His Secret Love by Ava Ryan
7
Jake
When my phone’sclock reads 5:08 the following morning, I laugh bitterly into the darkness and give up on sleep altogether.
As a surgeon, I’m used to eking by on little sleep and cobbling together moments of rest whenever I can. I submit to you that no one survives long years of med school, residency and the practice without learning these valuable skills. I’ve been known to fall asleep while leaning against a wall and awaken feeling completely refreshed. I can go to the hospital café, put my head down on the table next to a bowl of soup and nap like nobody’s business. I made my peace with sleep deprivation years ago. I’m used to sleep deprivation.
What I’m not used to is seven hours of restless wakefulness, alternately staring at the ceiling, whacking my pillows and performing useless breathing exercises while my rock-hard dick sings the song of Skye Graham in a loud and endless loop.
Like it never happened,she said.
Excuse me, but how the actual fuck am I supposed to do that when she’s right here in my space and my face? When I know she’s within easy walking distance under my roof with her body—warm, supple and exquisite—curled up in one of my beds?
Things were bad enough when she was just a vivid and persistent memory. Back then (I like to think of them as the Good Old Days), I could periodically get her off my mind and think about something else. Sometimes for up to two minutes at a time. Now she’s wrapped herself around my thoughts at a cellular level like some unholy virus determined to kill its host sooner rather than later.
Leaving me well and truly fucked.
I get up and trudge to the bathroom, seeing approaching doom from every direction, no matter what I do or how much I try to duck and dodge.
If I hook up with Skye again and Marlene finds out, Skye is probably toast. Skye was right about that. Marlene is ruthless about firing people at work as needed, and I saw her make grown contractors quiver in their boots when we remodeled the apartment back when we were married. I have no reason to believe she’d show Skye any mercy.
So there’s that.
Plus, under that same scenario, my steadily improving relationship with Marlene is also screwed. We’re trying to evolve and grow as co-parents, true, but there are limits to our mutual goodwill. It’s one thing for Marlene to assume that I’ve been with various faceless women since our divorce. Now that she’s seen Skye’s face up close and personal, I’m betting Marlene’s goodwill toward me will take a serious nosedive.
So there’s that.
On the other hand, if I never hook up with Skye again, then my dick is screwed. Although I’m significantly less likely to get my ass sued for, oh, I don’t know, sexual harassment or some such.
My dick is deeply unhappy with that option.
And that’s assuming I’d even have a chance with her again, because she’s clearly pissed that I didn’t call like I said I would. As anyone would be.
Like it never happened.
Unless…
Maybe she really has put me firmly in her rearview mirror. A possibility that deflates my engorged package the way a rocket-propelled grenade would deflate a hot air balloon.
See? Total clusterfuck. No matter how I look at it.
She wasn’t serious about that, was she?
But…
For all I know, she was dead serious. It’s not like I know her well. Or at all, really. She’s a sexually confident woman. I know that much. For all I know, she’s swiped right on a bunch of other guys since the other night. Maybe she’s found a better connection with someone else.
It’s possible, right? Maybe even probable.
So why does the idea make my gut cramp up?
I brace my palms on the countertop and curse life, every muscle in my body strung tight.
But when I catch a glimpse of the poor sap in the mirror, I disgust myself. Who is this loser? Where’d he come from? How can I get rid of him?
Easy. I can pull my shit together and live my regularly scheduled life like I would on any other day. I can remember that this whole thing with Skye is only temporary and that I probably won’t be seeing that much of her when it’s all said and done. I’ll be working. She’ll be with the kids while I’m working, and at Marlene’s apartment the rest of the time. That being the case, I can relax and hit my home gym, get in a head-clearing workout before heading to the hospital and remember that I’m a grown man whose dick knows its place and doesn’t try to do the thinking for him. No need for drama or turmoil.
Done. I have a plan.
