Cheater's Regret (Curious Liaisons Book 2)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  Yeah, not gonna happen.

  “Tell you what, I’ll admit it’s funny when we can laugh about the spider chasing you onto a couch.”

  She jabbed a finger in my direction. “It had superpowers, and you know it!” In a flurry, both hands went into the air. “That bucket was at least five pounds! And he moved it with his head!”

  “The bucket was five ounces at most, and I hardly think spiders move things with their heads.” I rolled my eyes. “You were saying?”

  She wrung her hands together and then hung her head, all traces of fear and humor gone. “My professor says the video’s not good enough, that it has no staying power. The whole point of this class is to use social media for marketing and branding, and all I did was drunkenly post a video of you singing off-key.”

  “Wait, go back, you were drunk?” I hadn’t ever really seen her out of control, which made me wonder what caused her to go to that place to begin with. Was it me? Was it the class? Maybe a mixture of both? And why did the idea that she was thinking about me and losing control turn me on so much?

  “Not the point,” she said through clenched teeth. “Let’s focus on the dilemma—my dilemma.”

  A knock sounded at my door.

  “Yes?”

  Our office assistant, Mia, poked her head in. “Sorry, your eleven o’clock is here.”

  “Five minutes.”

  She nodded and closed the door.

  “Get there faster, Austin.”

  Austin bit down on her plump lip. I’d been obsessed with her mouth from day one. It was far from perfect, which was probably why I liked it. My job was to fix the imperfections—and it almost always seemed like a travesty to fix something that made people so unique in the first place.

  No amount of money or begging on her part would get me to perform any type of surgery on her.

  Ever.

  “I sort of came up with this new idea. You see, my professor—the one who hates me?—literally can’t take his eyes off girls with big boobs, and I thought, ‘Hey, why not do a project on his favorite subject?’ I can document the process of getting a breast enhancement, pepper it with other surgeries you perform, and at the end of three weeks, when the project is due, I will livestream, with your permission and a patient’s, a surgery. Not only would the blog be interesting because of the subject matter, but also because you and your office were just recognized by the city of Seattle. It would be great publicity all around, for you and myself. I’d also be helping brand you, which would most likely get my professor off my back. I know you’ll need to clear it with legal, but . . .” She finally took a breath. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think.” I sighed and leaned against my desk. “Other than, how desperate do you have to be to ask me for a favor?”

  “So. Very. Desperate.” Tears filled her eyes. “I have to pass this class, and you’re the only surgeon I would actually trust with this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well . . .” She shifted in her seat. “I mean, I want to go through with the consults and any other appointments leading up to the surgery as if I were one of your patients. That’s the only way to really document what it feels like, the emotions around a stigmatized elective surgery or the fear and excitement before going under the knife.”

  Hell.

  Her breasts.

  Her body.

  My hands.

  She wanted me to be professional when all I would want to do was suck her nipple rather than use a black marker on her skin.

  “I just need your expertise and I’ll get out of your hair,” she said quickly.

  “You do realize I’ll be actually touching you, right?” I felt the need to point that out, hoping to God she’d realize how messed up this was. It brought a whole new meaning to looking, touching, but not claiming. Things were complicated enough between us without trying to clinically examine her during the day while I dreamed of her every night.

  “Thatch, please.” She leaned forward. “If you help me, no revenge list, and you won’t be always looking over your shoulder, wondering when I’m going to pounce.”

  Okay, I did like the sound of that. I’d already had two sleepless nights and was about to change the locks—she still had one of my keys. Stupidity, thy name is Thatch.

  I opened my mouth to say no.

  To reject her—again.

  “Take down the video and we’ll talk.”

  “Remove the spider from my house and you have a deal.” She stood and held out her hand.

  Something told me not to shake it. The logical part of my brain. The part that said this would only end badly.

  But really, what could go wrong? Her threats of revenge were going to disappear, and our war would end without any casualties.

  I took her soft hand in mine and whispered, “One more thing, Austin.”

  “Hmm?” Her breathing was erratic.

  “You’re teaching me how to ride.” I released her hand and stood.

  Her mouth dropped open.

  I closed it with my finger and winked. “A bike. Get your mind out of the gutter, Rogers.”

  “I knew that!” I didn’t think it was possible, but her face grew redder as she smoothed out her skirt. “So, should we go over our schedule tonight while you remove the stupid spider from my house?”

  “Oddly enough, I’m already regretting this,” I said, more to myself than to her. “And yeah, how about we go to your house, I’ll remove your pet spider, and you can tell me all about how you’re going to use me to get an A.”

  “You’re a whore, you’re used to being used.”

  “Funny, since that word was written on your forehead this morning.” I paused. “Literally. Written.” I smirked. “Right there.” I flicked her forehead and grinned.

  “Hero!” she coughed into her hand and then thrust out her chest. “Besides, backward doesn’t count.”

  “Backward always counts.” I crossed my arms. “So, friends again?”

  “Well, we aren’t enemies.” She forced a smile and then looked down at her feet. “Thanks, Thatch. I owe you.”

  Wow, thanking me must have been painful if the look on her face was any indicator.

