Professor Feelgood

  I’m constantly reminding myself that despite my extreme attraction to Jake, some lines just can’t be crossed. Sleeping with my author and best friend would be unprofessional and risk everything we just got back. And of course, sleeping with a man who’s still in love with someone else is just begging to have my heart broken.

  But even if all those issues magically disappear, and I’m free to act on my most base urges, let’s not forget my pesky intimacy disorder that would bring any sexual activity to a screeching and embarrassing halt. Falling for Jake amid all of these obstacles would be emotional suicide, and yet … I can’t help wanting him.

  Is it any wonder I’ve started making Mylanta part of my morning routine?

  There’s a saying that love is just friendship on fire, and it couldn’t be more true. Right now, I feel like I’m living in a burning building, and even though there’s a chance I’ll be incinerated, I’m just sitting here roasting marshmallows and humming the chorus from “Disco Inferno” to drown out the sound of sirens.

  “You sure you don’t want to join me?” Jake asks. He’s shirtless, sweaty, and holding some sort of crazy inverted yoga pose that makes all his muscles pop in the most distracting ways. I don’t know how he can only be wearing long shorts this morning. Even with him unintentionally raising my temperature, my gray fleece sweats are only just keeping out the chill.

  “Totally sure. Thanks for asking.” The one time I’d agreed to try yoga with him, he’d guided my alignment with gentle, electro-charged hands. “Lift this arm a bit. Rotate that leg. Get your butt as high as you can.” He’d said that last one while standing behind me with his huge hands gripping my hips. After that, whenever he said the name of the position, all I could think of was Downward Doggy style, and then I couldn’t stop blushing. Of course, that meant I kept losing my line, which in turn led to him putting his hands on me more, etc, etc. In the end, I only made it through fifteen minutes of slow-moving sensual torture before I tapped out.

  Now, he usually does this stuff before I arrive each morning, but I wanted to get an early start today, so here we are. I try to keep my eyes on my computer screen, but my head seems to turn of its own volition. He may be on the other side of the apartment, but because of his stupid non-walls, there’s nothing to block his insane physique from my view. I’m sure he has an unnatural number of abs.

  “Stop counting my abs,” he says in a tired tone as he lowers himself into a position where he’s holding himself off the floor with just one arm. “I’ve already told you, I’m not abnormal.”

  “Well, that’s debatable. You don’t like cake. That makes you a total weirdo.”

  “Yeah, well you’re a coffee-hater who’s addicted to coffee. Glass houses, lady.”

  I salute him with my coffee cup before finishing off the dregs. God, how can something with four sugars and a bunch of creamer still be so goddamn bitter? If my brain didn’t scream for its regular hits of caffeine, I would have given it up years ago.

  Redoubling my efforts to keep my eyes off Jake and his magnificent body, I go back to typing up his work from the previous day. Despite the constant simmer of sexual tension between us, the book is starting to take shape. Both Serena and Mr. Whip have been receiving chapters as we finish them, and they’re pleased with our progress.

  My computer emits a low beep as an instant message pops up on my screen. It’s from Joanna.

 

 

 

  Well, that’s mysterious and intriguing.

  I glance over at Jake. He’s doing a plank position with his feet off the ground. My God, his core strength must be off-the-charts.

  I grab my phone and purse and head toward to door. “Going to get snacks. You want anything?”

  He lowers himself to the ground. “Cheetos, M&Ms, Oreos, Cool Ranch Doritos, Fruit Loops, Snickers, a couple of tubs of Betty Crocker frosting … you know. The usual.”

  I shake my head in disgust. “How do you not have every single type of diabetes?” I open the door and step out onto the landing.

  “And Diet Coke!” he yells right before I close it behind me. Seriously, the man has the metabolism of a hyperactive Cheetah.

  As I head down the stairs and out onto the street, I call Jo. She answers after the first ring.

  “Howdy. First things first – did you get any video of Jake doing yoga?”

