Page 84 of Near Miss

Not even his body touching mine.

Just him. His smile—the one that makes his dimple cut through the dusting of stubble always peppering his face. His laugh—the one where he tips his head back and exposes the column of his throat. The way his hands start moving and his gestures get wider and wider when he’s excited about something.

I’m doing a poor job of it because I’m debating going to the bookstore tomorrow morning—he mentioned in passing he wanted to know more about the military strategies of the Achaemenid Empire—when the table of residents beside me erupts into some sort of excited screaming, with palms slapping on tables.

My heart stumbles, my chest tightens, and there’s a faint tang of metal or blood in my mouth, but I roll my shoulders back and even though I shouldn’t, I do let myself picture Beckett on his knees—the way he nodded softly, eyes only on mine, breathing in and out when I did.

It feels a bit more muffled than it usually would, and I do have my Lorazepam this time, but I don’t think I need it.

I’m not in the car. I’m here.

I blink, and it’s not Beckett there in front of me.

His brother stares at me expectantly from the table making all the noise.

“Dr. Roberts!” Dr. Davis waves a hand, pushing back in his seat. “Thought you might want to know your boyfriend just stopped a 60-yard kick-return.”

“Pardon?” I arch a brow.

Dr. Davis blinks, like he can’t believe what he just did, and makes a noncommittal jerk of his head, while all his friends look back and forth between us like we’re a particularly gripping tennis match.

He points to his phone, propped up against one of the towering vases and clears his throat. “Beck—he, uh. He’s having a good game. Hasn’t been a tackle like that from a kicker in years. Fifty-yard field goal in the first, and uh—”

“I know.” I pull my phone from my purse. “I can get updates from SportsCentre like anyone else. And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“We’re watching live.” He swallows, gesturing uselessly to his phone again. “You could—” He tips his chin to the empty seat beside him. “You could watch with us.”

He runs a palm along his jaw, and it’s a distinctly Beckett gesture. But his eyes are glassy, and a flush rises on his cheeks. My eyebrows knit. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Enough to work up the courage to ask you to sit with me.” He shrugs one shoulder.

All the other residents around the table keep looking back and forth between us, eyes wide and trepidatious.

Dr. Davis gives me an expectant grin, pointing towards the chair again.

“Fine.” I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose and blink at him.

Relief washes over him and I think they all breathe out, too, when he pulls out the chair.

He points between the open bottles of wine on the table as I sit down, and I nod at the white. His eyes light up and he proceeds to dump significantly more wine in the glass than an acceptable pour.

He looks a bit like a puppy, too, when he hands it to me, golden hair flopping everywhere, eyes like his brother’s, and the buttons of his suit jacket undone.

I raise my eyebrows. “Thank you, Dr. Davis.”

“You can call me Nathaniel.” He smiles at me, blinking in this weird sort of hopeful way, like he’s waiting for me to return the sentiment.

I don’t.

“Okay then.” He clears his throat before turning to pour himself more wine. “Anyway, Beck looks great tonight.”

Taking a sip of my wine, I roll my shoulders back into the chair while they all stare at me like they’re waiting for me to erupt. I narrow my eyes and feel like telling them that if they’d all stop being so chaotic and clumsy, sending my nervous system firing all the time, I might not need to yell.

It’s not very hard to grip a retractor.

But I think of my sister—of Beckett—and I exhale, pointing to the phone. “Your brother always looks great.”

A beautiful smile must be an inherited Davis family trait, because Nathaniel lights up like the sun. “He does, doesn’t he?” He studies me for a minute, a crease scoring between his brows. “Are you sure you two aren’t—”

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