WHO DOESN’T KNOCK?
Her shouts are cut short when a ceramic mug shatters on the hardwood. Steaming tea scalds her legs and she winces, but her eyes are locked on us, frozen in the most easily decipherable tableau in history: Lucas hovering over me on my bed, my body flush from an orgasm, my eyes filled with an emotion I’m not quite ready to cop up to.
“DAISY BELL!”
At first, I think she’s furious, but then she laughs. And it won’t stop. She’s stuck in a never-ending loop.
“Mrs. Bell,” Lucas says. “Hold on.”
He jumps into action and grabs a towel from my bathroom to clean up the spilled tea.
Madeleine and Mrs. Thatcher stand in the doorway behind her like museumgoers. I didn’t notice them before.
I leap off my bed and slip on my underwear. I nearly lose my footing, but Lucas catches me at the last second. I’m reclined in his arms like he’s dipping me on the dance floor—no doubt, in this pose, we are cute as shit.
“It’s not what y’all think,” I say.
Lucas tilts me upright and makes sure I have my footing before letting me go. It’s a thoughtful gesture and everyone notices.
“Oh, do try to explain your way out of this one,” Madeleine says with an evil little smile.
Mrs. Thatcher grins, holds her hands up, and turns for the stairs. “No need to explain! I didn’t see a thing.”
“Hey, Patrick! Will you bring a broom up here?” my mom shouts.
“On it!”
I’m mortified. For the next fifteen minutes, the parade continues. My room is a revolving door. Dr. McCormick comes up to make sure my mom’s legs aren’t badly scalded. Patrick is helping Lucas sweep up ceramic shards and Kelly, bless her heart, comes up and sits obliviously on my bed. In the exact spot where I just lay. My buttcheeks were right there.
“Ooh, warm,” she chirps, settling in. “Are we playing games up here now?”
I’m tickled by her obliviousness. My mortification turns into resigned amusement, and out of nowhere I start laughing maniacally. Whatever my condition is, it must be infectious, because Madeleine joins in, then my mom, followed by everyone else. Even though I’m embarrassed, I still understand the ridiculousness of it all. It is like walking in and finding Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner in bed together.
“Ah-ha-ha, ah-ha, haaa,” laughs Kelly. “What are we laughing about again?”
Chapter Twenty-One
I was probably wrong to take things this far with Lucas. For much the same reason you don’t adopt a baby python because it’s cute (they only grow a few feet, right?), you don’t start fooling around with your lifelong rival just because you’re horny. It’s all fine and dandy to have a devil-may-care attitude, up until the point that the devil marches into your room, takes off your panties, and shows you just how much he really does care.
Before I started mixing business and pleasure, things were good. I had it all. An even temperament. A mother who could look me in the eyes without giggling. A multi-phase plan to take over Dr. McCormick’s practice. I was going places.
Now, I’m down one pair of underwear—I chucked them in the trash after game night—and the only place I’m going is Dairy Queen. Shocker. To my dismay, they aren’t open; apparently I’m the only one who needs a tasty treat at 5:45 AM on a Monday.
What is compelling me to stray from a 28-year method with proven results? All I had to do was keep a distance. Become a kickass doctor. Make Lucas cry.
It’s Lucas.
He’s the one that changed.
The minute he moved back to Hamilton he was all, look at me with my muscles and my fitted pants. I once saw him eating quinoa for lunch—QUINOA, a grain he hadn’t even known existed the last time I saw him.
I should have realized he was after something, and now, it makes sense. He wasn’t kidding when he told me he wanted me to fall in love so that after he’s broken my heart, I’ll move away and give him the practice. He really thinks that word—that four-letter sissy word—will win him this war.
It’s going to take more than one cobalt blue sweater and a handful of accidental orgasms to make me forget who he is. What we are.
Enemies.
“Game night was fun. We should do it again.”
Lucas says that to me when we’re both preparing our coffee on Monday morning.
“Which part, exactly?” I ask, radiating my best couldn’t-care-less vibe.
He passes me the creamer. “The part where you spread your legs for me.”
My mug clatters to the counter as I turn and push him to the side of the small kitchen, out of view of the hallway. “Are you insane? Are you trying to get us fired?”
“We’re the only ones in the office.”
It’s true, we’re here ridiculously early. I guess I’m not the only one who couldn’t sleep.
“Still, Dr. McCormick probably has this place miked or something.”