“Honestly,” Noah mutters grumpily.
He’s still holding my hand, the warm weight of it offering some comfort in face of the errant thoughts flitting through my head. I can’t remember a time when I’ve ever been in a situation where I wanted to talk to a man about what we “might be,” and honestly, with the anxiety it’s giving me, I’m not sure I’d ever wish for it if given the choice. Everything about Noah and me was supposed to be a casual thing that we both benefited from, and as it’s slowly morphed into something decidedly less casual—I find myself stuck in limbo without any direction.
This romance bullshit is for the birds.
I snuggle closer into Noah’s side as if the heat of his body will somehow quiet the loud war raging in my head, and his arm immediately circling my shoulders weirdly only makes things worse. Apparently, against my will I now analyze everything Noah does, my brain forcing me to search for the hidden meanings that might not be there.
It’s fine, I tell myself. Stop worrying about things that might not even matter. Just enjoy where you are now.
I take a slow, surreptitious breath just to let it out, hoping that emptying my lungs will somehow empty my head. Not that it works. I close my eyes as I listen to Noah continue to pick apart Grey’s Anatomy, hardly even hearing what he’s saying as I allow the low timbre of his voice to wash over me, basking in his heady, warm scent that calls to my blood and centers me in a way that nothing else ever has.
It’s funny, when I asked Noah to be my fake boyfriend . . . I never imagined a possibility where I might wish for it to be real.
22
Noah
I appreciate the opportunity for employment at your hospital, but as my circumstances have changed, I feel it best to remain at my current position at this time. I hope that in the future should things put me in a position to be reconsidered, you will keep me in mind.
I’ve been staring at the drafted email to the HR department for the hospital in Albuquerque for the last hour—typing and erasing and editing things over and over and never being satisfied. I still worry that it’s crazy to even consider sending it; I haven’t been able to find the courage yet to even broach the subject with Mackenzie, and after putting my foot in my mouth a few days ago at her place when the subject of dinner with my mother came up . . . it makes me wonder even more if I’m doing the right thing.
It’s unlike me, doing things on a whim. But then again, can I really call it a whim? It’s not like I haven’t been agonizing over this very thing for weeks, at best. And now that I have the added revelation of realizing the depths of my feelings for someone who is supposed to be my pretend mate—continuing to ignore this looming fork in the road has become harder and harder to keep doing. As ill-advised as it may seem, I know deep down that unless Mackenzie tells me herself that she no longer wants to participate in this . . . new territory we’re exploring, there is no possible way I will be able to physically part from her.
Mackenzie Carter is in my skin now. She lives in my blood. Without ever intending for it to happen . . . my pretend mate became the very real woman I’d like to spend the rest of my life with.
And maybe it’s too soon to think that way. Perhaps someone more sensible than me might theorize that it is simply biology and our DNA that draws me to her—but it doesn’t change the fact that every cell in my body seems to have modified itself to complement hers. Almost as if the organ in my chest no longer cares about its basic functions of moving blood through my body and oxygen to my brain—no, apparently now it just beats for her.
I make a self-deprecating sound as I run my fingers through my hair, wondering when in the hell I got so emotional. A short time ago, I would have laughed at someone for saying the things going through my head right now, or at the very least looked at them like they’d grown a second head. And yet . . . I don’t feel any sort of cringing embarrassment at my own thoughts. If anything, coming to terms with my feelings has only filled the lonely spaces inside me I hadn’t realized existed, leaving behind a warm fullness that somehow makes it harder to breathe and yet makes breathing easier. With that in mind, I return my attention to the email in front of me, telling myself that I will draft this, save it, and then the very next time I see her tell Mackenzie everything going through my head.
Well, maybe I will save a certain four-letter word for a later date, given that there’s a good chance she might run screaming if I voice it out loud after only a few short weeks. Still, I can tell her that I want something real. I can hope beyond hope that she might want the same. The conversation with my mother last week flits through my mind, and I try to cling to her advice.
Try not to get too in your head about this. I have a good feeling this Mackenzie of yours might surprise you.
I really, really hope that she does.
I can’t say how much time passes with me still agonizing over one email when a knock sounds at my door, and given that Mackenzie has already gone home for the day, I barely glance at the door when I bid whoever is on the other side to come in. I can’t say that anyone other than Mackenzie would be a welcome presence in my office, if I’m being honest, but there’s a particularly special wave of distaste that washes over me when I see it’s the last person I want to see right now, or ever, for that matter.
“Noah,” Dennis greets me with a pleasantness that feels entirely fake. “I was hoping you had a minute.”
I frown instantly. “I’m actually kind of busy right now, Dr. Martin.”
“Oh? Well, I do hate to bother you.” He practically pouts as he shuts the door behind him anyway, his face saying otherwise. “But it is very important, so . . .”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose as I turn my chair away from my desk. It’s probably better to just let him have whatever moment he’s trying to have here so he will go away that much faster. I just have to be sure not to let him get to me like the last time we ran into each other.
“Okay,” I say resignedly. “What is so important?”
“It’s actually pretty embarrassing,” he says, looking uncomfortable but in a way that, again, doesn’t feel real. “I really hate bringing it up at all, you know . . .”
I feel myself getting irritated despite my resolve. “Then just spit it out so I can get back to work.”
“Right,” Dennis says as a slow, unsettling smile creeps across his face. “Well. You see . . . I’ve had a dilemma for a while now, and I don’t really know how I should handle it.”
My jaw ticks. “What sort of dilemma?”