  “No. He didn’t take it well last time I did that.”

  “Did you tell him it was for me?”

  “Yeah, but strangely, he still glared.”

  “Huh. Unexpected. Anyway, remember you told me how he and Ingrid met at the Zen Farm in Bali?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wellllll, my cousin owns the Organic Chocolate Museum not far from there, so I got her to do some subtle sleuthing. She got back to me today with Ingrid’s last name. I may or may not have emailed you the link to her Facebook feed.”

  I stop at a cross walk and press the button. “What? God, Jo ––”

  “Wait, just hear me out. Jake’s never gotten any closure with this chick, because he has no idea if she went home and married her ex, right? Well, now we can find out for sure what Ingrid decided by snooping through her timeline.”

  As I reach Jake’s local bodega, I grab a basket and head toward the snack aisle. “But he’s made it clear he has no interest in finding out, and we have to respect his wishes.”

  “Do we? If he had a disgusting boil on his perfect body, would we let the infection continue to poison him? Or would we lance the damn thing, dress it in gauze, and then oil him down?”

  “Oil him down?” I grab Jake’s requested snacks one by one and throw them into the basket.

  “It’s my nurse fantasy, and in it, we most definitely oil him down. Several times. Then we give him a sponge bath and oil him down some more.”

  I laugh and pull a bottle of Diet Coke from the fridge. “Jo, I’m telling you, if we do this, he’ll be furious.”

  “Only if he finds out, which he won’t.”

  I load everything onto the counter and wait for the cashier to ring it up and bag it. “So, if she’s not married and she’s posted a whole lot of ‘I left my one true love in Bali, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt’ pics in which she’s crying and pining for him, we don’t tell him?”

  “Ah. Now I see the flaw in my whole, ‘He never needs to know’ plan. Because if she regrets leaving him, and he still loves her, then …”

  Then they should be together. Even thinking it makes me break out in a cold sweat.

  “But if she’s married,” Jo says, “which is the more likely option, then you can let him know and help him close that door, once and for all.”

  She has a point. How can he ever truly move on without closure? And yet, going behind his back doesn’t feel right.

  After paying the cashier, I grab my haul of junk food and head back toward the apartment.

  “Jo, I know you’re just trying to help, but I don’t think I can do this. It feels like a betrayal, and I’m trying really hard to be his friend.” And nothing else.

  She sighs. “Yeah, I totally hear what you’re saying. I won’t push you.”

  “Thanks. And I’m grateful that you went through all that effort. Your heart is in the right place.”

  “Actually,” she says, “I have situs inversus, which means my heart is on the opposite side of my chest than normal, but I appreciate the sentiment. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  After we sign off, I scroll through my emails on my way back to the apartment. When I see the one containing Ingrid’s Facebook link, I hover over it for a few seconds. Then, before I can change my mind, I send it to the trash and hope like hell I’ve made the right decision.

  _______________

  I’m in the mid
dle of unpacking Jake’s supplies in the kitchen when he emerges from the bathroom rubbing a towel over his damp hair. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see he’s dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans. It’s always easier to cope when his muscles and ink are covered.

  “Coffee?” he says, throwing the towel over a crate before filling a saucepan with water.

  “You know you have the money to buy a coffee machine now, right? You don’t have to continue to live like a reality show contestant.”

  He sets the saucepan on the hotplate and fires it up. “You and your love affair with fancy gadgets. Coffee machines, computers, functioning walls. You’re soft, Tate. Soft, I tells ‘ya.” He brushes past me as he grabs two mugs, and that’s all it takes for a buzz to start in the deepest parts of me. There’s a change in him, too. His relaxed demeanor takes on an edge, and his voice gains a slight hint of irritation.

  “One day,” he says, “I’ll take you trekking through the Peruvian rainforest, and then you’ll understand that while you were wasting time with your precious coffee machine, you should have been learning how to safely remove leeches from your private parts.”