  “Oh, I know,” I whispered. “I know.”

  Chapter Eleven

  AUSTIN

  Thatch was supposed to be at my house any minute.

  My palms were sweating.

  And every time I thought about shaking his hand, all I kept thinking was, Holy shit, you didn’t just sell your soul to the devil; you willingly gave your heart, soul, sanity, and most likely your body, all with one desperate thought.

  Pass class.

  Move on with life.

  Away from the parents’ house.

  Away from politics.

  Away from Thatch.

  I was going away, but what exactly was I moving toward? I frowned at the thought. I hadn’t really considered life beyond graduation because it had been my sole focus—get out from underneath my parents’ thumbs, be independent. Then get a job, get married. I gulped.

  Why? Why did I always have to associate Thatch with all of those future-goal words?

  My chest burned right where my heart was located—bad sign, a really bad sign, that he still affected me in a physical and emotional way. No matter how many times I repeated to myself in the mirror that he was a cheating jackass with gorgeous blond hair, my body reminded me of how rock hard he always was.

  How caring.

  Thoughtful.

  The way he took his time when he kissed me, like it was almost more important than sex, and how he always, and I do mean always, laughed in bed at all of the funny and yet sexy situations we’d gotten ourselves into over the month we dated.

  My body was a treacherous bitch.

  And I kind of hated her.

  “Down, girl.” I placed my hands on the counter and gave myself another pep talk.

  This was business.

  Not personal.


  He was only helping me because he knew the marketing would be good for his own brand, for his reputation.

  He’s doing it for his job.

  Not for me.

  Not for me.

  Okay, all I had to do was repeat that like a billion more times and then I’d be good to go.

  I eyed the bucket in the corner.

  It had stopped moving a few hours ago. I was 99 percent sure the spider could actually sense my anxiety and was just playing me for a fool, like when armadillos play dead and then take off running.

  Wait, that’s the wrong animal . . . I warily eyed the blue bucket again. Regardless, that bastard was just biding his time until I lifted the bucket and gave him his freedom.

  “Not gonna happen, Charlie.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t name the spider?”

  I jumped a foot, pressing my hand to my chest and nearly stumbling into the granite countertop. “Don’t you knock?”

  “The door was open.” Thatch shoved his hands into his tight jeans, his biceps straining against a black vintage T-shirt. Why did he always have to look so perfect? Even his blond surfer hair was pulled back into a low knot at the back of his head, which usually meant he’d just gotten done with another surgery.

  “Be honest.” I needed a serious subject change. “How many body parts did you get to touch today?”

  He let out a snort and walked down the three stairs in the entryway, his body swaying with way too much beauty and arrogance. The bastard.

  “Six,” he said, stopping right in front of me. I had to look up to meet his gaze. “And lucky me, I got an ass today.”

  “Wow, just changing the world one body part at a time, huh?”

  “I like to think of it that way, yes.” His cocky grin took my breath away and made me want in all the wrong places. Very wrong places.

  I clenched my thighs together and narrowed my eyes at him. “Be honest, do you think it’s possible for a plastic surgeon to stay true to someone if he sees that much tit and ass on a daily basis?”

  “I’m pretty sure most obstetricians still like their own kids even after delivering tons of children.” He crossed his arms. “And yes, it would be possible, if the person wasn’t completely psychotic.”

  “Are you calling me a psycho?” My eyes widened—probably confirming his accusation.

  “You put a bucket on a spider.” He turned on his heel. “Then named it like you feel sorry for the fact that it’s trapped. You tell me.”

  “Because!” I marched over to the bucket. “I do feel sorry it’s trapped, it deserves to go to a nice home—just not my home—or any home within five miles.”

  “Austin,” Thatch said, shaking his head, “it’s not a puppy.”

  “It had fur!” I pointed at the bucket.

  “This fur isn’t friendly fur, it releases toxins on the skin and causes a rash.”

  I gasped.

  “Calm down, it’s not like you touched it, right?”

  I shivered. “No, I’d like to think I’m a faster sprinter than that. My mom, on the other hand . . .”

  He let out a low chuckle.

  “It’s not funny!” I slapped him on the chest.

  “Your mom in the kitchen, flailing her arms and sending a giant spider careening into the air near your head while you sprint toward the couch. Very funny, some might even say downright hilarious.” He placed his hand on the bucket. “And if you don’t want a repeat, I’d at least get on the chair or find the couch again, it’s gonna be pissed.”

  “Poor Charlie.”

  “Why Charlie?”

  “Because I think it’s a boy, and you can’t name a boy Charlotte.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.”

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry.” He bit down on his perfect lower lip, his icy-blue eyes alert, as he slowly lifted the bucket, higher, higher, and then completely off the floor.

  “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled.

  I covered my eyes. “I killed it, didn’t I?”

  “Um.” He wasn’t saying anything. Why wasn’t he saying anything?

  “Thatch?” I peeked between my fingers to see him scratching his head and doing a 360 in place. “Thatch, what’s wrong? Is Charlie dead?”

  “No?”

