“Tomorrow I have a rhinoplasty,” he said cheerfully. “And the office does pro bono work for kids with cleft palates. I’m seeing a potential patient tomorrow.”
There went my heart again, thudding to the rhythm of Thatch’s name.
I reached for my wine. Bad Austin.
“That’s really nice of you.”
“It’s not their fault, you know?” he said, talking mainly to himself. He’d already finished his wine and was standing up.
I panicked.
I wanted him to stay.
But I didn’t know what else to do to get him to stay other than take off my top and flash him boobs and hope he’d jump at the chance to touch them again.
Sighing, I stood right along with him, grabbed the wineglasses, and managed to somehow trip over my own feet and land facedown on the ground, broken glass sticking out of my cheek.
“Austin!” Thatch was on his knees in front of me, while I was attempting to not freak the hell out over the blood gushing down my cheek.
I reached for the glass.
“Stop.” He shoved my hand away from the wound and proceeded to slowly pull out a piece of glass that was about an inch thick.
“That hurt!” I yelled, holding my hand to my face.
“Shit.” He jumped to his feet, I heard water running, and I was already feeling woozy over the chunk of glass that had just been joined with my skin.
When Thatch came back, he had a wet paper towel and was dabbing my face. It stung like crazy.
“You won’t need stitches.” His face was so close, I could almost taste him.
Tears filled my eyes as I nodded.
Tears of embarrassment.
Tears of rejection.
Great, I was just full of tears where he was concerned.
His soft hands brushed across my cheek again, and then he was back on his feet.
I stayed put on the floor, not trusting myself to get up.
He returned a few minutes later and knelt in front of me. Something cold hit my cheek, stinging a bit, and then he spread a small Band-Aid across my cheek.
“Ariel?” I asked.
“I figured Iron Man would look more badass.”
I smiled, then groaned. It hurt to even smile.
His clear blue eyes professionally examined my face again, and then he turned away—like he was afraid to look at me directly in the eyes. “It’s just a cut. Take some ibuprofen tonight, and if you have any trouble, call me tonight, alright?”
“Trouble?” I repeated. My cheek stung, and the Band-Aid tugged the skin near my mouth, making my face feel tight.
“Just call me if it hurts.” He stood and held out his hand.
Call him if it hurt.
It always hurt.
Always.
But what to do when the man offering his help was the one who caused the hurt in the first place? I refused to tell him yet again how he broke my heart—that he’d broken us. That I was still upset and dealt with my tumultuous feelings on a nightly basis when I slept alone in my childhood bed.
“Thanks for this,” I said lamely, pointing to my cheek. “I guess I should get working on my assignment, right?”
“Yeah.” He rocked back on his heels. Silence stretched between us. “What time are you coming tomorrow?”
I licked my lips as he finally stared me down, his face emotionless.
“After class,” I finally said. “Possibly in time to take some really interesting notes on a rhinoplasty.”
The corners of his mouth tugged into a playful smile. “Sounds exciting.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“Tomorrow.” He leaned in like he was going to kiss me and then froze. I was afraid to move.
Finally, he leaned over and kissed my forehead, then walked out of my house basically the same way he walked into my life, with a slow, confident swagger that left me aching in all the wrong places.
Mainly. My heart.
Chapter Eighteen
AUSTIN
The cursor kept blinking at me. My new blogger site mocked me.
Because the only stupid words I could think to type were things like, His hands were smooth as they cupped my breasts, his thumb an inch from my nipple as he measured. He was warm. I gulped. Large.
And every time I typed those words, I had to delete, you know, because I wasn’t writing an erotic novel.
I leaned my head down against the computer and sighed. After the trauma of feeling a piece of glass stick out of my cheek, I decided to go to bed and wake up early to write my first post before class.
And there I was, an hour before I had to leave.
Still staring at the blank screen where no words were present, and wondering how I was going to sound professional when every single touch had me nearly jumping out of my skin and ready to maul the good doctor.
The difficult part—I knew what his mouth tasted like.
I knew what his touch felt like.
So, my body couldn’t help itself—it craved him.
“Be professional,” I repeated to myself as I started to drily document what happened at a breast-augmentation consult and with my emotions during the appointment.
I replaced the word “erotic” with “gentle.”
Made sure to include that the experience was a bit jarring but that because there was a nurse present, it didn’t feel that awkward.
The blog post wasn’t all that spicy—but it talked about boobs, made Thatch sound like a good doctor, and I knew that if someone was interested in legitimate content via a firsthand experience, they would find it in my post.
I hit “Publish” and grabbed my things.
The minute I stood, I had one of those flashbacks, the really aggravating ones where your mind goes, Wait, we didn’t get to overanalyze this moment last night, quick, do it now.
I groaned.
And closed my eyes.
I could almost feel the brush of his lips across my forehead.
What the hell did that even mean?
And why!
Why would he do it?
A forehead kiss was almost worse than a mouth kiss—because it conveyed a degree of tenderness.
And sadness.
Love.
He just had to go and ruin a good night’s sleep and a productive day by kissing me on my stupid forehead.
Whatever. Thatch had his chance and he rejected me—he even had his chance to explain—he chose not to.
So, forehead kiss or not—I wasn’t for him.
I just wished my body and mind found it easier to align with that simple fact.
Besides, after I passed this stupid class, I’d have absolutely zero reason to hang out with him.
The thought was a bit depressing.
So, I focused on happier ones.
Like the fact that at least for today, I was going to see him.
Yeah, I was screwed.
“So, how’s it going?” Avery asked with concern as she handed me a MoonPie and winked. “You know, other than the weird Band-Aid on your face and that dreamy look in your eyes.”
She’d texted me with all caps that if I didn’t give her an update on the Thatch situation, we’d be on a friendship time-out, and last time that had happened, I’d had to buy her a week’s worth of Starbucks to get back into her good graces. Besides, maybe she’d have some Thatch wisdom. God knew, I needed to be fully armored every time I walked into that man’s office.