by J. Saman
“What did you do?” I ask calmly, directly, not wanting to come off like I’m scolding an insolent child, though frankly, I’m dying to.
“I’m sure Ryan already filled you in.” Why does he sound petulant with me?
“And you’re not drunk?”
“No, Mom,” he says with a condescending note as he stares down at his hand. “I’m not drunk. Promise. Not even a drop of alcohol since last night at the bar.”
I sigh. His ungrateful tone is irksome. I move to stand, not at all in the mood for this. I could be at home sleeping instead of helping this wanker. “Do you want me to leave?”
He pauses for a moment, noting my new position standing next to him, before slowly shaking his head, and then nodding, and finally shrugging like he doesn’t care either way.
“Okay then, that’s rather unhelpful. I should go.”
“No,” he and Ryan say simultaneously.
Sighing out, I sit back down, just wanting this to be done already. “Remove all of that so I can take a look,” I clip out.
Reaching into my bag, I pull out gloves, sterile water and gauze. I don’t bother getting anything else out until I see the damage.
As he does this, trying to contain his wince, Ryan saunters over to us. “Well kids, I’d love to stay and watch this little moment play out, but I’m tired and have work tomorrow. I’m leaving.”
“You can’t leave,” Luke and I say in unison.
“You see, actually I can and I am. It’s been fun.” Ryan gives us a wave and saunters off without another word.
This is not what I was expecting.
“You don’t have to stay either. I’m sure my hand is fine. Believe it or not, I am capable of taking care of it myself.”
I ignore him, walking around the island and pouring two mugs of coffee from the pot that was apparently just brewed. I don’t like coffee, and I never drink it, but right now I need the distraction from being in Luke’s apartment in the middle of the night after everything he said to me earlier.
I turn around and Luke’s forehead is resting against the cold stone of the counter, his hand resting uncovered. Though the only lights on in his flat are coming from the sitting area directly behind him, I can see that his hand is swollen and bleeding.
I slide the mug over toward his good side, but he doesn’t even stir and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep when he asks, “Is it poisoned?”
“Poisoned?” I reply, not grasping tgraghis meaning.
He raises his head, giving me a smarmy grin, looking to the steaming black mug and then up to me. “Yeah, you know, with arsenic or Clorox, or something else equally as toxic.”
“Oh,” I puff out a laugh. “No, but maybe it would be an improvement if it was.”
“Ha,” he grumbles, but I see humor dancing in his eyes. “Thanks for the coffee,” he pauses, “and for coming tonight. I’m sure Ryan woke you up. I feel really stupid about all of this.” Luke’s eyes abandon mine in favor of the mug, blowing off the rising steam before taking a sip and returning his head to the counter. “You can leave. I’d rather not suffer this embarrassment in front of you.”
I hesitate, debating if I should say something or not.
“What, Ivy?”
His tone is only mildly sullen so I decide to proceed. “Your hand is not only horribly swollen, but it’s oozing all over your counter.”
“And your point is?”
“Just checking that you were aware of it.”
“I am aware of it.” He doesn’t lift his head or even move to cover up or dab at his hand that’s bleeding onto the stone. I can’t stand it.
I can’t.
Maybe it’s the doctor in me—it goes against our nature to leave a wounded patient—or maybe it’s the fact that despite my better judgment I still care about the arsehole. But whatever it is, I know I won’t leave him like this.
I round the counter, heading for my supplies that are still sitting out and begin to open what I need, looking down at his hand.
“Please leave, Ivy.”
“No,” I snap, beyond done with his rubbish.
Luke raises his head, his weary eyes pinned on my movements, but not my face.
It’s like he can’t look at me. For some reason, that hurts. I hate that he punched a wall out of frustration or anger or whatever it was he was feeling. I hate that Ryan said I was the cause. I hate that I care either way.
“Lay your hand flat here,” I command softly.
He does as he’s told with no argument for once, grimacing only slightly as I clean the open abrasions, pressing as gently as possible on the tender flesh.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks gruffly.
“Because you’re going to get an infection if I don’t, and then you’ll lose your hand and then you won’t be able to use your computer and then you’ll get sacked and will be out of work and I’ll blame myself, and guilt is not an emotion I particularly enjoy.”
He chuckles softly. His brown eyes, impossibly dark in the limited lighting, finally make the journey up to my face. I’m concentrating hard on his hand because now I’m the coward who can’t make eye contact. The air between our close proximity is tense and maybe a little charged. Chocked full of broken promises and a litany of unsaid words. It’s tangible and crushing, pressing down on my chest and hindering my ability to take in a deep breath.
“So, you tending to my wounds is really about you?” he whispers.
“Yes,” I whisper back.
“So none of this is for my benefit?”
“No.” I bite my lip to hide my smile as I apply the ointment to the now-clean abrasions, which surprisingly enough don’t require sutures, only a few butterfly bandages, before I cover them with gauze.
He leans in closer to me, feigning like he’s watching my handiwork, but his face is mere inches from mine. So close that his breath brushes across me causing me to inadvertently close my eyes.
“I always knew you were a selfish woman.”
