by Lisa Acerbo
“Challenging case?” I ask.
He jumps slightly and stares at me. “Hey there.” His voice is soft like a flower petal.
“Sorry to bother you. Just wanted to say goodnight.”
“No bother. Reading Mr. Pijar’s X-rays. Complicated break.”
I’m not sure how to reply. I just answer phones, book appointments, and greet patients.
“Come here.” He waves me over. “Look at this.” He shows me the file and points to the multiple lines indicating breaks.
“Yikes. That’s awful.” I am truly sorry for the poor man.
Brice cares about his patients and has a great bedside manner. He also treats his employees well. His positive attitude makes the tedious job tolerable. Plus, he’s hot, mature, and unlike the guys I meet at college.
I peek up from the X-ray, and my eyes meet his. I’m unsure about what I read there until Brice gets up and closes the door. He returns, leaning against the desk in front of me, and now I can’t help but notice the non-work-related spark.
“This is unexpected,” he says, mouth twitching into a half smile. “I didn’t think we had plans for tonight.” He points to his own executive leather desk chair. “Sit.”
“Wait? What?” Did he think I was making a move on him? But he’s my boss. I sit.
His smile fades into a hearty laugh. “I’m joking with you. Relax. You’re always so uptight and tense. It’s bad for you. You’ll be one of those people on high blood pressure meds at thirty.”
He swivels the chair I’m in, and his fingers tickle my back. His hands are warm and strong as he massages my shoulders.
I sit rigid, accepting his unrequested therapy until the stillness becomes overbearing, and I thrust some wayward hair out of my eyes.
“Relax,” Brice says, his tone soothing.
I try, leaning into his hands.
His fingers knead my shoulders like bread dough, and after a few more minutes, I finally calm. I close my eyes and enjoy how he forces the tension out of my muscles. It’s a magic formula, stealing away all those hated insecurities inside. Trusting, I let all the panic and anxiety fade away.
It takes me a long moment to realize his hands have circled my shoulder, and he’s undoing the buttons of my shirt. His hands slide under the material as he draws the chair closer.
I want to be lost in the moment, but worry he’ll notice my boobs aren’t the same size or that I’m bloated. What if Brice thinks I’m fat? A stream of angry thoughts run through my mind, and I stiffen.
“Relax,” he says again. I begin to believe it’s his mantra and almost giggle, but I push the sound in my throat down. He swivels my chair around to face him, and we stare. I tremble, not sure if it is out of anticipation or fear.
“You’re such a sweet girl,” he says.
The use of ‘girl’ irks me. “I’m not that young. Twenty-one.”
“I’m glad you’re legal,” he jokes.
Brice carefully transplants the organized pile to the corner of his desk and sits fully on the edge. He pulls me up to stand between his spread legs, one hand on my waist, holding my hips tight against his. I can’t run away now. I don’t want to. We are locked face to face, eye to eyes, his incredible body a tower over my imperfect one.
He wears a gold chain around his neck, partially hidden by the tight-fitting, blue long-sleeve button down shirt that highlights muscled arms. I peek down at his dark jeans and notice a bulge. I quickly focus on his chest, letting my hair fall in front of my face to hide my discomfort. I want to take his shirt off, but don’t want to reach out. My mind tells my hand not to move, not to undress the gorgeous man in front of me.
I wonder what I have gotten myself into, but most of me, some of me, a tiny part at least, doesn’t care. This is what I wanted. This is what I’ve been waiting for since the first day we met. I like Brice, lust after him even though he’s my boss, and constantly reassure myself the feeling is perfectly normal. Relationships happen all the time in the workplace.
Brice has no trouble acting on his desires. His breath quickens as he undoes the final few buttons on my shirt. I stand stone still but wonder again if I should reciprocate. I want to. I really do.
He reveals a white lace bra. His head dips, and he kisses the exposed skin. His kisses inch up my neck, and when he gently tugs a strand of hair, I’m forced to meet his eyes.
“What are we doing?” I whisper.