  As he scoops coffee into the mugs, I put his Diet Coke in the fridge. “Please tell me this is not something that happened.”

  “I could tell you that, but it would be a lie. No man has known true terror, until he looks down while pissing and sees a giant Peruvian leech staring up at him.”

  I close the fridge and smile. “I worry about you. I really do. I can’t believe the crap you did for fun when I wasn’t around.” I lean back against the bench and watch him work. He adds creamer and sugar to the cups, and when he’s done, he shakes his head, his jaw tight.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  It’s clearly not nothing, but I’m almost scared to ask.

  He concentrates on the saucepan of water like he can make it boil with the force of his stare.

  I clear my throat and straighten up the silverware on the counter. “By the way, Serena emailed earlier requesting more detail in that last chapter about Ingrid.” Her name always feels wrong in my mouth.

  Jake crosses his arms and grunts a response.

  “Don’t be a diva,” I say, moving closer. “As great as your writing is, you always shy away from the emotion of your interactions with her. I know she’s a painful topic, but that’s the point. Readers want to experience your angst and heartache.” No matter how much I could do without it.

  “Why?” He keeps staring at the water. “Who are these people who get off on the suffering of others?”

  I shrug. “In any good story, there’s no satisfaction without struggle. The more adversity a hero has to overcome, the more we root for him to win in the end. It’s the only way he earns his happy ever after.”

  “Yeah?” He turns to me. “So, how are we ending this book, then? What’s my happy ever after?”

  “Well …” I get an image of him reconciling with Ingrid and riding off into the sunset. “Uh … we’ll have to figure that out. It could be your skyrocketing career. Or your ability to touch people and help them with their own emotional struggles.” I look down. “Or … you getting closure on the whole Ingrid thing. The sunshine after the storm and all that.”

  When I glance up at him, he’s staring, and the darkness of his eyes is more immutable than usual. “Uh huh.”

  There’s so much subtext in that simple ‘uh huh’, I have no idea what he’s trying to say. Is he agreeing with me? Disagreeing?

  “Are those my only options?” he asks quietly. “At the end of most stories, doesn’t the hero usually get the girl?”

  I blink for a few seconds, certain I’m misconstruing what he’s saying. “Well … if you’ve rethought your decision to not contact Ingrid, then ––”

  “I’m not talking about Ingrid, and you know it.”

  Heat starts at the base of my neck and begins to climb. I don’t want to keep staring at him, but I can’t seem to look away. He’s not touching me. He’s not even standing particularly close. And yet, every hair on my body is standing on end as a shiver of possibility prickles my skin.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.” His voice is low, but there’s a hint of demand. “For once, let’s just both be honest about what we want.”

  My lungs feel tight. Admitting what I want is difficult. I might not be the only one with something to lose here, but I’m the one who’ll lose the most. At worst, I’m a rebound. At best, second choice. Neither option is great.

  When I continue to hesitate, he comes over and stands in front of me, so close I can feel his warmth and smell his shampoo.

  “Do you know what I’d like to talk about?” He moves closer, just inches away. As he looks at me, his jaw flexes, and the tension in his body mirrors my own. “Let’s address the absolutely fucking insane chemistry we have. We can’t keep ignoring it, Asha. You know it as well as I do.” He drops his head, and for the first time, I notice how tired he seems. “Every day when you walk through that door, it takes more and more effort for me to stay away from you, and I can’t keep doing it. It’s too goddamn draining.”

  He looks at me then cups my cheek, and I suck in a shallow breath as his thumb draws a soft arc across my skin.

  “If you want me to stop, say the word. If you think I’m wrong, tell me. But if you feel the same way and want to quit fighting this, then … talk to me.”

  “We talked at the HEA party.” I try not to lean into his hand, but it’s warm, and I want to. “We agreed it was a bad idea. We had our reasons.”

