Lucas is back in the kitchen pouring his second cup of coffee when I walk by later that morning. I stop and turn to him, aware that we’ve already stood on these marks this morning: him with his coffee cup in hand and me lost for words.
From anyone else, I would have openly appreciated the show of support, but I don’t want Lucas to see me as some damsel getting her first taste of distress. Being in medicine has exposed me to far more and far worse than Mrs. Vickers, and I’ve learned to handle it in my own way.
“Did you explain what happened to Dr. McCormick? I’ll corroborate your story if needed,” he says, like I need an alibi in a murder investigation.
I shrug, trying hard to ignore the urge to thank him. “He wasn’t surprised. She’s apparently caused trouble here before. I don’t think she’ll be back.”
“Good, and by the way…” His brows are furrowed and he’s wearing a troubled expression. “I know you had it covered back there, but I couldn’t just sit there and let her talk to you like that.”
I tilt my head and study him. “So is that it? You’re the only one allowed to bully me?”
Silence follows unlike any I’ve heard before. It’s not the absence of sound, more like a held breath, or nervous words caught in a nervous throat.
He turns to me and for a few seconds we’re locked in a staring contest. His brows furrow again and then I think, He’s beautiful. The thought springs up out of nowhere and I try to shove it back in its box. Too bad it doesn’t fit anymore. There’s no use in trying to deny it. He stands there staring at me with chiseled features and punch-you-in-the-gut brown eyes. My breathing picks up and Lucas notices. He’s staring at me like he wants something.
Like he wants me.
I tremble. I want him to answer my question so I can bolt into my office and barricade the door, but instead, he leaves his coffee and pushes off the counter. He steps into my personal space. It’s an intimate approach, one with intent, and when I realize I’m backed against the wall, my heart rate attempts a Guinness world record. Hummingbirds have nothing on me.
I have to look up to see his face and even then, I don’t see much. His features are indecipherable. Have I insulted him? Turned him on? I nearly laugh at the second option, but then his gaze flicks to my lips and I don’t feel like laughing anymore.
He bends low and my stomach flips. For some incomprehensible reason, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. Right here, right now, after 28 years of this war. Maybe he realizes he doesn’t stand a chance going up against me head to head so he’s employing the other parts of his body, but he should know that the street he’s pushing me down goes both ways, and all the swords he’s playing with are double-edged. Sure, he’s no longer the scrawny Lucas from a decade ago, but even with his new Body by PubertyTM, he has to have calculated the risk in playing a game of sensual chicken with me.
I lean in close, trying to show him that proximity doesn’t bother me. My body brushes his, and I suppress my revulsion—or is that lust? Either way, I am in it to win it. I will mash my face into his if I have to.
His body is pressed against mine and the hallway is noisy. Someone will round the corner and he will have to step back.
“I asked you a question,” I say, and then I regret it. My voice is shaky.
Is this a part of our war?
He looms over me as he raises a hand to my throat. I think for one horrible second that he is going to strangle me, but his finger brushes across my collarbone instead. Gently. Painfully.
“If you come any closer, I’ll scream,” I warn.
“I don’t think you will.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, preparing for death, and instead his lips press against mine. I am still alive.
Maybe more than ever.
My hands reach up to push him away. After 28 years, it’s instinct. Self-preservation. To their credit, my hands do make it to his chest, but then my synapses must get crossed, because Lucas Thatcher is kissing me and I’m not pushing him away. Lucas Thatcher, bane of my waking life and lead role in my nightmares is kissing me, and my good hand is wrapped around the collar of his white coat and tugging him.
Hard.
Against me.
My brain hums at max capacity, but all my neurons are bumping into each other, trying to reason out this exchange. Can you kill someone with a kiss? I think that’s what he’s doing—slaying me with his mouth. He leans in and bites my lip, and it’s not gentle. I know the only hope of retaliation is to overwork his brain as well. I slide my tongue past his lips and deepen the kiss.
Take that.
He lets out a husky groan and hauls me against the wall. I’m pinned by his hips and I’m vaguely aware that either the tile floor has ceased to exist, or I’ve been lifted off of it. He’s got me right where he wants me and my body, obeying a lifetime of training, refuses to back down. My breasts feel heavy and full against his chest. Even my nipples reach for him. My panties need to be changed and I’m ashamed, but not ashamed enough to stop. Lucas pulls back for a second, dragging in a haggard breath, and I jump on him, bringing his mouth back to me.