Kissing Her Crush

by Ophelia London

  “Whatever,” Roxy said. “Try seeing it from the other side. Being obtuse won’t win you any friends.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Luke said with an indulgent smile as she left the room, then went back to the book on his lap.

  “Okay,” Dexter said. “Tell me about her.”

  Of course Luke knew which her Dex was referring to and tried hard not to smile.

  “Yeah?” Dex added.

  “It’s nothing. She’s funny, that’s all.”

  “Is that code for hot?”

  “No, that’s code for saying charming things and having a sense of humor.” He paused then pushed out a long breath. “But in this case, yes, it’s also code for hot.”

  “Nice.” Dex grinned. “Good to see you out there again, man.”

  “No one’s out anywhere,” Luke said, cutting off his brother’s excitement. “We accidentally had dinner together, accidentally played footsie under the table, then she yelled at me and accused me of being a liar and a federal spy.” He shrugged. “It was a nice moment.”

  “You said she’s a local. What’s her name?”

  “Natalie Holden.”

  Dexter’s brows furrowed. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  That was a relief. Luke didn’t want to discover she’d been one of Dex’s conquests. Though, judging from the way Natalie’s smile could knock the breath out of him, she’d be the conqueror in that scenario.

  “If she’s hot and”—Dexter waggled his eyebrows—“funny, you should ask her out.”

  Luke wasn’t about to admit he already had and had basically been shot down. Even if Natalie wasn’t in the picture, Luke was by no means “back out there.” An emotion-free and uncomplicated night with a woman was one thing. But a relationship? Love? No.

  He’d never let anyone manipulate him the way his ex had. Love had made him weak. Love had almost cost him his family.

  And since any kind of uncomplicated night with Natalie was a non-starter, there was no reason to think about her.

  “It’ll never happen. There’s an ethical conflict,” he said, grabbing for the logical instead of personal. “Enough about me.” He kicked his brother’s feet off the coffee table. “How’s life in New York?”

  “I work hard so I can play even harder.” He grinned like a wolf. “But my life isn’t nearly as interesting as yours. New research project. Potential new job. New prospective lady…”

  “No lady and no prospect,” Luke said with an eye roll, while inside, he wondered if he’d catch Natalie blushing on Monday.

  Chapter Three

  Natalie followed her parents into the house. She’d been away at college when they’d decided to buy a home in Hershey and not live full time at the farm. Though it wasn’t the house where she grew up, she liked it, and she knew it was easier on her parents to be closer to Brandon’s doctors.

  “You should go say hi to your brother,” her mom said, glancing at the closed door at the end of the hall.

  “Yeah.” Natalie took a few steps then stopped. “Anything I should know? I mean, anything new?”

  Mom shook her head, her face showing lines of sadness.

  Natalie gave her brother’s door a few taps in rhythm. “Muff? Can I come in?”

  No response for a moment, then a quiet, “yeah,” came through the door.

  Brandon’s bedroom had changed a lot in the last few years. If an outsider inspected it, they’d think he’d joined the “emo” crowd that was so prevalent with teenagers: lots of dark colors, angsty music, and obsession with the macabre.

  But Muff wasn’t emo.

  Depression in teens wasn’t uncommon—there was so much pressure to fit in and be popular, not to mention the hormones. Not everyone was allowed at the “cool” table. She’d been living proof of that. But Natalie had had a lot of interests in school. She was active and had friends who helped her through those awkward stages.

  Until three years ago, her now sixteen-year-old brother had seemed like your average well-balanced kid. He had sat at the popular table, and there’d always been groups of friends coming over to the house. His attitude and upbeat personality hadn’t change overnight; there’d been signs early on.

  Luckily, their parents had been on the lookout because Dad’s mother had suffered from depression for over a decade, passing that trait onto one of Natalie’s aunts. Things like that could run in the blood.

  Dysthymia with a touch of double depression was his official diagnosis, which meant it was chronic and longer-lasting than regular teen depression. His doctors said eventually—through meds and psychotherapy—Brandon should outgrow it. But after three years, the dark clouds hadn’t lifted.