  “They don’t apply anymore, Ash. You broke up with your boyfriend. The book is going well. There are no excuses now.”

  “You’re not over Ingrid.”

  He pauses, and I think I die a little in that moment. “I am.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He locks eyes with me and takes a breath. “I swear to you, I am. Can’t you tell that when I’m with you, no one else exists? Not even Ingrid.”

  I take his hand from my face and hold it. “But she’ll always have a part of you.”

  “Well, you had part of me first.” He puts his hand on my neck and leans his forehead against mine. “Remember when we found that old pocket dictionary in Mrs. Garcia’s trash? We’d flip through it together, amazed how circular it was? That every word needed other words to describe it.”

  I don’t trust my voice right now, so I nod.

  “That’s how I feel when I’m with you. You’re the person who describes me. You give me meaning. Even when we were fighting, I felt it. You’re the one thing in the world that helps me make sense.”

  He slides his other arm around my waist and pulls me closer. When my breasts brush against his chest, his mouth drops open as he inhales.

  “What if this doesn’t work out?” I whisper.

  He shakes his head like I’m not seeing the most obvious outcome. “What if it does? We’ve tried being enemies. It sucked. We’ve tried being friends, and it’s not enough. The way I feel about you isn’t platonic anymore. It’s primal. And no matter how much I try to talk myself out of it and rationalize it away, I can’t. Can you?”

  I put my hands flat on his chest, and his t-shirt is soft, but the muscles underneath are thrumming with a heavy, hammering pulse. “No.” It feels so good to let myself touch him, my breath catches.

  Nothing hollows out a heart more thoroughly than regret. That’s the message he sent when we were online strangers.

  “If I’m going to have regrets,” I say. “I want it to be about things I’ve done, not things I wish I had.”

  I put my arms around his neck, and we both feel a shift. All the restraint we’ve been clinging to for the past few weeks is dissolving, and the raw, overwhelming suppressed need is rising and replacing it.

  Touching him now, I don’t know why I ever thought I had the strength to fight it. Desire doesn’t care if you want it or not. It just lights up inside you, like a box full of fireworks all goin
g off at once. And sometimes it’s like a slow-burning candle, setting fire to all your nerves ending before leaving your body a melted mess of wax.

  The way Jake’s looking at me now? I’m melting.

  I slide my hand up along the side of his neck and into his hair, and he pulls me closer with an impatient groan. Then he leans down and brushes his lips against mine so gently, it makes me shiver. He stays there, not quite kissing me but also not moving away. He has one hand on my face, one arm around my back. As we linger there, I drown in the exquisite sensation of wanting something so desperately, there’s pleasure wrapped in pain.

  “No regrets,” he says, as if it’s a certainty.

  My body is vibrating, begging me to do something. Anything. I let out a shaky breath and tighten my fingers in his hair. “No regrets.”

  At last, he presses his lips to mine, and we both stop breathing as time stops. My heart is beating so hard and fast, I’m trembling.

  Dear God, we’re doing this. Jacob Stone is kissing me, and I’m kissing him back. And even though I can feel the irreversible tectonic shift from the safety of our friendship to the unexplored jungle of what lies beyond, my blood is singing with the thrill of what comes next.

  Jake makes a noise, and then he pulls back and kisses me again. His lips are open and soft, but everything else about him is wire-tight. I feel like he’s holding back from crushing me under the force of his need. When I feel the soft sweep of his tongue, I groan and search for more, and then, whatever tether that was holding him back snaps, and I’m hit by the full force of Jacob Stone’s passion.

  Hooking his hands beneath my arms, he lifts me onto the high kitchen bench. Then he steps between my legs and kisses me, hard and deep. Our mouths tilt and slide, and his hands are everywhere, strong fingers alternating between gentle and rough. There’s so much sensation pulsing through my body, I feel dizzy and high. When he grabs my butt and pulls me tight against his erection, I gasp and wrap my legs around his waist.