Page 9 of Sticky Situationship

Zoe drops the bag of gummy worms back into her pocket with a shrug. “Me neither, but think about it, Lib. You two have physical chemistry in spades, but every time I ask about him, that’s not what you mention. You light up and gush about something funny he said, or the way he left a bag of coffee beans with a handwritten note for you at the front desk, or the way he always checks in on you after a long day. You can’t tell me that’s what you’d focus on if all it is between you two is great sex.”

Her words carry a sting of truth, but still. “We’re just having fun until…” I trail off because I’ve never given a thought to what might happen down the road. After my residency and boards and—

“Until you realize he’s actual boyfriend material.”

“I can’t manage a boyfriend right now, Zoe. That’s the point.” It doesn’t matter how well Brock fits the bill. How much I look forward to seeing him. How I feel when he answers the door and shoots me that adorable, sexy, lopsided grin. That even though I’m still bleary-eyed and running on caffeine, the past few months haven’t been the blur the last three years were. They’ve been…great.

I shake my head to clear that train of thought and focus. “I’ve got boards in two months, and I just swore up and down to Dr. Novak that I’ll spend every spare hour preparing, like I should have been doing for the past few months.”

“So, you are going to cut off things with him?”

I stop pacing and turn to her, my shoulders falling as I face the facts. “I have to. Becoming a physician, finishing my residency and passing the boards has been the goal for as long as I can remember. Ever since my dad died. That’s the priority, no matter how I feel about Brock.”

Zoe rises and wraps her arms around me. “I know, hon, but it’s not an either-or situation. Years ago, you pressed the pause button on any sort of social life in pursuit of becoming a doctor, but there’s more to Libby Bauer than having an MD after her name.”

Brock

The largest drinking glassin my cupboard will have to do. I don’t own a vase to hold the bouquet the florist at White Glove assured me will strike just the right balance—friendly yet romantic—after I tried to describe the situation with the girl next door. But now that Libby is in the hallway unlocking her Fort Knox of a front door, doubt creeps in.

What am I doing?A dozen light-pink roses and white baby’s breath are too much. They’re not the flick of a blinker to signal a lane change and see if she’s along for the ride. They’re more like the swerve an Indy 500 driver would employ. Bold. Confident. And likely to eject an unsuspecting passenger with no warning.

A bouquet won’t work when it comes to feeling out whether Libby’s open to more. Whether the arrangement between us is the start of something real or the only thing she ever wants.

I grab the glass, ready to toss the flowers into the trash, but I can’t bring myself to do it. They’re fresh and beautiful. And cost eighty-five dollars. I could take them to Sunday dinner and givethem to my mom. She’d question my sanity, of course, but I’d rather face the third degree probing questions she’d pepper me with as if I was a patient, rather than risk wrecking things with Libby before they really get started.

I open a cabinet and stuff the flowers out of sight. Maybe, I’ll see how tonight goes and then do flowers another time. Once I’ve felt her out.

Taking a deep breath, I pull my phone from my pocket and move on to the second, and hopefully better, idea I had when I considered Jake’s advice. Food. Everyone’s got to eat, right? And sure, Libby and I have never shared a meal, but she orders lasagna from the little Italian place around the corner at least once a week. I call for delivery of two orders of the lasagna and add on a salad and garlic knots for good measure.

With that done, the only thing left to do is wait. I’m almost certain Libby will come knocking tonight. Thursday’s are usually a lock for her. Maybe, because she knows I’m always here after eight. Or maybe, the stress of the week is getting to her by this point and she needs to relieve some tension. Either way, I’m not complaining.

And if she hasn’t knocked by the time the food comes, I’ll have a plausible reason to stop by. Except now, I’m so eager to see her I’m sweating like a teenager on prom night. I head over to the dresser to grab a fresh shirt, and sure enough, just as I’m slipping it on, there’s a familiar soft tap on the door.

Within seconds, I’m swinging it open with a wide smile that immediately fades.

“What’s wrong?” My heart constricts as I instinctively reach for Libby, the strained expression on her lovely face spiking my concern.

Her emerald eyes widen, and a pained look transforms her features for the briefest second before she forces a smile. One I can see through from a mile away.

“Nothing,” she insists, adding a small shrug and trying for casual. But her voice lacks conviction and her curls are tousled, as if she’s been running her fingers through them—a habit Libby employs when she’s got something on her mind or has had a particularly tough day.

I tug her close, praying she doesn’t notice the staccato pounding of my heart. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” But the way she wraps her arms around my waist and melts against me reveals her lie.

I hold her, breathing in the familiar floral scent of her shampoo, and close my eyes. I want to dig, to find out what is going on, to support her. But as much as I want to assure this strong, independent woman that no matter what, I’m here for her, that’s not how things work between us. At least, not yet.

So even though it kills me, I bite my tongue on further questioning and murmur, “I’m glad you came over.”

Rather than answer, she draws back and presses up on her toes to kiss me. Her full lips meet mine with an urgent fervor that takes me by surprise. Her fingers slip into the waistband of my jeans and tug me closer. Chemistry has never been an issue between us. Many times, Libby and I have gone at it with barely a word spoken until after we’re both satisfied. But something about this kiss feels different. As if it’s the first crack of lightning from an incoming storm on the horizon.

But before I can process another coherent thought, Libby deepens the kiss, stroking my lip with her tongue and seeking entrance. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through me, and within seconds, I’m as hard as a pike pole. Sensing what she needs, I respond, matching her passion with my own. My tongue dances with hers and determination surges through my veins. I want to deliver for her tonight, more than ever before.

Without breaking contact, I pull her inside and close the door, pinning Libby’s soft curves hard against the wood with my hipsand drawing a moan from deep in her throat. I cup either side of her face with my hands, my thumbs caressing her cheekbones. Our breaths mingle, and she slides her hands up under my T-shirt and rakes her nails down my back.

The passion in Libby’s movements and the fact I’m the one she sought out tonight doesn’t erase the concern that filled me the moment I opened the door. But it eases my apprehension. And provides the encouragement I need to follow through on my plan to put myself out there. To ‘signal a lane change’ as Jake advised, one that just might work out exactly as I hope, after all.

We break apart, our breath coming hard and fast as we move inside, stepping into the kitchen where she drops her keys and phone with a soft clatter in their usual spot on the counter. I come up behind her, not wanting to lose contact for even a second. My hands settle on her hips, and I bend close, enveloping her from behind as I trail my lips and tongue along her jawline the way she likes. She rolls her neck, relaxing into my touch and granting me greater access, her breasts heaving as her eyes fall shut.

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