Page 71 of Doctor Hot Mess

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and rub my eyes, taking a moment to steady myself. My bed smells faintly of sex and Jonah—warm and woodsy, mixed with chlorine and the trace of my orgasm from this morning. It’s both comforting and disorienting, like waking up from a dream that sticks to me and lingers.

Pulling myself together, I shuffle into the kitchen for water. The house is quiet. The stillness presses just enough to make me wonder where Jonah is now. I'm almost certain I heard him swimming this morning.

He must have taken off at some point after that. I do the math, and I think I slept for at least three or four hours.

After finishing the glass of water, I check my phone. A text from Mason greets me and makes me smile.

Late lunch? I know you worked last night, but if you get this and you're up for company, holla.

I grin despite myself and shoot back a reply.

Always up for your company. Where you thinking? I'm game for anything.

Well, good morning, sleeping princess. Excellent timing-I'm starving. Usual spot in 30?

See you then.

Shaking off the lingering haze of sleep, I head to the shower.

Whatever this is with Jonah—whatever we’re building—it feels real, and it's deepening. That’s the part that scares me.

I told myself I wouldn’t cross that line unless we both meant it, unless we were both willing to see where it could go. But now, I can’t stop wondering if he’s ready to follow through or if he’s going to pull back when it gets hard.

He apologized this morning after pulling back the other day. I was certain I felt it, and he confirmed I wasn't crazy by addressing it. I appreciated it and realize that is more than he's probably ever done.

But with everything on his plate—Lila, his family, the weight he’s carrying—I worry he won't have much left in the tank to give.

Yet, here I am, wanting more anyway.

For now, I need Mason’s sarcasm and a giant sandwich to distract me.

ChezFonfon

3:06 PM

By the timeI meet Mason for a late lunch, I’ve talked myself into a semblance of calm. The patio at the restaurant buzzes with conversation. Mason’s already here, sipping a mimosa and looking like he stepped out of a magazine ad—tailored navy trousers, a crisp white shirt, and sunglasses perched on his head.

“Well, well,” he says, grinning as I slide into the chair across from him. “If it isn’t the woman of the hour.”

“Don’t start,” I warn, pulling off my sunglasses and setting them on the table.

“Start what?” he asks innocently, though the mischievous glint in his eyes says otherwise. “I’m just saying, you look... well-rested. Glow-y, even. Like someone who had a very interesting night.”

I roll my eyes. “Mason. I was working the emergency room night shift. Of course, I had an interesting night.”

“Any hostage take-overs or matchmakers posed as Jane Does?” He asks with a smirk. I just stare at him without dignifying his snide question with an answer.

“So, tell me. How’s Dr. Hotshot these days? You still riding that hunk of burning love?”

I sigh, leaning back in my chair. “You have such a way with words.”

"It comes naturally. Seriously, though. Last we talked, you said he was dealing with an Armageddon with that crazy sister. Have things calmed down? Are you two weathering the storm okay?"

"Baby steps. We’re still seeing each other, but he is a little hot and cold. Which is to be expected, so I'm not stressing too much. But I do worry all of this on top of having a quasi-recurring situation with a woman, moi, could be a lot for any playboy."

“'A quasi-recurring situation' is how you define whatever it is you're doing with him? You, my dear, do not have a way with words,” Mason says, waving at the waiter for another drink.

I laugh despite myself, shaking my head. “Well, what would you call it? We aren't committed. He’s never really settled for more than one fling, as far as I know. I'm leaving in less than two months, but I did ask him not to treat me like a fling. That sounds like quasi-recurring, to me.”

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