“Yes.”
My hand slides up my thigh slowly. “But, a challenge for whom?”
When I get close, his jaw tightens. I like it.
“Run a finger up and down.”
My gaze flickers to the door. Window. Him. He’s leaning forward ever so slightly and I wish he couldn’t see how turned on I am. The evidence is sticking to my finger. I do what he tells me because I want to, and because it feels good to touch myself. He’s calling the shots, but I’m the one biting my lip. Rolling my hips. Letting my eyes flutter closed.
“Look at me.”
I do.
“It’s too easy if you close your eyes. You can pretend you’re alone. I want you to know I’m watching.”
I realize then that the cobalt blue sweater is deceiving—no Gap model ever told a girl to finger herself. He should be wearing leather. Chains. A mask.
“Daisy?”
“Yes?”
“Dip your finger inside and tell me how it feels.”
I blush so hard my skin prickles, but my middle finger is already moving, dragging back and forth across my folds until I gently press inside. Lucas’ audible groan spurs me on and I slip my finger in another inch.
I barely hear him reminding me of his order: tell me how it feels.
“Tight,” I say.
My first word undoes him. He steps away from the dresser and I challenge him by dragging my finger out and back in.
“Warm. Wet.”
Three words and Lucas is on me, tugging me until my hips rest on the edge of the bed. He kneels down between my legs and my finger is in his mouth. He licks it clean before releasing it. Then I use that hand to muffle my cries as his head dips down between my thighs. Seeing him there, feeling his breath hit that sensitive skin is sexy on a scale I’ve never come close to before. His hands hold me open for him, biting into my thighs until I bruise. There’s no escaping that first gentle lick. Only a taste, but he wants more.
He kisses the groove at the base of my thigh, the patch of skin just to the left of where I need. He circles the spot and only when my hand is clasped tight over my mouth does he let his tongue run across me. I buck off the bed as he licks higher, swirling his tongue and lapping me up. Lucas Thatcher has never fucked me, but with his mouth, he comes close.
Lightning ripples through me. I want more, I want it all. His mouth kisses its way across the center of my body. I’m all but spread eagle for him, my hands gripping swaths of blanket on either side of my head. It’s the best I can do to root myself down to earth. I feel like I’m falling.
He parts me with one hand and dips back in for more.
“It’s too much,” I cry, squeezing my eyes closed.
He doesn’t agree and he doesn’t let up.
“Too—ah! Lucas! It’s too much!”
When he adds a finger to the mix, I’m a goner. He pumps it in and out of me, working in time with his mouth. I beg him to continue. I’m promising my first born, the practice, every cent to my name if only he won’t stop doing that—right there—with his gloriously long fingers that seem to put out fires I didn’t even know were burning.
When I tug my hands through his hair and he hits the spot, I think, I don’t hate Lucas. I don’t hate Lucas at all. His fingers stay inside me as I start to come and my hips are rolling, pushing me up against his mouth.
My orgasm takes on a life of its own. It breaks records and sets new ones. I fight to stay quiet through it, but if I could, I would be shouting Lucas’ praises at the top of my lungs.
HEY EVERYONE. TURNS OUT LUCAS REALLY KNOWS WHAT HE’S DOING IN BED.
Maybe it’s for the best that I can’t. “Wa-water,” I croak, pointing to the glass on the bedside table.
Lucas laughs as he grabs it then walks into the bathroom. I hear him splashing water on his face and when he returns, I’m still floating on my post-orgasm high. Nothing is wrong, everything is beautiful…are those cartoon birds flying around my room?
I sip the water and hum in appreciation.
Lucas politely tugs my dress down and waits for me to gather my wits. He’s dropping a kiss to my cheek when the door swings open and my mom’s voice fills the room.
“Daisy! Are you feelOHMYGOD—”
She didn’t knock.
WHO DOESN’T KNOCK?
