Page 11 of Sticky Situationship

“I’ll handle it,” I assure him, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek and patting his bare ass. “Just slip into the bathroom and give me a minute. Then we can pick up right where we left off.”

His gray eyes dart to the door and then swing back to me. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“What?” My brow furrows. If Brock doesn’t think I can get rid of Mrs. Peters in a matter of minutes, he’s never seen me in action, especially considering my motivation to get back to business right now is off the charts.

He shakes off the question, and his gaze rakes me from head to toe. “You look good, don’t get me wrong, but are you really going to open the door like that?”

Brock likes me wearing his shirt?I’ll have to remember that for next time. If there’s a next time. I give him a little push toward the bathroom and shove the thought from my mind.

“I’m decent enough to promise Mrs. Peters I’ll pop over in a half hour. You, sir, are the one who’s naked.” Not that I’mcomplaining. Brock’s birthday suit is one of my favorite states, but I’d prefer Mrs. Peters not see the goods I enjoy regularly.

He stands immobile, gazing at me. His expression is tense, as if he’s moderating an internal debate, but finally, presses his lips together and nods. Grabbing his jeans off the floor, Brock disappears into the bathroom.

I smooth my hands down the oversized T-shirt and make my way to the door, plastering a smile on my face as I run through the possible causes of a torso rash on a sedentary elderly female.

But when I open the door, the person standing in the hallway isn’t Mrs. Peters.

Not even close.

I blink, certain I’m hallucinating the sight before me. Because rather than my elderly neighbor—or any neighbor from our building, for that matter—I’m face-to-face with my attending physician.

“Dr. Bauer?” she says.

I’ve never seen Dr. Novak flustered, but the pinched brow that tugs her normally perfectly composed face into a baffled expression is confirmation her level of confusion matches mine.

“What are you doing here?” she continues, her gaze shooting over my shoulder into Brock’s apartment.

I would answer. Really, I would. But I’m frozen, my mind struggling to form a coherent thought, let alone generate a satisfactory explanation.

“Dr. Novak. I…um,” I start, suddenly feeling self conscious about my decision to answer the door wearing only Brock’s shirt.

Especially because my nipples pebble from the cool air in the hallway, and of course, I don’t have a bra on. I cross my arms over my chest to cover them before realizing the non-verbal communication signal I’m sending won’t help the situation. Whateverthe situationis.

So I uncross them and tug the shirt down, wishing it were longer. And even though I haven’t answered her question or invited her inside, Dr. Novak brushes past me and sets her utilitarian black purse on the counter next to my phone and keys.

“I…uh—” I say, still fumbling for words as I automatically shut the door and trail after her, shooting a desperate look at the closed bathroom door.

She stands in the middle of the tiny apartment, hands on her hips. Her low-heeled Mary Jane’s are only a few feet from our clothes—and the condom wrapper—strewn across the floor. Speaking of the floor, I wish it would swallow me whole right about now, but no such luck. Instead, my face scrunches up at the sight of the mussed-up bed that leaves little doubt as to what Brock and I have been up to.

Without warning, she spins to face me, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. “Areyouthe girlfriend Brock’s been talking about for months?”

Wait, what?Brock has a girlfriend? My stomach churns, and suddenly, I feel as if I’m going to throw up.

The possibility he’s seeing someone is like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head without warning. My mind races, heart pounding, as I process the notion. A wave of jealousy—hot and unexpected—crashes through me, and a numbing chill seeps into my bones.

“I…” I start unable, for the third time now, to articulate a complete sentence. Or answer a single one of Dr. Novak’s questions.

But before I falter any more, the bathroom door swings open, and Brock, wearing only his jeans, emerges.

“Mom.” He makes his way over to Dr. Novak and embraces her in a quick hug while I silently lose my mind.

“Mom?” I murmur, because what else is there to say considering my life has suddenly and unexpectedly turned into an episode of The Twilight Zone.

With an arm still looped over her shoulders, Brock turns to me. “Mom, I’d like to introduce Libby Bauer. Dr. Libby Bauer, I mean. Libby, this is my mother, Dr. Patricia Novak.”

“Yourmother?” I blink, trying to piece together what on earth is going on. My eyes dart from Brock to Dr. Novak and back, and suddenly, I can’t unsee the identical shade of charcoal gray eyes. How did I never notice the glaring similarity before? “But… But your last name is Harris.”

“I’m remarried,” Dr. Novak explains. “Harris was my first husband’s last name. We lost Brock and his younger sister Charlotte’s father over a decade ago now.”

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