  “Hey, bran muffin,” Natalie said. One bedside lamp and the TV screen were the only lights on. Muff sat on the floor, leaning against the foot of his bed, knees pulled up to his chest.

  He didn’t look at her but continued to stare at the TV screen. It was one of those shoot-‘em-up games. He didn’t have the volume up loud—bugging everyone in the house to hear the constant gunfire and techno music like he used to. Now, Natalie could barely hear the soundtrack.

  “What’s the score?” she asked. The wording of the question used to get a rise out of him. But he didn’t reply. Natalie glanced at the TV and noticed her brother’s avatar wasn’t doing much on the screen, like he was waiting for the enemy to put him out of his misery.

  She sat on the bed next to his head. “Have you eaten? Mom and Dad were late meeting me so they’re talking pancakes and bacon.” She bounced on the bed. “You love breakfast for dinner.”

  Brandon sighed. “Whatever.”

  It wasn’t the normal teenage attitude they were dealing with. When Muff said, “whatever,” he genuinely meant he didn’t care…that he didn’t have the energy or ability to give a rat’s ass about the subject. There’d been a time when Natalie would’ve yelled at him to snap out of it, or burst into tears, hoping to pull some kind of emotional reaction out of her brother. But that was a long time ago, and neither had done any good. Depression wasn’t something you could yell out of a person.

  For a while after that, they’d been careful to walk on eggshells around him, to make sure no one did anything that might make him worse. They’d even stopped using the family nickname he’d had since birth, wondering if the affectionate “Muff” bothered him. But he’d actually snapped at Natalie when she’d called him Brandon.

  “I got this new job at work,” Natalie said to him conversationally. “It’s not a promotion or anything— In fact, it’s basically an assignment ‘cause we have to publish research papers and whatever. But it’s pretty exciting.” She glanced at Muff, and when he didn’t respond, she stood up, knowing it was best not to coddle him. Treat the scene like it was normal was the best thing to do. “It’s a research project at the med center,” she continued as she turned on the overhead light, brightening the room. “Ivy’s on the project, too. She’s totally jazzed. Get this. Before I went out to celebrate, she gave me a mini makeover, like the head of a research team can’t possibly walk the streets of Hershey with my hair in a scrunchy.”

  Muff exhaled a quiet breath, something that might’ve been a laugh, then he lifted his chin to look at her. “Those are tacky.”

  She laughed, thrilled his reply wasn’t a single syllable. “Oh, please. There’s nothing wrong with wearing a scrunchy while I’m at work.”

  “Then you’re tacky, too.”

  “Hey, don’t be mean.” She stood between him and the TV. “I don’t need another lecture about my appalling lack of fashion.” She kicked his foot. “You’re the one wearing mismatched socks.”

  “Like it matters. No one gives a crap about my socks.”

  Natalie’s heart sank even deeper. Normally, she’d kneel beside him and tell Muff how much she cared, how much everyone cared and that if he tried harder, he’d see that. But words didn’t work.

  “Well, I care about the socks I’m wearing today because they’re what I was wearing when
I got the good news. They’re my lucky socks.” She hitched up a pant leg to display the item in question. “Huh, they’re lame and white. Okay, so I’ll call this my lucky bra—”

  Brandon’s head snapped up. “That’s gross. I’m not looking at my sister’s bra.”

  “I wasn’t about to show it to you. That is gross.” She kicked his other foot. “Want dinner?”

  “Don’t feel like it.”

  “Will you do it for me? I’ve already eaten, and I know if there’s leftover bacon, I’ll scarf it.” She extended her hand to help him up. He ignored it, but a moment later, he shifted his weight and stood on his own.

  Well, progress is progress. Not that getting him to eat is monumental, but at least he’s leaving his room.

  His shaggy blond hair hung over his eyes, which used to be stylish when he wore the front flipped to one side like other boys his age, but now it looked like he was hiding.

