Page 44 of Ethan
I’d forced myself to slip free instead, pressing one last kiss to his temple before I left.
Now, sitting at the clinic, my chest tightened with the thought of what could’ve happened if I’d stayed, if I’d woken him on purpose.
The images came too easily: his mouth on my throat, his hands gripping my hips, the sound of his voice when he?—
A sudden thud jolted me back, rattling the counter beside me. My eyes flew open.
“Sleeping on the job?” Dean stood there, grinning, three paper cups balanced in a cardboard tray and a couple of brown paper bags tucked under his arm.
Heat rushed up my neck so fast I knew I was blushing. He didn’t say a word, but from the look on his face, it seemed he knew exactly what I’d been thinking about.
His grin was all the confirmation I needed.
I cleared my throat, trying to cover the flush. “What are you doing here?”
Instead of answering, Dean cocked his head. “Were you thinking about me?”
My ears burned. I ignored the question and started stacking loose files into a pile, pretending to busy myself with the mess.
Dean set the coffee down and leaned forward, close enough that I could feel his breath against my cheek. His scent curled into my nose, warm, grounding, and impossible to ignore.
The door to the patient room opened, and I nearly sagged with relief. Micah stepped out, and thank goodness, because a second longer of Dean leaning in, and I wasn’t sure what I would’ve done, whether to push him away or pull him down and kiss him.
Instead, I rolled my chair back from the desk and pulled Micah in front of me like a shield.
“Look, Micah,” I said, my voice a little too high-pitched even to my own ears. “Dean brought us breakfast.”
Micah frowned. “Why are you so red? Are you sick? And why are your hands so sweaty?”
Heat burned up my neck again. I tried very hard not to notice Dean grinning out of the corner of my eye.
Kids and their non-existent filters.
Usually, I had a snappy comeback ready for Micah, but not today. Instead, I wiped my palms on my pants, grabbed one of the brown paper bags, and peeked inside quickly before handing it over.
“Here. Dean got you a muffin,” I said.
A nudge against my shoulder made me look up. Dean was holding out another bag. “That one’s yours,” he said. “I got Micah a sandwich.”
Micah’s face lit up, and he snatched the bag out of Dean’s hand. I blinked, surprised that Dean had actually thought ahead, that he brought food for Micah too.
Micah’s attention shifted to the coffee cups on the counter. He leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he read the scribbles on the side. “Which one’s mine?”
Dean checked the cups, then handed one. “This one.”
“Thanks,” Micah said quickly, already shouldering his backpack. A second later, he was heading for the door.
“Hey! You can’t drink coffee!” I called after him.
“I’m late for school!” he tossed back without slowing down.
“Don’t worry,” Dean said easily, watching him go. “It’s hot chocolate.”
I turned to stare at him. Micah had been trying to steal my coffee since the first day he was tall enough to reach my mug.
The truth was, Micah liked the idea of coffee more than the taste. He wanted to drink it because his grandfather did.
Maurice downed his mug every morning without fail, and Micah idolized him too much not to want to copy the habit.
