Page 346 of Steamy Ever After

Right?

Did I sleep so soundly that I missed him crawling into the other bed?

Did he change clothes? Strip down to his skivvies and slide under the covers? Skivvies, it’s a fun word, one my father used often. A smile curves my lips for a moment with fond memories of my father, but as soon as the smile appears, heartache and a frown steal it away.

As far as Drake’s sleeping attire, I’m keenly interested in what he wore to bed. I tend to sleep in a t-shirt and panties. Last night, I wore flannel pj’s. Did he, similarly, wear far more to bed than usual because we shared a room? Or does he sleep in the nude?

Here I am crushing on the man who rescued me last night when there’s probably nothing more than an element of chivalry going on. Like some part of small-town values that I’ve never experienced in the hustle and bustle of the suburban corridor which feeds Los Angeles.

I’m ashamed to realize that and feel foolish for letting my imagination run wild.

Honestly, this is the kind of life I want to live—small town, family values. To depend on your neighbors and trust strangers. That should be how everything is in life.

Unfortunately, that isn’t the way things are where I grew up. In Redlands, we don’t trust strangers. We barely know our neighbors. I never walked alone at night, and I always checked the locks and set the alarm before going to bed.

Memories of Redlands don’t come without mention of Scott: the man who promised to love and cherish me but demeaned me with his words and subdued me with his fists.

To think I almost married Scott.

What a mistake that would’ve been.

When I ripped off the engagement ring and flung it at him, Scott caught the two-carat diamond. His entire demeanor shifted, thrumming with the anger flooding his body. I grabbed Boston, my poor beleaguered fern, and ran to my car. As I drove off, his shouts sent icy tendrils down my spine.

“You’ll be back, and you’d better not make me come find you.” My shoulders lift as a flood of pain and regret run through me. Best not to think about Scott.

Besides, I’d rather get back to thinking about Drake and the whole sleeping in the same room thing.

What did he wear to bed?

Not that I’m on the market.

Far from it.

I’m so far off the market I don’t even know where Market Street is.

Why do I care?

Once again, I’m not looking at hopping into another relationship after the catastrophic fallout from the one I barely escaped, but that doesn’t mean I’m oblivious to whether a man might be interested.

The reason I obsess has nothing to do with Drake and everything to do with the fear I’ll never find my one.

With medical school and residency, the years are piling up behind me. I’ll be thirty in a couple of years. If I don’t find my one by then, I’ll be in my thirties when I have kids.

The one thing my parents stressed when we talked about the future was how important it was to spend the first few years of a marriage as a couple. Adding kids into the mix too soon, according to them, doesn’t give a new couple enough time to get to know each other.

Kids stress a marriage.

I didn’t appreciate hearing that—seeing how I’m their only child—but I’ve seen it in my medical practice. I’ve seen young couples getting pregnant. After I deliver their babies, stress builds. Doing the math, I’ll be in my late thirties before thinking about kids. As a doctor, I know complication rates skyrocket for women in their late thirties.

Why am I thinking about babies?

How did I get down this path? All I want to know is whether Drake’s attracted to me.

Can I even do the dating thing again? It’s been so long since I’ve made myself available. What if I forgot how?

The thing is, I want Drake to like me. I need it for personal validation that Scott didn’t steal my best years.

Drake interests me. From his no-nonsense air to the imperfections of that scar, I want to know everything about him. But I’m keenly aware of my deficits when it comes to men. History shows I’m a poor judge of character.

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