I brush my teeth, throw on my workout gear and head for the gym, feeling better already as I savor the peaceful quiet of my favorite time of day. That was weird, right? I don’t know what got into me for a minute there. As if I’m going to lose my shit over some woman who…
Some woman who…who…
There’s a sliver of orange light coming under the closed door to the gym. And the sound of someone’s pounding feet on the treadmill. I look and listen closer. It’s not my imagination.
I run through the possibilities.
I shut everything down before bed last night. The kids don’t jog. I’m almost positive we don’t have a poltergeist or a weird burglar with a workout fetish.
Which means…
Dread and disbelief tap-dance up my spine as I slowly swing the door open and—
Fuuuck.
So much for using my morning workout to de-stress.
There she is, the fit and athletic bane of my existence, her insane body poured into the kind of skimpy workout gear that guarantees I’ll never know another peaceful night’s sleep for the rest of my life. She’s facing the mirror on the far wall and blotting her face with a towel, which gives me a second or two to drink my fill of her.
Running shorts. A low-cut little top that reveals sweaty and bouncing cleavage in front and crisscrossing straps in the back. Lovely shoulders dusted with golden freckles. Thighs. Ass. Toned legs. Flushed cheeks and no makeup, which I find incredibly enticing. Earbuds. An eye-of-the-tiger look on her face that suggests she plans to leave it all on the treadmill.
She looks a lot like she looked when we were fucking each other the other night, to be honest, and seeing her like this now is the worst kind of exquisite torture. First, because I can’t touch her. Second, because she’s revealing way more glorious skin than I got to see the other night. Third, because that realization reminds me of all the things I never got to do with her.
For example? I never saw her naked breasts or sucked her nipples. And what color are her nipples? Peach? Pink? A tawnier shade of the rest of her skin? I’ll never know. I never bit her ass. Never tasted her pussy. Never sucked her fingers. Or her toes, for that matter.
And now I never will.
My usual morning erection stirs hopefully, emboldened by the way her body’s heat amplifies her thrilling scent of X-rated flowers and berries. I give it a ruthless mental smackdown.
I stand there frozen with indecision.
It’s just that…
I thought we’d have more time together. I regret not trying to get her to stay the other night, but not as much as I regret letting my rattled nerves stop me from calling her. I wish she weren’t my kids’ nanny. But wishing doesn’t make it so, and I can’t undo any of that.
I also can’t stand here staring at her indefinitely. Nor do I need to work out alongside her wishing for things I can’t have while imprinting additional details about her body onto my brain. I need to choose the healthy option, which is backing quietly out of the gym, jacking off in the privacy of my own bedroom and catching a workout tonight after the kids go to bed.
And I almost make it. I back up a couple of steps. I’m halfway to a clean getaway when the treadmill beeps and lowers the incline and her gaze connects with mine in the mirror.
“You don’t have to leave,” she says coldly, slowing down to a walk. “It’s your house. I’ll be done in a second.”
I hesitate, half in and half out of the room. I want to stay, but I’m positive I should go.
“I’m not sure that’s the greatest idea. For us to, ah, work out together.”
“Look,” she says, still watching me in the mirror. “I hope this goes without saying, but this is not a Fatal Attraction situation. I’m not stalking you.”
“I know,” I say, shutting the door behind me and moving deeper into the room, startled she’d suggest such a thing.
“I had no idea it was your family when Marlene hired me. She never mentioned your first name before yesterday. She always said my ex. And I knew the kids’ last name was Quinn, but I didn’t know—”
“What my last name was. I know. We never exchanged full names. Just last initials.”
“Right,” she says.
“Seems like we talked about everything else under the sun,” I say with a humorless laugh, fighting the same wistful feeling that’s been plaguing me all week. “Guess we ran out of time to mention our last names.”
It seems incredible to think about it now, but I didn’t think about her last name at the time. It seemed much more important to hear funny stories about her neurotic college roommate and the time the two of them got lost on the Paris Metro during their study-abroad semester. I was much more interested in telling her about my favorite jazz concerts at Lincoln Center and restaurants I consider hidden gems. We fit together so easily that night I got lulled into feeling like we had all the time in the world. Little did I know the plot twist that fate was about to throw our way.