“What do you want to do?” His hand caresses my breasts. “Isn’t this what you want?” My shirt has magically fallen off and onto the desk.
“I guess.”
“You don’t sound so sure. You could take a chance. It’ll be fun. Or we could stop. No pressure.” He waits for me to decide.
It’s not like I’m morally against one-night stands or things of this nature, I’m just not sure this is the way my daydreams about Brice went. They were more dinner dates, glasses of wine, and romantic strolls on the beach. My inner monologue runs wild. Should I take what I can get? Enjoy the moment? Hold out for something more?
His hands tickle my stomach as he makes the decision for me, tackling the button of my jeans. I believe Brice is a good guy. Certainly, this has to be more than a one-time thing. I nod.
I lean back out of his arms, suck in my stomach, and let the button come undone. I kick off my boots and reach to peel off my jeans. They land in a clump at my feet. I’m now exposed in from of him in my white lace bra and panties, and I can’t tell if I’m embarrassed or exhilarated under the harsh fluorescent lights.
Brice watches me for a moment and then grabs me again, angling me close and bringing our bodies fully in contact. He kisses me, long and passion-filled as his hand sweeps across the silk and lace covering my butt and rests there for a moment.
“This is unexpected,” Brice says.
“Is it?”
He stares at me but doesn’t reply. His lips anchor on mine for a long kiss. As I enjoy the taste of Brice, his mouth against mine, he uses his hand to part my legs. I let out a sound, somewhere between a hiss and a moan.
He breaks the kiss. “I thought you were going to tell me to fuck off. I’m glad you didn’t.”
Brice slides his hands up my arms and with a gentle twist my backside is now pressed against the desk, the metal cold against my nakedness. He warms me by moving close. With a calm efficiency I could never imagine having, he uses a hand to press the material of my bra aside. His fingers are warm, but not too gentle, and I like the rough touch. My mind is flooded with wanting as I feel his fingers circle my ribs and stomach, stopping at the white lace edge of my underwear to find their way underneath.
It’s a surreal moment as his fingers touch my most sensitive skin. The darkness outside, a contrast to the florescent lights within, is streaked by occasional car headlights. The air vents in the office hum overhead, and I hear the cadence of his breath. I close my eyes to it all and let him touch me. In that moment, I feel beautiful, wanted.
He leans in and kisses me as his fingers stroke my skin. This intimacy, combined with the warm male scent of him and the excitement of doing something daring, makes me woozy. I like the feeling. My hands explore his back, and I realize he’s still wearing a shirt. I want it off.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I complain.
I dislodge his fingers from exploring my body so he can remove his shirt. When his shirt hits the floor, I allow my hands the freedom to explore his firm abs. Brice is the most athletic, incredibly built man I have ever seen, better than my imagination. He unbuttons his pants, and they fall to the floor. He’s wearing black boxers, and the bulge in them is impressive.
He removes them, and I stare. This is happening.
The space between us disappears as he presses me down on the desk, but I put a hand on his chest to halt the action and take a moment to study the handsome face that I’ve been so focused on since starting work here. His lips are chapped from kissing me, and his expressive brown eyes are intense.
“This is going to be oka
y, right?” I ask.
“We want it. We’re adults. It’ll be okay.”
A knock on the door startles us both.
Brice slides me away, swearing under his breath. I’m sitting on his desk in my underwear. He’s naked except for socks.
“Yeah?” Brice asks, his voice struggles with the word.
I yank on my jeans and shirt as quietly and quickly as possible. Brice does the same with his clothes.
“It’s Tom. I forgot my keys.” There is a jingle outside the door. “Since it’s Friday night, I wonder if you’d want to get a drink.”
Tom’s another other physical therapist. I wait, hunched down behind the desk, wondering what Brice is going to do.
“Sure. Be there in a minute.” He calls out and shrugs. He steps close, whispers in my ear. “Stay here until we leave, and then let yourself out. You get that we can’t let anyone know about this?”
I nod and attempt to conceal my disappointment.
“And don’t forget to lock the door for the weekend.” Brice lets himself out, clicking off the lights on the way. I’m alone in the dark.
