Some Like It Geek: A Really Big Set of Romances

by Box Set

  Yeah, I’m still stung by that cock-thistle’s betrayal—and thank you Deadpool for giving me such a perfect word for him. The cock-thistle.

  I can’t do this. Not even for them. I turn and step to the door. I’m clasping the doorknob when she says, “I know why you’re here.”

  I glance back over my shoulder. “Why’s that?”

  “Eamonn. My report.” She shuffles over to her couch. When I step farther inside, she nods to the other end of the couch and settles in on one side, tucking her feet under her.

  Jesus, I can’t help but stare at that couch. Memories from our hot-as-sin sex there engulfs me. And lying on the armrest is the blue blanket, folded primly and reduced to nothing more than a decorative touch. Everything in me aches to be close enough to her to be under the trusting security of that blanket.

  I glance up, and her face is completely impassive, as if she’s not thinking about it too. And maybe she’s not.

  I guess I’m just a horny bastard, who stupidly believed we’d been inside each other’s personal bubble.

  I should apologize for fucking up at the game, but the words choke in my throat. I fall into the cushions on the opposite side of the couch and slouch into the corner, my elbow propped on the armrest with the blanket. I’ve fucked up with her, plain and simple. The old humiliation and shame from all of my father’s beatings grip that apology tight. What’s the point? I shouldn’t have fucked up in the first place.

  “Maybe you’ll still be able to find another player to replace Eamonn.”

  “For hurling?” I drop my head to the back of the couch, defeat robbing my voice of any heat. “Do you know how hard it was to recruit the fifteen we have? And we don’t want hobbyists. Going in, we all agreed to take this as seriously as if we were pro—our commitment to ourselves. Hurling’s rules are a bit complicated.”

  “How much more difficult is it for a goalie though?”

  I grind my teeth. “He still has to be smart and learn the rules so he can anticipate the possible moves against the goal. It’s not as simple as just slotting in some goalie from another sport. Besides, we don’t have time to bond this guy with the team, build trust, that kind of shit.”

  She sits back against the couch, closes her eyes, and says simply, “I’m sorry.”

  She shifts on the couch, and that small movement slightly shifts the air between us. The pull of our attraction is still there, but it’s weighted down by recent events. I have no idea if I can even wade through that weight and breathe life back into that attraction. I suspect I’m not enough.

  “How’s your knee?”

  Her voice is still in doctor mode, so I just answer with a curt, “Fine.”

  “I’ll work with you on some physical therapy we can do.”

  Now I feel like even more crap. She’s tired, upset with the team, and she’s still reaching out.

  I smile and lean back. “That’d be great. I’ve worked out some routines.” I open up and tell her my new regimen and the benchmarks I plan to make for recovery.

  She suggests some minor adjustments, and I’m feeling as if we’re wading back toward each other with our talk. I adjust my knee and wince.

  Of course she notices. “You’re still in pain?”

  “Yeah.” I’ve come to regret turning down the pain prescription the doctor at the ER had offered. I give her a grin. “You don’t happen to know a good doc who can write me a prescription, do you?”

  Instead of laughing at my lame attempt at a joke, Pepper goes rigid, and her face drains of all color.

  “You’re asking me to write you a prescription?”

  “No. I—”

  But she’s launched herself off the couch and rounds on me, fists on her hips. “First, you kept Eamonn’s concussions from me. I told myself you weren’t being so solicitous for the sake of the team—”

  At this, I lean forward. I resist standing because I don’t want to accidentally use my height and strength to intimidate her. “I didn’t know about Eamonn. Believe me, I’m pissed at him too.”

  But she keeps going. “—and now you’re plying me for drugs? Is that why you really came tonight?”

  What the—?

  An icy deluge of reality hits me as if a bucket of cold water has been poured over my head, and it leaves me shaking. I’m not some stereotypical trailer park punk, but apparently she still views me that way despite everything.

  “I was joking, Pepper,” I say with as much calm as I can manage.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Pepper

  God, I have to get him out of here. Luke’s presence—taking up all the space he does with his emotions and hunkiness and all the unsolved mess wrapped up in potential—is like an unchecked item on my to-do list, and I don’t want it. I don’t have time for it. I don’t have the energy for it. Moving here is my chance to finally be the doctor I’ve worked so hard to become. The other doctors in the practice took a chance on hiring me fresh from my fellowship and with a probation looming over me, and how I handle this year will determine if I’ve made a case for myself—to expand their practice with me in that slot.