“Right,” she says, beginning to look mollified. And flustered. “Anyway, if you tell me when you like to work out, we can stagger our times in the gym. It’s just that I like to get up and do it before the kids wake up because—”
“It’s the best time of the day. It’s peaceful. I get that. I’m not accusing you of anything.”
Now she looks startled.
“Good,” she says, using the towel on her face again and then her cleavage, movements I greedily track. I never thought I’d be jealous of an item from my linen closet, but such is the sorry state of my life right now. “I just don’t want you to think I engineered this whole situation. For any reason. I’m not that person.”
There’s a wealth of subtext here, and it’s coming through loud and clear. No words necessary. She’s not a stalker. I get that. Never thought she was. Aside from that, she’s seen my apartment and probably googled me by now. She knows who I am. She knows how much money I have. She wants to make sure I know she’s not a gold digger. Which is, let’s face it, exactly the sort of move a gold digger would make.
But the thing is… I’ve been single and wealthy long enough now to have dated a gold digger or two. Or three. The thing I’ve quickly discovered is that they usually don’t bother to hide their intentions. They scope out my watch, suit and car. They drop little hints about the bills that are coming due or the designer bags they have their eyes on. Right up front on the first date or two, with no shame in their game.
Skye, on the other hand? I don’t get that vibe from her at all. I get the WYSIWYG vibe: what you see is what you get.
Nothing more, nothing less.
“The thought never crossed my mind,” I say.
Nodding, she looks away, hits a button and slows the treadmill down even more.
I hesitate, knowing I should hit the weights but unwilling to let go of this conversation just yet.
“I see why Marlene hired you,” I say, heading for the weight bench nearest the treadmill and making a production out of setting my water bottle down and retying my shoe. “You’re great with the kids.”
“That’s because they’re great kids,” she says without missing a beat, her face brightening.
Her eyes, man. Her smile.
Something turns over hard inside me.
Here’s the thing, folks: Skye Graham is sexy enough already. I’m already fiercely attracted to her. The situation is complicated enough, thanks. I don’t need the additional strain of seeing her obvious affection for my kids. I don’t need to know that she and I have early-morning workouts in common. I don’t need one more reason for her to fill additional space in my head.
And I certainly don’t need to tell her that I planned to call her.
If she thinks I’m a little bit of an asshole, so be it. It’s for the best. A small price to pay for navigating through this mine-filled situation without any explosions. We need to be throwing bricks on the wall between us, not tearing them down.
Besides, even if I told her I planned to call again, she probably wouldn’t believe me. Then I’d be stuck with her thinking that I’m a little bit of an asshole and a liar.
This is better. Even if it leaves me with a hard lump in my chest.
“Well,” she says when the silence between us lengthens and threatens to become awkward. She stops the treadmill and hops off, but the smile she gives me seems strained. I’ve seen enough of the real deal to know the difference. “The gym’s all yours. I’ll get out of your hair.”
I nod and watch her gather her towel and water bottle.
So that’s that. Our little kid-free interlude is over. Time to let her go.
And I mean to hop on the treadmill, crank the incline up to as close to vertical as I can get and run until I burn some of this desire for her out of my bloodstream. But I can’t get my legs to work, and my mouth won’t keep quiet.
“Skye.”
She hesitates, her hand on the knob, but doesn’t look back at me. Maybe the sudden huskiness in my voice has alerted her to my turbulence.
“I know we’re trying to work together.” I pause, my tight throat slowing me down. “I know this is neither here nor there at this point. And you may not believe me anyway.”
Her head comes around, but she’s very still other than that. I can see the wary vulnerability in her eyes from all the way across the room.
“But…?” she says, very quietly.
A smarter man would keep his fucking mouth shut.
But I can’t let her think badly of me. I refuse to let her think badly of me.
“But I was planning to call you,” I say, willing her to believe me. “I just needed a minute.”
There’s a long pause, at the end of which I fully expect her to laugh in my face. She doesn’t, though.
“A minute for what?”
“A minute to process how great things were between us that night,” I say. “How great everything was between us.”