Page 71 of Love Sick

His laughter fades and he takes a deep breath, lifting his forehead from my shoulder a few inches so his voice is a low murmur next to my ear. “Is it my turn to be tortured now?”

I nod and swallow against the sudden desert in my throat. “We could use one of the breakout rooms upstairs.”

Small group sessions are common in medical training, and the med school has a ton of breakout rooms—perfect for one-on-one studying.

“All right.” He heads toward the door.

We grab our bags and make our way to the elevator, then lean against the wall closer than we need to.

The breakout rooms are on the fourth floor, and the elevator is slow. Our hands rest mere inches from each other, but neither one of us closes the gap. I’m like a teenager in a movie theater, aching for him to hold my hand.

And the world is officially backward. I want Julian Santini to hold my hand.

Like he did by the pool. Remember that?

Pretty hands… Touching you…

Hmm. I’d almost forgotten about that. Maybe he does flirt a little bit.

A bucket of invisible sparks dumps over my head as the lustful creature inside takes control of my index finger and strains toward him. My knuckle barely grazes his, then retreats. My eyes go wide. Our heads turn toward each other. He raises an eyebrow.

“It was an accident.” The words topple over each other as they exit my mouth.

The no-smile lights up his stupidly handsome face. “You wanna hold my hand, Rose?”

“What?” Heat spreads over my cheeks. “No! Of course not. Why would you—no.”

The door opens, and I practically leap from the elevator.

Julian’s mocking laughter follows me. “Come on. Hold my hand.”

I glance back as I walk. His hand reaches toward me, inviting. A challenging glint dances in his dark eyes.

Heisflirting.Flirting. With me. And I have the vapors. I have officially become Mrs. Bennet.

My poor nerves!

Scoffing, I race toward my favorite breakout room. We settle in chairs on opposite sides of the table.

Our eyes lock and for some inexplicable reason, my breathing deepens and my thoughts scatter across the table like candy from a tipped jar. If he’s trying to throw me off balance today, he’s certainly succeeding.

“All right.” I try to smile. “You were supposed to study ovarian masses.”

He pulls out his computer, a little notch between his eyebrows. “Yes. I did do that.” He clears his throat. “Tried. I tried to do that.”

I narrow my eyes and retrieve my own laptop. “Why don’t you start with naming them?”

He taps his finger on the table. “So, you have your dysgerminomas.”

I nod.

“And you have—your—germinomas.”

I blink a few times. “That’s…not right.”

His shoulders fall.

“You didn’t do your flashcards, did you?”

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