  As they were about to leave his bedroom, Natalie put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you okay? I mean, you know, how are you?”

  “I’m okay.” His usual reply. It was the tone she’d been listening for. This “I’m okay,” didn’t sound okay.

  “I heard you’re on some new meds. What do you think so far?”

  He shrugged.

  “No change? I mean, do you feel worse or…”

  “I dunno. I guess I’m sleeping better.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  “Yeah. Let’s have a damn party to celebrate.” His sarcastic tone was biting, and he walked off.

  Tears burned behind Natalie’s eyes as she watched him leave. It killed her to see him in pain. Even if he didn’t feel physical pain, an emotional illness could be excruciating. On the other hand, Muff didn’t usually make an effort to be sarcastic. Even though the remark was aimed at her, she was glad there was some animation in his personality.

  Even if outside research wasn’t part of her job, she still would’ve devoted all her spare time to this project. A lot of people—including the head of Hershey’s R&D—thought she’d bitten off more than she could chew by gunning for an actual clinical trial. She’d read about Brandon’s new medication. It had decent results, but everyone was different.

  More than ever, she was pumped about finally starting the trial. There was an element all those doctors were missing, and maybe, just maybe, she’d found it.

  On the way to the kitchen, she grabbed her purse, wanting to start a to-do list for tomorrow. She already had an appointment in the morning with the facilities administrator at the med center to see the lab and give him a list of materials they required. After that, she was meeting with Ivy and the team. Since they only had the lab for three weeks, timing was everything.

  Excitement fluttered in her stomach as she thought about what might be accomplished. She dug for a pen, causing her tiny bottle of perfume to fall out. Instantly, she remembered the semi-smoldering way Luke had looked at her after smelling the perfume. “Sexy,” he’d said, though he’d been the one looking sexy and smelling sexy and…

  Another flutter erupted in her stomach, but not the good kind— Well, it was the good kind, but not the productive kind. She took a deep breath then pushed it out.

  If she was going to focus on the trial, there was no room for thoughts of how a certain proctor made her flutter.

  Luke sat in the parking lot. It had been a draining weekend since the “intervention,” with his family giving him subtle though never-ending grief about his assignment. He was on the side of nutrition, so why did they deem his job as villainous?

  Like Natalie. This was why he hadn’t moved from his car yet.

  He’d tried not to think about her over the weekend, because every time he did, he smiled.

  She obviously wasn’t interested. If she had been, she’d changed her tune the second she’d learned he’d been sent by the NIH. What had she called him? A new-age flunky? He chuckled into his fist but cut it short.

  Head out of the clouds, man, and focus. You owe that to the team back in Philly. He also owed it to the NIH, who’d contracted him for this job, but mostly he owed it to himself and the future he was trying to build.

  He’d been with Perelman School of Medicine in Philadelphia for five years. It was a steady job, and he’d done some good in his field, but he felt stifled and knew there must be more. Because of his specialty, he’d been borrowed by foundations and research centers to lend his expertise. But this was the first time the NIH had asked for him.

  That call from the big league boys had been a surprise, but Luke was more than ready for a new challenge.

  He knew the NIH only borrowed people they wanted to hire—it was their last little “test.” A job in Washington DC would be a huge leap in his career, and living in another face-paced city was exactly what we wanted. He could taste it, and this trivial proctor gig was going to seal the deal.

  Before he mentally packed his bags, though, Luke had to be the best damn proctor ever. At last word, he got the impression that his boss at Penn Med did not want this particular research project to be awarded additional funding. Luke had no problem with that. If the theory wasn’t so potentially dangerous, it’d be laughable—the worst kind of quackery he’d seen. Feeding chocolate to depressed teens? If his boss or the NIH was testing him, Luke sure as hell wouldn’t fail.

  It was finally time to go inside. The more steps he took, his strides became longer and more confident, but as he rounded the corner toward the lab, he ran headfirst into something—someone.

  “Pardon me.” Reflexively, he grabbed ahold of the staggering form and found himself face to face with a familiar pair of brown eyes.