“Yes.”
I swallow back the nervous ball forming in my throat. The fingers on his good hand brush the hair out of my eyes with painfully slow movements, before they skim around the shell of my ear to the sensitive flesh of my neck. My heart is picking up its pace, my body hyper-aware of his closeness and touch.
“There,” I whisper, unsure of the strength of my voice. “All finished. Can you wiggle your fingers?” He does easily, which is good, so I lightly press on the metacarpals and phalanges. “There is some point tenderness, but no obvious deformity. You may have a small boxer’s fracture, but I can’t tell without an x-ray.”
God, does my voice have to sound like that whenever he’s near?
“Thank you.”
His breath brushes my cheek again, and I realize just how close he actually is. He’s right there, and as I take in a reluctant breath, I’m bombarded with his scent. Mint toothpaste, fabric softener, and his cologne—which I swear I could bathe in happily.
I draw my head back, hoping to create some distance between us.
He’s stifling me.
He’s everywhere.
Surrounding me, invading me, and I suddenly can’t remember why I hate him so much.
Without warning, he grabs my cheek with his now bandaged hand, averting my escape and luring me ,back to him in a surprisingly affectionate motion.
I gasp at the zing of electricity his hand produces on my skin, and his mouth instantly covers mine. Luke groans out his pleasure and frustration, like he’s been deprived of my lips and this kiss for the last year and has finally hit his limit. He groans like nothing has ever been so right or felt so good.
His lips move against mine, slowly at first, tasting and exploring, rediscovering me as if I’m the most exotic, delicious thing he’s ever had. He licks his lips against mine before delving back in, our tongues dancing, more demanding and urgent than the first.
Dragging me closer, I melt into him.
It’s impossible not to. I’ve miss
ed his kisses just as much as he’s missed mine.
He threads his good hand through my hair to angle and position my head as he wants. Coveting me in his embrace, coaxing my mouth and body into full submission of his unrelenting kiss. Luke moans into me and I swear my closed eyes roll into the back of my head as my toes curl.
“So sweet,” he whispers against my lips, before taking another taste and pulling away, leaving cool air in his wake and a feeling of loss on my humming lips.
He’s never kissed me like that. Never made me feel so loved.
In the year we were apart, his kisses might have been one of the things I missed most about him. They were like phantom limb pain. I knew they were gone. That they weren’t coming back, yet I still felt the agony their absence produced on a nearly daily basis. My downtime was severely limited, but in the darkness of night, or the quiet beat in between traumas and patients, I thought of Luke and the kisses that always managed to liquefy my insides.
I have no idea what this kiss means, if it even means anything—whether it’s a thank you for his hand, or another attempt at reuniting us.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says with regret, his eyes closed tightly.
“Right,” I snap out, my kiss-induced fog instantly gone. “Yeah. Clearly a mistake.”
I turn my head to hide just how truly angry I am at myself. Just how hurt I am. What am I thinking?
I pack up my stuff and run out of his apartment as fast as my feet will take me.
He does nothing to stop me.
Chapter 27
Ivy
My phone rings the moment I reach the bottom step, but I don’t answer it. By the fourth call, I’m done with this as I furiously press the button on my steering wheel, answering the call.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says through the speakers of my car.
“I’m not following.”
“Sure you are, but you can pretend all you want.”
“What’s your point, Luke? Despite what you say, you didn’t even acknowledge I was alive until I came back.” I wipe at a tear that has decided to fall, because this all still feels like a fresh wound. “I’m the girl you cast aside when things get too serious, and pull toward you when the moment strikes your fancy. I’m done with these games! So I’ll ask you again, what the bloody hell is your point?”
“You didn’t say ‘bloody hell’ the first time you asked me.”
I growl at him, regretting leaving in such a rush so I could have smacked that beautiful face of his. I hear him take a sip of his coffee, which just irritates me further and suddenly I wish I had poisoned it.
“You’re not invisible,” he continues. “Not nearly as much as you think you are. I never wanted to push you away, and I didn’t do it because things were getting serious. I’m a mess. I’ve already told you that, but I’m sure you’re more aware of it now, but you don’t know the full reason.”
“Luke,” I sigh out, shaking my head in exasperation. I’m done with his cryptic non-answers. “You’re the one who keeps going on about this. I’m fine. I’m done. I’m not looking for anything from you. That’s all. So get over yourself already.”
“I’m trying, Ivy. I’m trying to get over everything, but I can’t seem to do it.”
I curse under my breath. “How’s this, then? I don’t want this.” I wave my finger back and forth like he’s standing in front of me. “I’m tired of trying to manage your mood swings and decipher your enigmatic unhelpful words. I’m absolutely done with the flirting and the kissing and the everything in between. I’m tired of you pulling me in time and time again, only to crush me after. I’m not exactly sure how many times I have to remind you of this, but I’m hoping this is the last.”
He laughs out. “That’s not what I’m doing with you, baby.”
I sigh dramatically, wondering why I’m still talking to him.
“I like kissing you.”
I hiss out but that only seems to amuse him more.
