In the meantime, I’ve developed a theory: Angie is a woman Trevor is in love with but can’t have because she’s already married or engaged, which would explain the secrecy. Maybe they’re desperately in love but she’s been forced into a marriage of convenience she can’t escape.
After multiple back-to-back overtime shifts covering for all my colleagues who take time off for Thanksgiving, I’m off for the day, all by my lonesome, as Trevor is on day shift. Normally being alone for extended periods of time depresses me, but today I’m taking Mel’s advice to soak up the quiet and partake in some self-care. This includes a bag of chips, a stack of my favorite books, my rom-com soundtrack playlist, my weighted blanket, and maybe a little quality time with my vibrator.
Because life likes to give me a kick in the ass when I get too smug, I’m in the midst of the latter when Trevor returns home, whistling.
Shit.
Here’s the thing. I’ve made two grave errors. First, I’ve bought a louder-than-average vibrator (its volume is on par with a Dyson vacuum) with far too many fancy settings. Second, I failed to close my bedroom door, because Trevor wasn’t supposed to be home for another hour and a half. Damn him.
Panicked and sweaty, I attempt to hit the Off button on my device, but of course I end up increasing the intensity instead.
Trevor is already in my doorway by the time I’ve managed to locate the Off button. “Is it just me, or are you in the exact same position I left you in this morning?” His question is completely casual. But in my hot, bothered, and frustrated state, my brain can’t help but turn it sexual.
It doesn’t help that he’s in one of his tight-fitted navy-blue fire department T-shirts. It’s one of ten identical ones he keeps folded Marie Kondo–style in his dresser. I lurch upward when he leans his weight against my doorframe, his hair flopped over like it’s done with the day, one arm behind his back.
“You’re home!” I squeak.
“Yeah. One of the guys came in for his shift early.” He pauses, assessing me. “You feeling okay?”
I abandon my vibrator under the covers and run the back of my wrist over my forehead, which is definitely clammy. “Thriving. Never better!”
His brows raise in suspicion. “You sure? You look a little red and fevery. There’s a flu going around, you know.”
“I’d know if I had a fever. I’m a nurse.” I make a show of testing my temperature again with my wrist. “No fever. Just a little warm with the weighted blanket.”
“Right. Apologies, Nurse Chen.” When he grins at me, none the wiser, all the tension and frustration from being interrupted dissipates. Lately we’ve been bantering back and forth about who is the more qualified health professional. Trevor, who is technically also a certified medic, is very sure of himself. “Looks like you had a relaxing day.”
I shrug. “It was average. Kinda lonely, though, aside from my book boyfriends.” And my vibrator.
“These will keep you company.” He pulls his right arm from behind his back to reveal two Halloween-size bags of Cheetos in his right hand.
“Really? . . . For me?” I ask in awe.
He smirks, tossing the bags onto the end of my bed. “Who else? One of the guys at work brought in extras from his kid’s Halloween stash. Grabbed them for you before the others swarmed.”
“Oh my God. I love you,” I blurt out, already ripping one of the bags open. When the crests of his cheeks turn a dark shade of red, I walk back my overt enthusiasm. “Um . . . you look tired.”
His lips curve into a small smile. “Gee, thanks. You know how to make a guy blush.”
“Save a lot of lives today?” I ask through a crunch.
He frowns again. “No. Lost a few, actually.”
I cover my mouth, as if trying to stuff the words back in. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to joke about that—”
“It’s all good, Tara,” he assures me, waving my words away.
“No. I should know better, being in health care. It was a shitty thing to say.”
“Seriously, it’s fine. Did you hit your reading goals for the day?” I can tell by his abrupt change in subject and tone that he’s not really interested in talking about his day, as usual. Even when he’s in a decent mood, he gets uncomfortable whenever I ask him questions about himself.
