“Shame.”
That one word erupts between us with the subtlety of a grenade.
Her hazel eyes are a galaxy, swirled with color, framed by dark lashes and dark brows. They lock with mine and I know she’s about to ask what I meant by that. Shame? Her lips part just as the front door opens and my best friend walks into his house to find me standing alone with his little sister.
I feel like we’re doing something wrong, like we’ve been caught in the act. Natalie must feel the same way because she stumbles over her words, asking Noah where he’s been before launching into another speech about boundaries and trying to convince him she doesn’t need to be looked after.
Noah assures her he’ll ease up a bit and then holds up a bag as a peace offering. That’s the smell filling the room—freshly baked bread.
My stomach growls on impulse, and I can’t resist when he offers me a bagel, preloaded with cream cheese. I’ve been hungry for the last two hours.
Natalie isn’t going easy on her brother, even when he waves a cinnamon raisin bagel in front of her face in an effort to make amends. Not wanting to get involved in their familial dispute and having failed in outrunning my fatigue, I excuse myself and head upstairs, knowing the way to the guest room without Noah’s guidance. I’ve slept over before. The last time was after the Red Sox clinched the World Series in game seven and I’d had too many beers in celebration. I crashed on the guest bed and woke up to find a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol waiting for me on the nightstand. I knew it wasn’t Noah who’d left the hangover cure for me.
I scarf down the bagel in a few bites while I shoot my mom a quick text.
Connor: Saw you called. Just got off a night shift. Can we talk later?
My parents live in Kentucky, out on 450 acres of land smack dab between Louisville and Lexington. My dad breeds champion race horses, and his reputation is known throughout the state. Two decades ago, he had a four-year streak of Triple Crown winners, and business boomed after that. Everyone wanted a horse from Easton Farms. My brothers and I grew up working with him, and none of us needed to bother with a gym membership. We like to say our muscles were built hauling hay and horse shit.
My dad’s second love after the farm was football, and since every one of his sons was the size of three jockeys put together, he aimed his sights on another goal for us, one we were physically fit for. We had private quarterback coaches out at the house before we were in middle school. We’d wake up early and help with chores in the stables, rush off to school, and then hurry home for homework and private lessons after football practice. It wasn’t a big surprise when all of us ended up playing in college. I chose the University of Kentucky. My two brothers went to Alabama and Auburn, and both of them went on to enter the pros. I considered the option, even talked to scouts and traveled to recruitment days, but truthfully, I’d have probably ended up as a benchwarmer. I wasn’t as good as my younger brothers and I had other goals in mind, namely medicine.
When I shared my plans with my parents my senior year of college, a part of me expected them to be disappointed I wasn’t going to try to make it in the NFL or come home and take my rightful place at the farm, but they weren’t. Sure, my dad tried once to get me to swap over to vet school—so I could take care of the horses—but that discussion ended swiftly once I put my foot down, and now he never mentions it.
My phone vibrates with a text.
Mom: Yes, of course. I was just checking in, seeing how the renovations are going. Call when you get a second. Dad sends his love. XO
I drop my phone on the nightstand and walk over to the window to close the curtains so I can catch up on sleep. There’s movement below, and I spot Natalie walking through the garden, beneath the canopy of an oak tree, undoing her braids. She runs her hand through her hair and shakes out the loose strands. They shine in the dappled sunlight.
She reaches the guest house and touches the door handle, about to turn it and go inside, and then she hesitates and looks up over her shoulder—at my window.
I yank the curtains closed and fall back on the bed, completely exhausted.
Chapter Four
Natalie
Shame.
As in, That’s a shame.
As in, Connor Easton was disappointed when I told him we wouldn’t be seeing much of each other.
I resist the urge to squeal. I feel excitement building up in my abdomen, an all-consuming need to jump and twirl like a ballerina over the fact that Connor actually flirted with me for the first time in recorded history. I mean…it was flirting, right? It seemed like it. With him, it’s hard to tell. He’s never overt. His tone never drips with innuendo. He never leers or winks or gives any sign that he might see me as more than just Noah’s little sister.
“Shame” would never hold up in a court of law. One word? No, we the jury agree that you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Case dismissed. But then, as the bailiff tries to escort me out of the courtroom, I’ll shout to the jury that it wasn’t just that word. It was the phrase that came before it, when I joked about him grounding me.
“There’s an idea.”
WHAT THE HELL, CONNOR?
Was he trying to send me into cardiac arrest? Was he trying to give me new wicked fantasies? Because he succeeded on both fronts. I lie in bed Saturday night, accosted by dirty images of Connor doling out all kinds of wicked punishments after I misbehave and skip curfew. I have no choice but to tiptoe my fingers down my bare stomach and past the hem of my panties. I touch myself not because I want to, but because my life depends on it. My cheeks are on fire. My gaze keeps flitting back to the main house as if Connor could walk out into the garden at any moment and catch sight of me through the windows. (The windows are covered by curtains, but still…)
This isn’t the first time Connor has had a starring role in my late-night fantasies. In fact, I can’t remember the last time another man succeeded in taking his place. Even when I’ve been in short relationships with other guys, it’s always been Connor.
Shame.
My toes curl again and I yank off my covers, walking into the bathroom to give myself a stern talking-to in the mirror.
My hair is a curly mess. My lips are parted so I can take in as much air as possible. My skin is flushed, and my eyes…I can’t meet them in the mirror. I turn on the faucet, rinse my hands, and then adjust my tank top so it isn’t riding up on my stomach.
I watch the water drain out of the sink and pray my dirty thoughts disappear with it.
In the morning, I go for a long run. I push past my comfort level, tapping out near mile eight as my knee starts to scream at me to give it rest. I end up sort of hobbling the last few blocks home and head straight into the kitchen for an ice pack and a late breakfast. I’m glad Connor and Noah aren’t around. I’m not sure how Connor would react, but Noah hates that I don’t take better care of myself. It’s the plight of every doctor I know. We focus so much on tending to others, usually we forget about our own needs.
I grab an ice pack out of the freezer and prop myself up on the couch to ice my knee while I eat a protein bar. Lindsey texted me while I was out on my run.
Lindsey: Drinks tonight? I found a new bar I want to try out.