  “It’s either yes or no!” I snapped, jumping off the couch, ready to apologize to the poor spider I’d suffocated.

  But there was no dead spider on the floor.

  There was no spider at all.

  Just a blue bucket.

  And a clean floor.

  “Thatch.” My throat was suddenly dry as I whispered, “Where’s Charlie?”

  He grabbed my arm with his hand, his fingers warm as they dug into my skin, and then he whispered the words that no woman ever wants to hear.

  “Don’t. Move.”

  “Thatch,” I said through clenched teeth, “if this is a joke, it’s not funny.”

  “Do I look like I’m laughing?” His eyes were staring at my feet. I was afraid to look down. So afraid, but of course, when someone is staring that hard at something, you have no choice but to look, right?

  Slowly, I lowered my gaze.

  And wouldn’t you know? There was Charlie, hovering near my big toe.

  I was wearing sandals.

  The gladiator sandals.

  I was a gladiator without a weapon.

  Completely screwed.

  And as if Charlie sensed it, he lifted one of his hairy legs into the air, seemingly trying to taste the tension swirling around my pink toe.

  “Stay calm,” Thatch said evenly as he slowly knelt near the spider.

  “I’m trying.” My hands were shaking at my sides as the saucer-sized spider continued its weird mating thing with its legs in the air. “I think it’s upset.”

  “It was in a bucket,” Thatch hissed. “Of course it’s upset! You can’t even hide in a closet without freaking out.”

  “One time!” I whispered. “And it was really dark!”

  “Translation—you’re afraid of the dark.”

  “At least I can ride a bike.”

  “You want to do this right now?” He was still whispering as he slowly extended his large perfect surgeon’s hands out to the spider, and suddenly, I realized how this would end.

  The spider would bite him.

  Thatch’s bite would get infected.

  And he wouldn’t be able to do his job.

  Or pay off his student loans.

  Leaving him in debt.

  On the street.

  Naked.

  Dead.

  Thatch was going to die.

  “Wait!” I slowly lowered my body to the floor. Fear pounded in my ears as I held out my hands and Charlie lumbered onto my palms. It tickled. It would be nice if I weren’t so terrified of spiders.

  Shaking, I walked over to the bucket and gently set him inside, this time right side up, so Thatch could transport him later. Just as I pulled my hands away, something sharp dug into my skin.

  “Motherfu—”

  Thatch grabbed me just before I collapsed against the floor, hands shaking and pain searing through my right thumb.

  Before I knew what was happening, Thatch was carrying me over to the couch. Soft pillows met my back as he grabbed my thumb and held it close to his face.

  “Am I going to die?” I whimpered. “Because the Discovery Channel said tarantula bites feel like bee stings—they’re liars from the pit of hell!”

  Thatch narrowed his eyes at the puffy red mark and then slowly dropped my hand to my side. “You’ll live.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging. Don’t I at least get a sticker? A sucker? For saving your life?”

  “You?” He chuckled and joined me on the couch. “Saved my life by getting bit by a tarantula?”

  “Keep up!” Talking was at least distracting me from the throbbing pain. At least it had dulled a bit, though the fact that I had spider venom in my hand made me cringe. “If i
t bit you, you wouldn’t be able to do your job.”

  He seemed thoughtful. “You mean I’d finally get a vacation where I’m allowed to sleep for longer than three hours?”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” I grumbled, and tried to cross my arm, then hissed as pain exploded down my hand.

  He grabbed it again. “At least the venom is weak, it’s really just the puncture wound from the spider’s fangs that causes the swelling.”

  “Well, that’s disappointing on so many levels. I save your life and I don’t even get to turn into Spider-Man.”

  “Tough luck, maybe next time.” He winked.

  It was nice.

  Sitting with him on the couch.

  My legs on his lap.

  My eyes focused on his mouth.

  Abort! Abort!

  I quickly looked away but not fast enough—he caught me staring where I shouldn’t have been staring, and I felt like a complete loser for still lusting after him the way I was.

  What was it about Thatch?

  Other than everything?

  He was brilliant. Hardworking. Gorgeous. And he fought spiders on behalf of a girl he’d dumped.

  Damn it.

  “This leads nowhere,” he said in a hollow voice. “You understand that, right?”

  It was like he’d just handed me the world’s happiest balloon and then popped it with a giant needle.

  I was utterly defeated and deflated.

  Even though I knew going into this there was no hope of us getting back together, I’d officially turned into that sad, pathetic clinger.

  I’d always made fun of “those girls.”

  And now “that girl” stared back at me in my own stupid mirror.

  I let out a long sigh and nodded slowly. “This is strictly business, Thatch. You know how important this class is to me, how important getting my MBA is to me.”

  He looked away, his jaw clenched. “Parents still MIA for the most part?”

  I nodded.

  “And the reelection, I imagine your dad wants you to join his mayoral campaign again?”

  A sick feeling grew in the pit of my stomach.

  To my parents, I was a trophy. Something shiny and pretty they could trot out to gain votes from families who appreciated their having taken time out of their busy lives to sire a child.

  Granted, I knew my parents loved me.