Chapter Thirty-Five Everleigh
Chapter Thirty-Five
Everleigh
“Can I ask how old you are? You look too young to be a doctor,” Steffi says as we eat bison burgers and roasted veggies at the table on the deck with the heaters going full blast.
“That’s a great question,” Will says before I can swallow and answer for myself. “Everleigh is almost thirty. She’s a genius. Skipped a bunch of grades.”
“I’m twenty-nine.”
Will eyes me with a tiny scowl as he chews his food. I’m the one who should be scowling. He didn’t text me happy birthday two weeks after he left in August.
“Oh, so you were eighteen when you and Will met? That’s young.” She winks at Will.
I study him, enjoying the misery on his face as he so desperately wants to tell Steffi that I was seventeen and didn’t disclose my age.
But then he’d have to include the part where he freaked out over a possible statutory rape charge (because that’s where he gets the real sympathy), which would disclose the fact that we had sex.
And he’s not ready to go the distance with that conversation.
“Will said you’re moving to Baltimore. What’s in Baltimore?”
Am I moving? I look at Will, but he keeps his focus on his food.
“I was offered a position at Johns Hopkins. I haven’t taken it yet. But I need to decide soon. Will’s an amazing friend. He just wants to see me live up to my true potential, so that’s why he’s so certain I’ll take the job.” I nudge his leg with my foot, and he relinquishes a quick glance.
“Johns Hopkins sounds like a big deal. Why wouldn’t you take the job?” Steffi asks.
“My mom lives in New York. She’s an artist. I love her to death, but I also love the three-thousand-mile buffer between us.”
Steffi laughs. My comment even draws a soft chuckle from Will.
“I also love Montana. And I have friends here. And as I mentioned earlier, I’m in the process of building a barndominium with a stunning mountain view. I don’t think Baltimore can compare.”
“You could keep your place in Missoula as a vacation home,” Steffi says. “I assume you probably make enough money to own more than one property.”
I take a drink of water, then shake my head. “Psychiatrists don’t make that kind of money.”
“But people who have VR-related patents can afford it,” Will says.
“What’s that?” Steffi asks.
“He’s talking about virtual reality. I’ve designed therapeutic programs for kids. But I don’t spend my patent money. It’s all being reinvested.”
Steffi sighs. “My son has found a genius.”
Will coughs and shakes his head. “N-no. I’ve not found anything. I know a genius. Found implies more. Like . . .”
“Finders keepers?” I ask, cocking my head to make him as uncomfortable as possible.
I find with Will, I do the exact opposite of what my training tells me to do.
I don’t want to be his doctor. I want to be the woman he can’t live without.
Unfortunately, he’s made it clear that he can live just fine without me.
So why am I still in Montana acting like a lovestruck heroine instead of a brilliant doctor doing groundbreaking research in Maryland?
“Older men are overrated,” Steffi says, saving her son from answering me. “They get cancer. Wear diapers. And flirt with the first piece of saggy ass that waddles past them with a fancy walker.”
“Jesus, Mom.” Will wrinkles his nose.
It’s really hard to keep from laughing, but I’m skilled at controlling my reactions to everyone except William Landry.
Steffi sips her wine. I think she’s had one too many glasses.
“Your feelings matter,” I say. “And you’re lucky to have a family who gives you a safe space to express those feelings without judgment.”
Steffi relaxes and reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “Will you marry my son?”
“Mom! I’m serious. Enough. No more wine. Maybe you should go to bed early. I’ll take care of the dinner mess.”
I bite back my grin and wink at her.
“You’re right. I’m exhausted.” She stands. “Do you drink coffee, Everleigh?”
I nod.
“Then I’ll see you back here in the morning for coffee. Good night.”
“Good night,” I say.
Will stands, giving her a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Love you,” he says.
We gather the dishes and take them into the kitchen. He sets out containers for the leftover food while I load the dishwasher.
“I regret inviting you here,” he says.
I giggle. “I know you do.”
“We’re a dead end.” He deposits the leftovers into the glass containers and snaps the lids onto them.
“We are,” I say.
“So why are you here?”
I run water in the sink and squirt dish soap into it.
“You invited me.” He scoffs. “And I told you I’m here for your mom.
A free place to stay. Excellent bison burgers.