I sit there for ten minutes, breathing too fast, heart pounding, waiting until they leave. Silence fills the building. Now I’m just waiting. For what? An encore? For Brice to change his mind, come rushing back to my arms? Fat chance of that. Finally, I let myself out of the physical therapy offices.
I stop at the community bathroom and wonder what the hell just happened. The entire building is empty, and for a moment, I stare into the mirror. Everything blurs as I let my eyes fall out of focus. They sting. I don’t mean to cry, but I can’t stop it. For a few perfect moments, I felt special. An amazing man wanted me.
When I regain sight of myself in the mirror, I notice smudges of mascara and run my fingers under my eyes to catch the wet smears. I grab a rough paper towel, splash it with cold water, and dab at my cheeks and neck, all the while taking deep breaths. I blush again when I notice the buttons of my shirt are mismatched, one tail hanging lower than the other. I fix it quickly. I’ve got to get it together.
I stand with my hands planted on the sink, arms straight, and take three deep, calming breaths, letting the last one out slowly.
* * * *
As I sit on the couch with my textbook open, my plan is to skip Thanksgiving break all together. No Mom and Bob, no father, no grandparents. No family. Preparing for an upcoming exam and writing my lab report early is, decidedly, the much more appealing option. The twenty texts from Jace in twenty-four hours don’t help my mood. I plan to secure all the doors and windows and remain a shut-in for the holidays.
I hear Kyle bump through the front door that I left open so he could say goodbye before heading home to his fully functional, wonderful family. He steps into the living room, sits down next to me, and slams my text book shut, startling me.
“You’re going.” He stares at me.
“We already had this conversation,” I protest.
But for once, Kyle will not relent. and I cave, but only for a moment.
Even though I say I’ll go to his house for Thanksgiving, I’m wrapped up in my quilt on the couch, and I don’t stir.
“Are you ready?” He peers at me with concern. I smell his wintery aftershave. He is clean and scrubbed, unlike me.
“Do I look ready?” I pull the quilt apart to show him I’m in an old, worn T-shirt and gray leggings. Just as quickly, I cover myself back up.
He stands. “Let’s go. The appetizers are my favorite part. I love chips and dips, and my cousin makes a crazy good lobster guacamole.”
“Stay with me for a minute.” I stare at him from my place on the couch.
He is skeptical. “Why?”
I pat the seat cushion next to me harder than expected, letting aloft fragments of dust that swim in the window’s light. “Please.”
He sits, leaning back with a thud against the none-too-soft leather.
I’m afraid to tell him how bad I am at holidays. The anxiety, the social niceties leave me rung out, twisted up inside. “See? It’s nice and cuddly on the couch,” I say. “Wouldn’t you prefer to hang here?”
“What’s going on?” His hand touches my fingers. Other than my face, they are the only body part exposed by the quilt.
My voice cracks when I speak. “I don’t think I can do this. Your house will be filled with family and food. Joy and lightness and food. Laughter and love and food.”
“Isn’t that the point of Thanksgiving?” His hand touches mine. He’s so close and comforting.
“But they’re a normal family. All I’m used to is dysfunction. I’m ill-equipped to deal with normalcy.” I slouch down inside the quit.
“So not true,” he says, a grin touching upon his lips. “You’re around me a lot and only embarrass me maybe a third of the time.”
I want to hit him, but I restrain myself. I’m too nervous about meeting all his family to take any enjoyment learning about where he grew up and turned into the Kyle I know and love. Even though I met his mom and dad on campus once, and they are lovely, normal, and well-off, this is scarier than a simple meet and greet. His whole family overwhelms me. He has two sisters and one older brother as well as a plethora of aunts, uncles, and cousins.
“Your family makes my family look like they belong in an insane asylum,” I say.
“From what you told me, maybe some of them do.” His eyes light up at his own joke.
This time, I do hit him.
“There’s the spunk I’m used to. Come on. We have to leave, or we’ll miss the appetizers, and I told you, they’re the best part.” He stands and holds out his hand to me.