Her shouts are cut short when a ceramic mug shatters on the hardwood. Steaming tea scalds her legs and she winces, but her eyes are locked on us, frozen in the most easily decipherable tableau in history: Lucas hovering over me on my bed, my body flush from an orgasm, my eyes filled with an emotion I’m not quite ready to cop up to.
“DAISY BELL!”
At first, I think she’s furious, but then she laughs. And it won’t stop. She’s stuck in a never-ending loop.
“Mrs. Bell,” Lucas says. “Hold on.”
He jumps into action and grabs a towel from my bathroom to clean up the spilled tea.
Madeleine and Mrs. Thatcher stand in the doorway behind her like museumgoers. I didn’t notice them before.
I leap off my bed and slip on my underwear. I nearly lose my footing, but Lucas catches me at the last second. I’m reclined in his arms like he’s dipping me on the dance floor—no doubt, in this pose, we are cute as shit.
“It’s not what y’all think,” I say.
Lucas tilts me upright and makes sure I have my footing before letting me go. It’s a thoughtful gesture and everyone notices.
“Oh, do try to explain your way out of this one,” Madeleine says with an evil little smile.
Mrs. Thatcher grins, holds her hands up, and turns for the stairs. “No need to explain! I didn’t see a thing.”
“Hey, Patrick! Will you bring a broom up here?” my mom shouts.
“On it!”
I’m mortified. For the next fifteen minutes, the parade continues. My room is a revolving door. Dr. McCormick comes up to make sure my mom’s legs aren’t badly scalded. Patrick is helping Lucas sweep up ceramic shards and Kelly, bless her heart, comes up and sits obliviously on my bed. In the exact spot where I just lay. My buttcheeks were right there.
“Ooh, warm,” she chirps, settling in. “Are we playing games up here now?”
I’m tickled by her obliviousness. My mortification turns into resigned amusement, and out of nowhere I start laughing maniacally. Whatever my condition is, it must be infectious, because Madeleine joins in, then my mom, followed by everyone else. Even though I’m embarrassed, I still understand the ridiculousness of it all. It is like walking in and finding Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner in bed together.
“Ah-ha-ha, ah-ha, haaa,” laughs Kelly. “What are we laughing about again?”
Chapter Twenty-One
I was probably wrong to take things this far with Lucas. For much the same reason you don’t adopt a baby python because it’s cute (they only grow a few feet, right?), you don’t start fooling around with your lifelong rival just because you’re horny. It’s all fine and dandy to have a devil-may-care attitude, up until the point that the devil marches into your room, takes off your panties, and shows you just how much he really does care.
Before I started mixing business and pleasure, things were good. I had it all. An even temperament. A mother who could look me in the eyes without giggling. A multi-phase plan to take over Dr. McCormick’s practice. I was going places.
Now, I’m down one pair of underwear—I chucked them in the trash after game night—and the only place I’m going is Dairy Queen. Shocker. To my dismay, they aren’t open; apparently I’m the only one who needs a tasty treat at 5:45 AM on a Monday.
What is compelling me to stray from a 28-year method with proven results? All I had to do was keep a distance. Become a kickass doctor. Make Lucas cry.
It’s Lucas.
He’s the one that changed.
The minute he moved back to Hamilton he was all, look at me with my muscles and my fitted pants. I once saw him eating quinoa for lunch—QUINOA, a grain he hadn’t even known existed
the last time I saw him.
I should have realized he was after something, and now, it makes sense. He wasn’t kidding when he told me he wanted me to fall in love so that after he’s broken my heart, I’ll move away and give him the practice. He really thinks that word—that four-letter sissy word—will win him this war.
It’s going to take more than one cobalt blue sweater and a handful of accidental orgasms to make me forget who he is. What we are.
Enemies.
“Game night was fun. We should do it again.”
Lucas says that to me when we’re both preparing our coffee on Monday morning.
“Which part, exactly?” I ask, radiating my best couldn’t-care-less vibe.
He passes me the creamer. “The part where you spread your legs for me.”
