Doctor Dearest

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.Natalie: Just send me the details.Hopefully by tonight, my knee will be in better shape.

There’s also a new text in the group chat I have going with Richard, Luke, and Andreas—the guys who graduated with me the night before last. They want to meet up one last time before everyone goes their separate ways. I agree to dinner and drinks on Tuesday just before the front door opens and Connor and Noah stroll in laughing. My brother is carrying a football, and they’re both sweaty and in workout clothes. They must have just played a pickup game at the park or something. I can only imagine the spectacle they caused as women strolled by, expecting to go about their day without realizing they were about to stumble upon a bunch of hunky men engaging in daring feats of athleticism. Had I passed them during my run, I would have tumbled over my feet, distracted, and probably injured my other knee.

Noah tosses his friend the football over his shoulder, and after Connor catches it with ease, he nestles it against his chest with one arm. A cocky grin forces one of his dimples to come out to play.

The image catapults me right back to the image of high school as seen in every American TV show and movie: the star quarterback strolls into the cafeteria with his group of adoring fans trailing in his wake.

Maybe it’s the sweat-stained T-shirt, or the Nikes, or the workout shorts. Maybe it’s the damp messy hair or the pronounced veins in his muscled forearms. Whatever it is, I can’t take my eyes off him.