“It’s fine, Noah,” I tell him with as much assurance as I can muster while my stomach is tying itself up. “Better not to rock the boat before we figure things out between us.”
He looks at me like there’s something he would like to say, but isn’t sure how to voice it. His lips are pressed into a firm line, and there’s a wrinkle between his brows that is deeper than usual, and I can’t decide if he’s worried that he’s offended me, or if he’s worried that I’m hoping for things that I shouldn’t be. The latter alternative is something I have a feeling would gut me even further.
Seriously, what is wrong with me lately?
“Sure,” he says finally, reaching with his hand to cover my own, still resting against his chest. “Not until we figure things out.”
And maybe part of me hopes that he’ll broach that conversation, the one where we figure things out, but either Noah is hoping the same, or he’s just not ready to have it. His thumb slides back and forth over my knuckles, and then he leans to press a kiss to my forehead, clearing his throat before returning his attention to the show.
“Oh, for God’s sake. He’s not even wearing eye protection! What about blood splatter?”
Despite my roiling emotions, I can’t help the tiny chuckle that escapes me. “They wouldn’t be able to see into McDreamy’s eyes if he wore goggles in surgery.”
“Honestly,” Noah mutters grumpily.
He’s still holding my hand, the warm weight of it offering some comfort in face of the errant thoughts flitting through my head. I can’t remember a time when I’ve ever been in a situation where I wanted to talk to a man about what we “might be,” and honestly, with the anxiety it’s giving me, I’m not sure I’d ever wish for it if given the choice. Everything about Noah and me was supposed to be a casual thing that we both benefited from, and as it’s slowly morphed into something decidedly less casual—I find myself stuck in limbo without any direction.
This romance bullshit is for the birds.
I snuggle closer into Noah’s side as if the heat of his body will somehow quiet the loud war raging in my head, and his arm immediately circling my shoulders weirdly only makes things worse. Apparently, against my will I now analyze everything Noah does, my brain forcing me to search for the hidden meanings that might not be there.
It’s fine, I tell myself. Stop worrying about things that might not even matter. Just enjoy where you are now.
I take a slow, surreptitious breath just to let it out, hoping that emptying my lungs will somehow empty my head. Not that it works. I close my eyes as I listen to Noah continue to pick apart Grey’s Anatomy, hardly even hearing what he’s saying as I allow the low timbre of his voice to wash over me, basking in his heady, warm scent that calls to my blood and centers me in a way that nothing else ever has.
It’s funny, when I asked Noah to be my fake boyfriend . . . I never imagined a possibility where I might wish for it to be real.
22
Noah
I appreciate the opportunity for employment at your hospital, but as my circumstances have changed, I feel it best to remain at my current position at this time. I hope that in the future should things put me in a position to be reconsidered, you will keep me in mind.
I’ve been staring at the drafted email to the HR department for the hospital in Albuquerque for the last hour—typing and erasing and editing things over and over and never being satisfied. I still worry that it’s crazy to even consider sending it; I haven’t been able to find the courage yet to even broach the subject with Mackenzie, and after putting my foot in my mouth a few days ago at her place when the subject of dinner with my mother came up . . . it makes me wonder even more if I’m doing the right thing.
It’s unlike me, doing things on a whim. But then again, can I really call it a whim? It’s not like I haven’t been agonizing over this very thing for weeks, at best. And now that I have the added revelation of realizing the depths of my feelings for someone who is supposed to be my pretend mate—continuing to ignore this looming fork in the road has become harder and harder to keep doing. As ill-advised as it may seem, I know deep down that unless Mackenzie tells me herself that she no longer wants to participate in this . . . new territory we’re exploring, there is no possible way I will be able to physically part from her.
Mackenzie Carter is in my skin now. She lives in my blood. Without ever intending for it to happen . . . my pretend mate became the very real woman I’d like to spend the rest of my life with.