And I think I’ll add coffee with your delightful mother in the morning to the list of reasons.
At this point, you’re just an afterthought. ”
“I’m hurt.” He takes the spatula from me and dries it.
“Liar,” I say.
Thunk!
I drop the pan into the empty side of the sink when he swats my ass with the spatula. With a gasp, jaw on the floor, I stare at him through wide eyes while rubbing my ass. That stung.
“What the hell?”
He wipes the spatula again, as if he’s polishing it. Then, he slides it into the blue utensil crock next to the stove.
“That’s going to leave a mark.” I continue rubbing my butt.
“I hope so.”
“You jerk.” I turn on the faucet and click the spray nozzle, pointing it at him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He grabs my wrist, turning his head to the side as the water sprays in his face and chest. “You’re making a mess.” He shuts off the water.
“You started it.” I grab a handful of suds and wipe them on his face.
“Stop.” He grabs my other wrist, restraining both hands between us.
“Don’t!” I giggle, closing my eyes and wrinkling my nose when he rubs his soapy face against mine.
His lips pass mine once.
I wriggle in his hold.
They pass me twice.
I stop wriggling. Will stills with his cheek pressed to mine.
Then he slowly turns his head again, brushing his lips across mine for a third time, but this time he stops, and we kiss.
He releases his hold on my wrists and slides his fingers along my neck like he always does until his fingertips brush my nape.
His lips leave mine, ghosting along my cheek to my ear. “Tell me you’re leaving tomorrow,” he whispers. “Then I can tear off your clothes now.”
My eyes drift shut because his touch intoxicates me. “If only,” I murmur.
“We should finish the dishes,” he mumbles between kisses while he works his way down my neck.
“Uh-huh,” I say, sliding my hands up the back of his shirt, curling my fingers into the thick muscles along his back.
“But it’s only Sunday. And I won’t want you here after we have sex.” He palms the back of my legs and lifts me off the floor.
“It’s only Sunday,” I echo, not really registering what he’s saying or what it means as he carries me to the bedroom.
Our mouths collide the second he closes the door.
My shirt hits the floor first, followed by his.
Then he cradles my face, kissing me again because mere seconds feel too long without his lips on mine.
My back meets the wall next to the door.
We’re so close to the bed, yet too far at the same time.
His calloused palm skates down my neck to my chest, pulling my breast from my bra.
Squeezing it until I feel it everywhere.
“Shh,” he whispers in my ear, and I realize I’m moaning.
I quickly nod half a dozen times. I’ll be quiet. If he wants me on my knees, hands tied behind my back, scarf around my mouth, I’ll do it and sort through my unhealthy obsession with him later.
It doesn’t feel like eleven years since I fell for him. It barely feels like eleven minutes. He’s all-consuming, and I can’t get enough. If this fireman wants to eat me for all three meals a day, I’ll be the sacrificial lamb to keep him satiated.
We perform a clumsy dance of discarding the rest of our clothes on the way to the bed.
He guides me to straddle his lap and lies back as we kiss.
When he fills me, I close my eyes and still for a minute.
My crippled heart aches with every beat.
I’m so in love with William Landry, but I don’t know if his heart feels anything, even when he’s inside me.
He wants a release, a chance to let go. I want a connection, a chance to hold on.
Will hugs me and sits up, our bodies intertwined. His face ghosts along my neck the way my fingers feather down his back.
It’s different. More intimate.
“I love you . . . I’m sorry,” I whisper, closing my eyes.
Someone should take my medical license. How can someone with my level of infatuation possibly help anyone else?
Will pauses, punching me with regret. Tears burn my eyes as I rest my chin on his shoulder. When he says nothing, I turn my head and press my lips to his neck.
He cups the back of my head in his palm and kisses the shell of my ear. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”
I blink, releasing tears that are too big to contain. I thought I was okay with unrequited love—until now. Beautiful has never felt so ugly. On the heels of my declaration of love, this feels like a participation ribbon.
So I close my eyes and move with him, tucking every feeling into the nooks and crannies of my memory. Someday, I might need these beautiful memories to get me through the loneliness if IHOP goes out of business.
Minutes later, we lie on our sides, his front spooned to my back.
This is not about me. I repeat it over and over in my head until I fall asleep.