh saunters toward me with a knowing smirk.
I turn off the blower and slide my safety glasses onto my head. “Did you find a place? Awesome. When are you moving out?”
“Funny. I told you I’m building a barndominium. But yes, I found ten acres with a pond for fishing, and I’m meeting with the Realtor on Monday to sign papers. If you don’t work this weekend, I’ll show it to you. The view is breathtaking.”
“Sounds great, but I do work this weekend, so I’ll just take your word for it. I’m happy for you.” I carry the blower to the garage and return it to its hook beside the Weed eater.
“Sorry I didn’t get the bathroom door completely shut this morning,” she says.
Jesus. She has no tact. Who says that shit? I know she knows. She knows I know. That’s where it ends. At least, that’s where it should end.
“I’d rather you be sorry that you lied to me about not using my razor to shave your pits.” Two can play this game.
“I’ll buy you a new razor.”
“No need. You’re leaving.”
She laughs. “Not until my barndo is finished.”
“You’re messy and invasive. I can’t have you stay until your barn is filled with hay and oats.”
“Stop.” She giggles.
I return my safety glasses to the top drawer of my workbench, grumbling because her exercise equipment is everywhere. As soon as I turn, she’s right in front of me, invading my personal space.
“You make me sound like a mold infestation,” she says.
“Speaking of mold. If you don’t use the exhaust fan when you take a hundred-and-ten-degree shower, I’ll have mildew on the bathroom ceiling.”
“I had to shut off the fan to listen for you before I ran into your bathroom to borrow your razor. And then you flustered me, so I forgot to turn the fan back on.”
“Sorry. Being flustered isn’t a good excuse.” I step past her and then bend down to brush the grass off my boots.
“Did you call your dad back?”
“Fuck,” I mumble.
As soon as I stand straight, she’s back in my space, lips slightly pursed into a smirk I don’t trust. “Let me guess, you were too flustered to remember?”
“Isn’t it time for your nap?” I squint.
“Nappuccino. And no. Not until after lunch. Speaking of lunch. Maren and Jamie asked me to brunch tomorrow morning. Did you hire them to do your dirty work?”
Really. She’s way too close to me.
I take a step back and cross my arms to keep a barrier between us. “I don’t need to hire anyone to do my dirty work. I already told you this arrangement isn’t going to work. Maybe they feel sorry for you and want to help you in the interim until your barn is complete.”
“So you don’t want me to say anything about our sexual tension?”
“There’s no sexual tension.”
“You cockblocked me last night. Then you watched me shower this morning.”
“Pfft.” I jerk my head back before shaking it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Everleigh takes a step forward. “If they offer me an alternate place to live, I’ll consider it, but not before calling your bluff.”
“What bluff?”
“The one where you pretend to hate me for what happened eleven years ago. Then there’s the one where you pretend you’re not attracted to me.
I love mind games. I’ve made a living playing them.
So even when I call your bluff, we can continue to let your friends think we’re enemies.
I love a good affair, like Jamie and Calvin.
Sneaking around. The thrill of almost getting caught. ” She waggles her eyebrows.
“I think you’re mentally unstable. Is that an asset when treating patients? Like you can literally put yourself in their shoes.”
“Will, you’re not using literally in the most literal way because you don’t mean that I’m going to wear anyone’s sneakers.”
“You’re such a liar. All that talk about not calling someone out for saying the wrong thing or wrong word because it’s embarrassing. Yet, here you are doing just that.”
“I don’t think you’re embarrassed that I’m fine-tuning your grammar. I think you’re embarrassed that I caught you looking at me in the shower this morning.”
I scoff. “The way I caught you looking at me in the shower eleven years ago? And I wasn’t checking you out. I was looking at your implants.”
She snorts. “My breasts?”
“Let me guess. Your implants are in your breasts, so the literal term is breasts since I can’t actually see the implants? Is that what you were going to say?”
“No.” She purses her lips and shakes her head. “I was going to say I’m surprised you were focused on my breasts after being so curious about Wilbur.”
Shit. I forgot to look for that pig tattoo.
“What do you think of them?” She glances down at her chest. “I think they’re the perfect size.
Perky with just the right amount of bounce.
But now everyone is getting their implants removed because they’re making them sick.
So don’t get too attached to them. I might not have them forever.
” She looks up at me and shrugs like we’re talking about her keeping her car or selling it.
“Well”—I glance over her shoulder before she says anything about me staring at her boobs—“not everyone is getting them removed. That’s not literally true.”
“I didn’t say literally everyone.”
I hate her. Sure, I want to rip off her clothes and see just how bouncy her new boobs are, but mostly I hate her.
When I look at her again, she grins. It’s big and toothy. Obnoxious. In the next breath, it simmers a bit.
“Sorry to hear about your mom. How’s she doing?”
“What?” I squint.
“You told your dad she had a hysterectomy.”
“Fifteen years ago. My dad has dementia or something going on with his memory.”
“Oh. That must be frustrating. Has he had a neurological evaluation?”
It’s mind-blowing just how easily this woman can shift from batshit-crazy Everleigh to completely normal and professional Dr. Reichart.
As if she can read my mind, she folds her hands in front of her.
“Everything about my dad is frustrating at the moment. But mostly it’s sad with the occasional comedic relief, like when he goes off about my mom being pregnant with another man’s child because her breasts are big. And before you ask, yes, she has implants too.”
“Was that difficult for you? It’s not uncommon for sons to feel uneasy or awkward about their mothers changing parts of their bodies that are associated with both comfort (for example, breastfeeding or the familiarity of a warm embrace) and sexuality.”
“Are you shrinking me over my mother’s implants?”
“It could be awkward for her too. Especially if you stare at them.”
I cringe. “God! Stop that shit, Everleigh. I don’t stare at my mom’s breasts.”
She purses her lips, but that doesn’t hide her amusement. Her body shifts, and I notice something. It’s the hands. When she’s no longer Dr. Reichart, she folds them behind her like she’s on the verge of dropping her chin and saying “Aw, shucks.” It’s her tell.
“You’re a terrible psychiatrist.”
“I’m not your psychiatrist. I’m your friend. And friends tease each other.”
Hence, the hands folded behind her.
“We’re not friends.” I step past her and keep walking toward the house.
“Then what are we?” She jogs to catch up.
“I’m your landlord. You’re my tenant, whom I’m evicting.”
“On what grounds?”
“Theft.”
“What are you talking about?”
I unlace my boots by the back door. “You stole my razor.”
“Borrowed it.”
“There are some things you don’t borrow. Like condoms, toothbrushes, and razors. Borrowing implies you will return it. And no one returns a used condom, toothbrush, or razor.” I stand, gazing down at her.
“Sometimes, borrow means that you’ll replace the item instead of returning the original. Like borrowing a cup of sugar to bake a cake.”
I grit my teeth and hold up my hands, making connected C shapes, then I shake them, strangling the air instead of her neck.
Her eyes flare as she watches my control wither away to nearly nothing. Then she clears her throat and checks her watch. “I might take my nappuccino early.”
“Good idea,” I whisper through clenched teeth.
When she turns and heads toward the shed, I close my eyes for a second.
If I don’t kill her (a 99.99 percent probability), I’ll end up fucking her senseless, marrying her, and having a half dozen kids and a bird named after a groundbreaking scientist who no one with an average IQ has heard of (a 00. 01 percent chance).