Page 16 of The History Between Us

“I’m doing fine,” I reply. “I’m eager to get the sling off, but I’m not rushing it. I know these things take time.”

“Should only be a couple more weeks now, shouldn’t it?”

I nod. “Hopefully. Going from being fully independent to not being able to do hardly anything on my own has been a challenge.”

“You’re young and fit,” Roger remarks with a warm smile. “You’ll be back to normal in no time, I know it.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope so.”

William clears his throat. “Well, guess we better let you get back?—”

“What’re you boys shopping for today?” Roger asks, cutting William off.

I have to bite back a grin at the annoyed expression on his face. The humor is quickly replaced, though, as heat ripples through my veins when I catch him looking at me… again.

Since he’s been back in town, I’ve fantasized about having another taste of him more than once. I’ve gotten pretty good at jacking off left-handed, and I’ve come with his name on my lips several nights now. It’s one of the most frustrating things I’ve ever experienced, knowing what it’s like to feel someone’sbody against mine, but also knowing it can never happen again. If it were up to me, we would’ve been sweaty between sheets half a dozen times already.

I’m not one for repeats. Typically, once I’ve had someone, I’m good and on to the next. But the way I crave another taste of William is next level, and honestly, it’s probably mostly because there can’t be a repeat. It’s not like that with anybody else. If I wanted a repeat, I could have it from anybody except him. Maybe it’s the challenge I crave and not necessarily him.

“Oh, I’m finally getting around to buying a hutch I need for my dining room,” Whit responds. “We’re picking it up before heading back to my place so I can build it. What about you guys? Getting stuff for Winnie?”

“Yeah, we gotta make her feel at home,” Roger replies.

“Alright, Dad,” William chimes in. “Let’s get going. I don’t want to be here all day.”

Chuckling, I say, “Somebody is in a mood today, Doc.”

He scowls at me, which only makes me laugh harder.

“Okay, okay,” Roger murmurs. “We’ll let you boys go, but it was nice to see you both.”

“You too, Roger.” Nudging William’s arm as they stroll past us, I add quietly, “See you later, Doc.”

Whit throws me a funny look, but doesn’t say anything. After William and Roger are out of sight, he leads us back toward customer service. He apparently paid for the hutch ahead of time, and they have it ready for him. An employee brings it out to the truck for him, placing it in the bed. I don’t know why he bothered bringing me along for this journey. It’s not like I can be of any help to him at all while he brings this giant-ass box inside his house.

As soon as we’re inside Whit’s truck, he turns toward me. “What the hell was that about?”

My heart stutters in my chest as I avoid his gaze and put on my seatbelt. “What do you mean?”

Starting the vehicle, he says, “Don’t bullshit me, Colt. What was with the tension between you and Will?”

“There was no tension,” I lie, trying my best to hide the smirk wanting to come out.

“You’re so full of it,” he remarks. “I want the tea.”

My head snaps in his direction, and I snort. “You want thetea? Who are you and what have you done with my crotchety, cardigan-wearing Whittaker?”

That earns me a chilling scowl. “First of all, I am not crotchety,” he replies, holding up a finger. “And second of all, sorry.” He breathes out a laugh. “One of my new students at the clinic constantly says stuff like that, and I guess some of it stuck.”

“I can only imagine how fun that is for you,” I tease. Crotchety may have been a stretch, but Whit truly is the grumpiest old man-like thirty-something-year-old I’ve ever met. I’m not fully convinced he doesn’t fill his spare time at home crocheting hats or something for fun.

“It’s not bad,” he muses. “Do not change the subject. Spill.”

He pulls into his driveway, putting the truck in park, clearly not letting this go. Rolling my eyes, I unbuckle my seatbelt before turning to him and saying, “If we’re going there, we need to be a lot less sober than we are now.”

Whit pins me with an unamused expression. “It’s barely noon.”

Tossing him a toothy smirk, I shrug. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”

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