Page 16 of Caught Up In You

“Let’s just hope we get a little breather between strep and the onslaught of spring allergies,” she continues.

“We won’t,” I reply. This is only my third year in private practice, but that’s long enough to know the rhythms of small-town pediatrics. “Not unless we get another snowstorm in March.”

Fatima lets out a long sigh. “Tell me again why I moved to Indiana?” She grew up in Miami, went to undergrad and med school at the University of Florida, and did her residency at the Children’s Hospital of Atlanta. Her first Indiana winter has been a harsh wake-up call.

“Because you interviewed the weekend of the state fair and were swayed by the wonder that is the pork tenderloin sandwich?” I offer.

“That deep-fried piece of heaven seemed like enough, but then the temperature dropped below zero and I discovered a new kind of cold,” she says.

“Welcome to the Midwest!”

“My people are from Nigeria. We are not made for this,” she says, giving me the stink eye. She can complain all she wants—I heard her shrieks of delight as she sledded down the hill behind our office back in January. And again in February. Twice. “I’m heading out. Daphne’s making me some fancy three-day lasagna she saw on YouTube. You have any Valentine’s Day plans?”

I shake my head. “Sleeping,” I say, feeling the oncoming yawn creep into my jaw. “Amelia Harper’s mother called me twice during the night to update me on the state of her daughter’s stool.”

“Did she finally pass that battery?” Fatima asks.

“At four seventeen a.m.” The yawn overtakes me. “I couldn’t get back to sleep after that.”

She grimaces. “What the hell did you do all morning?”

“I rode my Peloton until I couldn’t feel my legs.”

“You’re a freak,” she says. “And you need a date.”

“What I need is a nap.”

Fatima crosses my tiny office and leans toward me across the desk, both palms flat against the wood. “I’m here now, Owen. That means you have time to do both.”

Then she winks, turns, and struts out of my office like a woman with some very good Valentine’s Day plans.

I pull out my phone, and after a few taps, the familiar screen appears. Immediately, my phone feels warm, the brief text exchange with Wyatt Hart like a worry stone in my palm. Her messages to me are a month old now. The last one was sent at almost midnight on Friday, January 13.

And every day since then, I’ve imagined texting her again. I’ve imagined kissing her again. I’ve imagined pushing her into my truck and seeing if her needy pussy was as wet as I imagined.

I don’t know if it’s because our night was interrupted or if it’s something more, but I cannot get this woman out of my head.

Which is a problem, because Wyatt iseverywhere. She’s behind the bar where I meet my brothers after work. She’s tagging along with my sister to family dinners. She’s even in my office, sitting beside her sister while I perform her niece’s well-child exams.

And every time I see her, she acts like nothing happened. Nothing on her face ever betrays that we kissed, that I touched her, that I was minutes away from dragging her into my truck, peeling down those jeans, and burying myself inside her.

Get in some trouble.

Thanks a fucking lot, Francie. I was supposed to have a one-night stand, and we didn’t even get the one night. All I have is this text exchange. Otherwise I could maybe convince myself I made the whole thing up.

But I guess the fact that I’ve been hopelessly pining for this woman for the last month is a sign that a one-night stand was never going to work for me. I tried to be something I’m not, and this is what I get: a month-long erection and a collection of filthy yet unsatisfying dreams.

My phone vibrates, and my heart leaps into my throat. But it’s not Wyatt. Why would it be?

It’s my twin brother.

Felix

Finished at the site. Headed to the Half Pint. You coming?

My first instinct is to say no. I even type it. I’m exhausted, work is only going to get harder this week, and drinking with my brother is not how I want to spend Valentine’s Day.

But then I picture the little pink-haired spitfire behind the bar.

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