  “Thought you’d bailed,” Natalie said.

  Besides that moment in the parking lot the other night, this was the closest he’d been to her. And for a second, he couldn’t move.

  “I think you can let go,” she said. “I’m not about to swoon over you.”

  Luke realized he still had a firm grip on her. She felt soft under her lab coat. “Are you disappointed?” he asked as he removed his hands from her narrow waist and stepped back.

  “That’s some line. Hold on, now I might swoon.” Her sarcasm was evident, but he could also see she was blushing. Hmm. Despite their professional differences, he got to her. He made a mental note of that.

  “I meant, are you disappointed I showed up?”

  “No, impatient.”

  “For me?”

  “No—about getting started. I’m impatient for that.” She pressed a hand to her forehead and nodded toward the room she’d just come from. “Everyone else is here.”

  She seemed so flustered that Luke had no choice but to hold eye contact with her and smile.

  Natalie blinked, groaned, and then disappeared into the lab. The same perfume he’d smelled on her the other night, the one in that little bottle that had fallen from her purse, hung in the air like a scented cloud. He breathed in the sexy fragrance for half a second, then held his breath and followed her inside.

  The room was clean and bright, though smaller than the labs he was used to. It gave him an idea about how much weight this research project carried: Not much. He made a mental note of that, too.

  There were three other people, a woman and two men. “Everyone, this is the addition to our team sent from the lovely suits at the NIH.”

  “I’m not with—”

  “You’re the fed?” the woman asked, sounding accusatory. She was short with long red hair and reminded him of Roxy.

  “Technically, he’s not,” Natalie said in a begrudging tone. “He was borrowed by them to proctor.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Luke.”

  “Ivy,” the redhead said. “This is Mark and Ken.”

  “You all work together at Hershey?”

  “Just Nat and me,” Ivy said. “Mark and Ken are on loan from the med center. They’re usually on other projects, but we’ve all been working on this whenever we can.”

  “I see.” Luke nodded, ge
tting a clearer picture.

  “So.” Natalie clapped her hands. “Now that the introductions are over, let’s get to it.” She moved to a laptop and ran her fingertip across the touch pad. A blown-up image appeared on the white wall. She tapped a clicker and advanced to the next slide. “Now, as you can see…”

  Luke had reviewed this PowerPoint when he’d been sent her research packet a few days ago. Some of it was well intended, but he couldn’t get over the basic premise. When he’d read the proposal, he’d assumed the author was a full-on crackpot. The only information he’d been able to find on this rare Amazonian root was a study in a French journal from twenty years ago. The fact that this current research project was being headed by a food chemist from Hershey was beyond irresponsible.

  Who had taken this study seriously in the first place?

  He wasn’t there to argue his personal opinion but to observe and report—report thoroughly, if that was what it took to sufficiently impress the NIH. If he saw anything truly dangerous, of course he’d crush it…no matter how cute Natalie looked in her lab coat.

  “The flavanols in this particular cocoa bean are literally laced with anti-oxidants and magnesium, which make it an ideal carrier for the serum. Plus, the proven release of endorphins and other chemicals boost feelings of wellness in nearly ninety percent of subjects—”

  “What about the sugar and fat?” Luke had to cut her off here.

  Natalie sighed and didn’t look at him, but kind of through him. “In small doses, there’s little impact.”

  “What teenager do you know who’s satisfied with one bite of chocolate? The city we live in is proof of that.”

  “You don’t live here,” she muttered.

  He crossed his arms. “Does it bother you when I point out the flaws in your theory, or do you plan to gloss over them?”

  Another sigh, but with an impatient edge to it—like he was the slow one in the room. “We’re talking controlled doses,” she said. “Less than a quarter of a square of a standard Hershey bar, not the whole damn bar five times a day. Even so, we’ve seen no indications that even hint at a danger of overdose, aside from a normal stomachache that comes from eating five bars a day. And I’d appreciate if you’d hold your comments until the end.”