Page 70 of Conspiracies and Chemistry

“Okay.” But he didn’t release my elbow.

I extricated my naked body from his grasp and shut the door. By the time I’d used the toilet and brushed my teeth, I realized that standing upright pulled muscles that only wanted to curl in like a pill bug. I accepted that I wouldn’t be going to work today or—I glanced in the mirror at my snarled hair and pale face—going on camera in meetings.

I tugged on a pair of loose joggers and a Berkeley hoodie from my closet, along with a pair of thick socks, then I padded down the hall. Oliver sat at my kitchen table reading something on his phone, a cup of coffee in his other hand. He wore the green Dartmouth T-shirt that lived at my house now.

“I thought you’d be on your way to work,” I said, pulling a mug off the rack.

He jumped up. “Let me do that. Lie down on the couch.”

“I can pour my own coffee.” My voice came out testy.

“Of course you can.” He set a soothing palm on my back. “But I want to do it. Go rest.”

“I’m not an invalid.” I grabbed my laptop bag from the hook by the door. “I’ve been dealing with this since you were in diapers.”

He only hummed and popped two slices of bread into the toaster.

I shuffled to the couch and powered on my laptop.

He set a steaming mug of coffee on the table. “You don’t have to work today. You can take it easy.”

“Of course I have to work today. How else is the budget going to get done?”

“It can wait. Or I can do it. I’ve got my laptop. I’ll work in your study so I don’t bother you.”

“So you can hover over me? No, thanks. Go to work.”

He perched on the other side of the couch. “Are you sure? What if you need something?”

“Then I’ll get it for myself like the grown-up I am.” When his smile faded, I said, “If I truly need help, Savannah’s here. Go to work. They need you.”

He worked his jaw. “Fine. I’ll text you to check in.”

“Okay. But I might take a nap, so don’t worry if I don’t text back right away.”

He swallowed like he’d tasted something bitter. Worrying was his superpower. “Okay.”

He lingered for a few more minutes, bringing me toast and a banana, then a pillow and a blanket from my bed. Finally, he leaned over and kissed my forehead.

“I’m having an endometriosis flare-up, not dying,” I grumbled.

Grinning, he rested his knee on the edge of the couch, tipped up my chin, and kissed my lips. He was gentle at first, but I grabbed the collar of his sweatshirt and pulled him closer. I might be ten years older than he was, wearing a faded college hoodie fraying at the cuffs, and high on some pretty serious pain meds, but I was still sexy.

He went with it, bruising my lips, then licking inside with the bitter taste of coffee on his tongue. With a nip at my lower lip, he pulled away. “Better?”

“Yeah, I think so.” My head was swimming too much to remember which chemicals were produced by kissing, but they must have had some palliative effect on pain too.

“Good. I’ll bring you a scrip for more of those tonight.”

I crossed my arms. “You’re not that kind of doctor.”

“No, I’m the sexy kind.” He gave me one last, lingering kiss and walked out.

I stared at his ass until he shut the door.Isn’t that the truth.

Being alone didn’t feel as good as I thought it would. The room seemed empty without him, and I almost,almostwished he were here to refill my coffee when it was empty. Instead, as the naproxen dulled my pain, I set my laptop on the floor, burrowed under the blanket, and slept.

I woke when my phone rattled against the coffee table.

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