My mug clatters to the counter as I turn and push him to the side of the small kitchen, out of view of the hallway. “Are you insane? Are you trying to get us fired?”
“We’re the only ones in the office.”
It’s true, we’re here ridiculously early. I guess I’m not the only one who couldn’t sleep.
“Still, Dr. McCormick probably has this place miked or something.”
His gaze drops to my lips. “So stop talking.”
Without realizing it, I’m pressed right up against Lucas, hip to hip. My hands are gripping his chest. His hands are wrapped around my waist and I cannot resist.
One kiss won’t hurt me.
Two won’t either.
Lucas’ lips are like a sleeve of Oreos: you know you shouldn’t have them at all, but you can’t stop with just one taste.
“These kisses aren’t for you,” I warn him.
“I don’t care.”
And then he takes over. He picks me up and props me on the kitchen counter. My back hits the cabinets and my butt crushes a few packets of sugar. They sprinkle out onto the floor, but Lucas is tilting my head back and tugging on my bottom lip.
“I can’t,” I breathe out in between kisses. “Baby python.”
“What?” he asks, brushing his lips across my neck.
“Oreos.”
The back door opens and the little bells on the knob jingle. Gina is humming a little tune to herself as Lucas and I jump apart and quickly try to restore order to the kitchen. I’m sweeping up the sugar off the ground when she comes around the corner.
“Morning early birds,” she says with a tip of her head before continuing on to her desk.
I stand frozen, waiting for her to come back and reprimand us for making out before the sun has fully risen, but she doesn’t. For the rest of the morning, I walk around with a shit-eating grin—that is, until my mother shows up and ruins everything.
My mother makes it seem sensible. For the next week, our house will be getting fumigated for termites—or was it roaches? I can’t remember. She swore she told me it was a possibility, but I can’t for the life of me remember having that conversation with her.
“When I was washing your hair! You don’t remember?”
I guess I’ve been busy lately.
“So there’s going to be one of those big circus tents over the house? Where are we going to stay?” I ask.
That’s when she pats me on the shoulder and hands over a duffel bag.
“I’m afraid that’s a question for you, not we, sweetie. I have a place for the next week, but you’ll have to find somewhere to stay. I’m sure you’ll manage!”
I’m 28 and suddenly, an orphan.
“Where are you staying?”
She kisses me on the cheek and starts to back away, down the office’s hallway. My my, she’s in a hurry to leave.
“Oh just with a friend. Call if you need anything. Toodles!”
“You say toodles now? Who are you?”
When I make it back to my office, I unzip the duffel back to see what she’s packed me. There’s a little note up top: Just the bare essentials! Hope I thought of everything you’ll need. Love you, Mom.
Sure, there are work clothes and my toothbrush, but she also took the liberty of digging through my underwear drawer. Half the bag is filled with lingerie, the kind I buy for myself when it’s on sale after Valentine’s Day but never actually wear. Where does she think I’ll be for the next week? On my honeymoon?
Lucas’ voice drifts in from his office next door and the answer hits me. She thinks I’ll be staying with him. What a little meddler. I wouldn’t be surprised if that house was completely pest-free and the exterminators were just a ploy. I mean, she didn’t even pack my phone charger, but the lace panties? The sheer bra? Those are accounted for.
I zip the bag up, toss it under my desk, and dial Madeleine.
“HAHA. No. Sorry.”
That’s her reply when I beg her to let me stay with her for a couple days.
“Madeleine! Come ON, you are my best friend. You’re supposed to be there for me when I need you.”
“Listen, I’d love to have you, but my place isn’t really set up for roommates at the moment. There are boxes…I’ll probably be bringing guys home most nights…you know the drill. Maybe next week?”
“You realize I’m going to be homeless, right? Like living-under-a-highway-underpass homeless. “
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Oh my gosh, are you in on this? YOU ARE, AREN’T YOU?!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, my boss is calling me. I’ll talk to you later. Oh, and make sure to send the address for your particular underpass so I can come visit every now and then.”