“Sure did,” I say proudly, gesturing to my book pile animatedly, trying to sound extra upbeat in an effort to lighten his mood, even just a little. Whenever I had rough days at work where we’d lose patients, Seth wouldn’t offer much support, instead telling me to suck it up because that was just the job. I always wished he’d make more of an effort to take my mind off things. “I got through two and a half books today, and it’s been therapeutic.”
“Whatcha reading now? Still on the Mafia romance?” he asks, leaning forward to get a glimpse of my book cover.
“Nope. Done with that series. This is one of my favorites,” I say, lighting up at the prospect of sharing. “A country singer who’s forced to go on tour with her ex, a sexy, broody guitarist.”
“Second-chance romance?” he guesses. It’s a game we started playing, where he guesses the trope based on a one-line description.
I mock surprise. “You’re getting good at this. This one is also a forced proximity. They have to travel together on a tour bus. It’s pretty hot.”
He raises a curious brow as he takes a couple of steps into my room to rearrange my bookshelf again. “Yeah?”
I flip a few chapters back to a particularly steamy scene involving the kitchen counter and hand it to him. “You may relate to this one.”
He sits on the end of my bed to read, the mattress sinking underneath his weight. His nostrils flare as he scans the page. “Basically it’s written porn? But with no visuals.”
I pluck the book from his hands and bop him on the shoulder with it. “You don’t need visuals when you have your imagination. Besides, porn usually caters to the male gaze. Doesn’t really do much for a lot of women.”
“Of course. The emotional connection is key,” he says sarcastically, reaching into my lap to open the second Cheetos bag.
I suck in a sharp breath when his hand paws dangerously close to my vibrator hidden under my covers. Before he accidently touches it, I shift it over with my leg and it falls with a clatter down the crack between the wall and my bed.
“What was that?” Trevor asks.
“Oh, nothing. Just a book. No big deal.” I shrug it off, while internally I’m screaming and praying it hasn’t skidded out from under my bed. I even peer over the edge to confirm.
His eyes flicker with something that looks like suspicion, so I ramble on as a distractive measure.
“Feel free to borrow my books anytime, by the way. Maybe you could learn a thing or two. Pick up a few tips and tricks to use in your relationships going forward,” I offer teasingly.
He snorts. “What relationships?”
“Come on, you can’t really want to spend your life alone.”
“Being alone is my favorite,” he says ultraseriously, crunching a Cheeto. “Days off when you’re at work are the fucking best. I get the couch and the TV all to myself without you chatting my ear off in the background.”
I launch a weak punch in his side. “Wow, shots fired. I’ll try to make myself scarcer.”
He cracks a small smile. “I’m just kidding, Chen. You’re not too bad to be around . . .” Our eyes snag for a beat too long before he adds, “when you’re not all frazzled, hunting down your exes.”
I straighten my shoulders, ignoring the heat gathering in my neck, getting hotter and hotter the longer he smiles at me like that. From the edge of my bed where I was just . . .
“How goes the search, anyways?” Trevor asks.
Truthfully, I’ve been too busy with work the past week to put emotional effort into the ex search. Until today. “I’m now focusing on Brandon Wang. Sent him a message this morning, though he hasn’t responded . . . yet,” I note with a grimace. “He’s one of my college boyfriends.”
“All right. What’s the story with Brandon?”
“We were just friends at the beginning of college,” I say, finding myself smiling at the memory of him. “I always had a little crush on him, but I didn’t act on it because he had a long-term girlfriend from high school. He broke up with her going into junior year, and a week later, we made out at a campus pub trivia night. After being in such a long-term relationship, he was really against putting a label on things, which drove me nuts. I mean, not knowing whether I was his girlfriend or not was so stressful. Do I list him as my emergency contact? Do I put him in my will? These are things any sane, responsible human needs to know.”
Trevor covers his unapologetic laugh with his fist.
I reach over to give him a swift smack on the biceps, which frankly feels like hitting a metal pole. “Then things ended on a . . . dramatic note.”
“Dramatic?”
“He wanted to travel the globe after college before settling down. He wanted me to go with him, and I didn’t.”