“It’s that damn smell of yours, and the fact that you taste the same. Like cookies at Christmas. Sinful and tempting, and so comforting.”
“Are you heavily medicated or something?”
“No, but I probably should be.”
“I’m never coming back.”
Another chuckle. This one gives me chills, and I hate myself for reacting to his voice. For reacting to him. For getting out of bed in the middle of the night for him and expecting a different outcome.
“Of course you will. I’m far too entertaining, and I know for a fact that you like me.”
“I don’t. And your confidence is not attractive, it’s annoying.”
“Wanna have dinner with me?”
“Absolutely not.” I shift in my seat, looking out the window before turning my eyes back to the road in front of me. I feel a damn smile creeping up the corner of my lips.
“I want to kiss you again, Ivy. I want to do everything with you, and I’m not only talking about making love to you. I told you before that I still love you and want you. I can’t seem to stay away. I meant everything I said to you today about things being different. I can’t let you go. I lied about that part.” He pauses before his tone turns utterly broken. “Don’t leave, baby, I’m so lost without you.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Maybe,” he sighs out and I hear him sipping from his coffee again “You’re not invisible,” he says again. “You’re far too beautiful to go unnoticed.” We fall into silence after that.
“You’re messing with my head,” I whisper after a quiet beat. “I’ve never met someone who says one thing and does another so quickly. I haven’t asked you for anything other than to let me go. You’re the one who continues to blur lines. You may think you are god’s gift and beyond special, and that every woman you meet should fall at your feet and worship accordingly. I didn’t ask for the flirting or the comments, and definitely not for the kiss or words of love. Grow up.”
He chuckles lightly at me, finding amusement in something I find none in.
I’m being serious with him, and his laughter comes off as patronizing.
Doesn’t he realize how much he’s hurting me? How his words cut so deep that my wounds may never close?
“I know I’m an asshole. I would lie and say that’s a new habit, but it’s not. I should stay away from you because I’m not a good man, and you make me think about things I’d rather not think about. Remember things I wish I could forget. I’ve breathed in fire and been burned by the flames, but you . . .” Luke trails off. “I’m in awe of you, Ivy, and that is as addictive as it is seductive. I walk away only to find I glow so much brighter in your light.”
How on earth am I to respond to that? There are no words when someone stuns you that deeply.
I’m so afraid of what he means when he says things like he wishes he could forget and that he’s a bad man, but I’m far too terrified to ask.
And then there’s the other things he said. About me. Things I don’t quite fathom and certainly shouldn’t care about whether or not they’re true. But fuck all, I do care.
I suddenly can’t stop the smile that creeps up my face while I simultaneously laugh and cry.
This man . . . I have no idea what to do with him.
“Have you ever noticed that almost all of our conversations are either sexual or really intense?”
He laughs out loud and long. “This conversation was a bloody brilliant idea.”
He’s trying to mock my accent.
It’s terrible. Only Brit’s say brilliant with regularity.
“Do you know how stupid you Yanks sound when you try and copy our accents?” I shake my head, but dammit all I’m still smiling. “Seriously, it’s awful.”
“Can you do an American accent then?” he challenges and all of our solemnity from just moments ago seems to have lifted, leaving us with our first normal conversation since before I left.
“I’ve never tried one,” I admit. I still don�
�t know what to make of this strange and very complicated man, but he’s hard to resist. He just is and I find I relent to him far too easily.
I pull into my parking spot, but don’t shut off the car or try and go upstairs yet. I’m desperate for this moment to last, though I know it can’t. Not really. Our issues are more than likely insurmountable, but I’m still clinging on, knowing I need to let go.
His torture is the sweetest of punishments.
“Okay. Try saying this then.” He clears his throat and I can only imagine where this is headed. “Luke is the most amazing man ever.”
“No.”
“That was not the sentence and you clearly still have your accent. Try again.”
I snicker, rolling my eyes, but he’s waiting on me so I take a deep breath and try to think about how the words sounded the way he just said them.
“Luke is the most amazing man ever.”
He cracks up instantly, probably because my voice was not my own. It sounded far deeper and forced, and the accent was way off the mark.
“Don’t quit your day job, darlin’. That was worse than mine.”
“I wasn’t planning on it, darlin’.”
“So are we friends then?” he asks
“No. Absolutely not. Friends is what got us into trouble in the first place.”
“Aww come on, Ivy. It did not. Please don’t give up on me. Just have dinner with me. Talk to me.”
I hate it when he begs. I feel my insides softening to him and I know, I know, if I give into him now I’ll regret it later. He’ll have another excuse or issue or well-intentioned reason for pushing me away. He’ll say it’s for my own good. That he’s being benevolent and compassionate, saving me from the big bad wolf, but I can’t do it again.
I. Can’t. Do. It. Again.
“I feel like we’re going around in circles here.”
“Me too.” He sighs heavily into the phone. “Do you still love me?”
I don’t respond. My teeth are sinking into my bottom lip as I shake my head and then nod.
“You don’t have to answer that, baby,” he says when he realizes I’m not going to.
“I should go. I need sleep and it’s really late.”