“Hilarious. Bye.”
It doesn’t take long for word about my situation to spread around the office. My mom told Dr. McCormick who told Mariah and so on. Lucas knows by lunchtime.
“I hear the Lone Star Motel has good rates this time of year,” he says, leaning against my doorway.
“Funny you should mention it, I already have a room set up there,” I gloat.
“Gross. Daisy, I was kidding. Obviously, you can stay with me, if you want.”
I reach for the second half of my turkey sandwich. “No need, Dr. Thatcher. I have it all taken care of. I don’t mean to brag, but there’s a garden view economy suite with my name on it.”
Turns out the garden view was a bit of an exaggeration. In my hotel room that evening, I actually have a view of the lumpy parking lot and an above-ground pool collapsing in on itself. The pool is filled to the brim with cloudy, blueish green water. Maybe it’s a bacterial garden.
I turn from the window and inspect the room. Faded floral comforter. Crumbling popcorn ceilings. Cracked linoleum tile. There’s even a handwritten note from the guest who stayed in the room before me: Watch for crickets at night. They’ll getcha. I can’t be sure, but I think there are actual cricket guts smeared on the bottom of the page.
No big deal. It’s 6:45 PM. Sure, I can’t sit on any of the fabric surfaces in the room for fear of bedbugs, but I can prop myself against the wall until I’m tired enough to fall asleep like that. Ooh, or maybe I’ll just go sit on the side of the enameled bathtu—oop, hello there, giant bloodstain pooled around the drain. If you don’t mind, I’ll just be getting my things now.
Lucas Thatcher, you’re about to get yourself a new roommate.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lucas doesn’t seem surprised to see me standing on his doorstep. He has a water bottle filled with ice in one hand, like he was in the middle of filling it up. He’s wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt, and I shiver at the possibilities his waistband hints at.
He steps back and waves me in, like this isn’t the most insane idea ever.
“I was about to go to the gym.”
“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”
“I know why you’re here. That motel is disgusting. I heard they’re weeks away from condemning the whole place.”
“Sounds about right. Now I know why it’s called the lone star—it’s the Yelp rating.”
His loft is massive, with exp
osed beams on the ceiling and original shiplap walls. It has an open floor plan so the living room and kitchen are all one big space. The light from the sunset streams in through the industrial-sized windows covering the entire back wall of the loft. It’s nice, which throws me for a loop.
I’m still inspecting the place when he takes the duffel bag from my hand and sets it down beside the kitchen island. Then he goes back to filling his water bottle.
I stay right where I am on his welcome mat.
“Hey Lucas, have you heard about that Christmas Eve truce during World War I?”
“When the soldiers on both sides climbed out of their trenches and drunkenly sang Christmas carols and played soccer together?”
I nod. “That’s what this is. The minute I move back home, the war continues.”
He laughs as he approaches and grabs a small gym bag hanging near the door. “It’s not Christmas Eve.”
“I’m just saying, don’t get too comfortable outside your trench.”
“Right. What are you going to do while I’m gone?”
“Probably stand right here, wondering what mistakes have led me to this.”
He looks like he’s going to lean in and kiss my cheek, but he doesn’t. “Well if you ever make it off the welcome mat, make yourself at home.”
Ha.
Home.
Home inside Lucas Thatcher’s loft—what a ridiculous concept. It’s not that I don’t want to be there. For years, I dreamed of stepping foot inside a space that belonged to him, but those dreams usually involved a ski mask and a bottle of Nair. He leaves for the gym and I’m there in his space, unsupervised and free to do anything I please. There’s a stack of his mail on the kitchen counter. I could root through it and throw away his bills, ruin his credit. On his coffee table sits a worn paperback. I could move his bookmark up a few pages, or write spoilers in the margins. His laptop. His DVR. All of it would be so easy to tamper with, but in the end, I stay right on that welcome mat until he returns from the gym.
The door hits me in the back of the head when he walks in.