Kyle’s fingers are warm as he draws me up. I drop the ratty quilt on the couch and head upstairs to change. A few minutes later, now wearing black skinny jeans and a red sweater, hair tamed in a ponytail, I follow him outside, promising myself I will get through this.
The drive takes close to an hour. Kyle tries to divert me with funny family stories, but I can’t focus on what he says. My inner monologue of everything that can go wrong plays and replays in my mind, making me sick, my stomach queasy.
There are many cars already parked on the road outside his house, an enormous modern colonial with a manicured lawn stretching on indefinitely. I grab the flowers that we bought on the way so I can thank his mother for the invitation and take a deep breath as I open the passenger door and step outside. We run up the driveway to avoid the icy wind, and I notice the fall wreath decorated with red and yellow leaves on the front door.
It’s the suburban ideal until some kids run into the front yard, screaming at one another.
“What’s the fuss about?” Kyle grabs the youngest boy by the arm, causing him to stop.
The boy is about eight, thin and wiry, with dark brown hair. He wears a pull-over fleece and jeans. “Kyle!” He is delighted with Kyle’s presence, practically jumping into his arms.
“Nice to see you, too, Scott.” Kyle points between me and Scott. “Dani, this is my cousin.”
“Hi,” I say. As usual, I am amazing with conversational skills.
He waves at me. “Greg took our kick ball and ran away. He ruined the game.”
“I’ll fix that as soon as I introduce Dani to everyone. I’ll be out back in a minute.”
The boy nods, his hair swaying with each bob of his head as he runs off. “K.”
“Cute? Right?” Kyle stares at me.
I nod. I’m not really a fan of small children.
Inside, Kyle drags me straight up to his parents for introductions.
“Thanks for inviting me,” I say as I offer his mom the flowers.
She is petite, wearing a maroon dress that highlights the red in her otherwise light brown hair, and holds a glass of red wine. The perfect holiday mom.
“Thank you.” She takes the flowers in her free hand. “Kyle has told us so much about you.”
“Really?” The shock causes me to say the word loudly. My neck heats up.
&nbs
p; “Of course. You’re one of the people he talks about the most. That’s a compliment.”
I watch Kyle. He shrugs.
“Don’t embarrass the boy,” Kyle’s father, Jamie, says. He is casually dressed in a sweater and jeans, his short-cropped hair graying at the temple. “Go get some food. We’ll catch up later.”
And we do. Kyle is right, the lobster guacamole is excellent, but it doesn’t end there. Food adorns every long table, which line the walls. Plates, cups, and napkins take up all the remaining free space. Kyle gives me a tour. The basement has been transformed into a mini-movie theater with a large-screen television, surround sound, and plush seating. He even shows me the laundry room, which while not as impressive, still wows with state-of-the-art appliances.
Upstairs, Kyle’s room is organized, with bookshelves, a plaid cover on his bed, and real art, not posters, on his wall.
He notices me staring. “My mom thought the art would be better than what I wanted to put on the walls when I cruised through middle school.”
“What was that?” I’m really curious.
“Iron Maiden and other metal bands posters, as well as a few comic book villains.” He shrugs.
“How times have changed.” I eye the sports trophies lined up on the top of his bureau. “I didn’t know you wrestled.”
“I could have gone to Rhode Island with a scholarship, but I was kind of over wrestling by the end of high school.”
“I feel like I’m getting to see a whole new you.”
“Enough about me.” He pulls me out of his room. “Time to meet more family.”
“Ugh,” I groan as we head downstairs.
We stop at the bottom of the steps.
“This is Charlotte.” He points to a short brunette wearing bright purple slim-fit jeans and a black sweater, her hair held high in a clip. “My younger sister. She’s a senior in high school. Get friendly. I have to find a kick ball in the back yard.” And with that, Kyle is gone.
Charlotte stares at me for a moment. “Do you like my brother?”
“Excuse me?” It’s more squeak than a question.
“Kyle never brings girls home, so he must like you.”