  And this fledgling-whatever-the-heck-it-is relationship jeopardizes that.

  If he leaves, that item will no longer be on my to-do list. Simple as that.

  I walk to the door. Fully aware of his stare on my back the whole time. I open the door, and a sharp intake of breath pierces the air behind me. And because I’m an adult, I turn and look him in the eye. There’s hurt there. But also a sort-of resignation I don’t want to examine.

  For a second, he remains on the couch, his eyes boring into me, his body tensed. Stubborn. And is it my imagination that his hand seems to caress the corner of the blue blanket?

  My throat thickens—I’m totally being the cold bitch that Phil always accused me of being. Well, so be it. That’s me. My relationship with Phil had messed with the delicate balance I’d achieved between my professional and personal life. And now with Luke? Who churns up way more emotions? No way.

  A part of me knows I’m being unfair, but I have to protect myself first.

  He uncoils to his full height, every movement measured and controlled. And he nods, his gaze never breaking from mine. Without a word, he walks by me, and I lean forward before I can catch myself and take a tiny sniff.

  Dammit. I’m not the kind of woman who sniffs at guys.

  The ice I siphon into me keeps me poised until he exits and the door snicks shut. Then a flash of heat and anguish rushes through me, melting that ice, that poise.

  I shuffle to the kitchen and hike up onto the stool. A flower vase with fresh asters from Publix sits in front of me.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Had I been expecting a protest? I twist the vase around and around in circles on its base.

  No.

  No. Shit. What’s bothering me is that I’d felt more for him than I realized, and it guts me that it’s over before it can really get going.

  I shove the vase away. All these tangled up emotions that I can’t sort also proves I’ve got no bandwidth for a relationship right now.

  Luke

  The CrossFit sessions have come and gone this evening, so I head to the nearby late-night gym. The pissed-off that’s roiling inside me needs purging, and swimming won’t cut it. Pepper’s accusations and calm dismissal have me all messed up, and I need to push myself. Yeah, the PT doesn’t want me running yet, but I can’t seem to care. When I reach the treadmill, I tilt that sucker up and set a punishing pace.

  In addition to the punishment for fucking up, maybe if I push myself to exhaustion, I can become numb again. Unfeeling.

  Funny. I craved being around her because she broke through the perpetual gray that cloaks me, but now I’m all feeling—like a live, exposed wire—and I want that numbness back.

  A gym rat climbs onto a machine next to me, sees my settings, and adjusts his to the same.

  Really?

  I chuff a laugh and up the ante without even glancing his wa
y. It’s not at the level I normally do, but he can’t compete with even an injured me.

  And sure enough, after upping his to match my low-for-me setting, a desperately disguised wheezing reaches my ear, and his face turns red. He rolls off and limps to the locker room.

  Stupid fucker. Know your limits. I know mine, and I’d stupidly tried to reach for more with Pepper.

  Then I curse and hit the stop button. What the fuck am I doing on a fucking treadmill? I pride myself on knowing my limits and got butthurt because she didn’t trust me. But trust goes both ways. And this right here? Running on a treadmill with a torn meniscus puts the lie to my judgment.

  Pepper

  Tricia and I are ensconced at the bar of the Purple Chow having a quick lunch before we both have to head back to work. Of course, she’s noticed my mood. It’s been two days since I’ve seen Luke, and frankly, I’m not sure what to make of myself or the situation.

  Yes, I’ve looked back at our conversation and seen that I’d jumped to conclusions about his request for a scrip. I should have given him the benefit of the doubt. But the larger problem still remains.

  “Let me get this straight. You kicked him out of your house because you didn’t want to deal?”

  “Er, yes…” I did the right thing. I need this job to be permanent. I can’t afford to sacrifice my job for my personal life.

  I’m devastated about ending things with him, though. Both nights, I cried myself to sleep and woke up with swollen, grainy eyes. But I take a shower, drink my cup of tea, and stick to my new routine. Somehow I get through the day, although at first I worried about it affecting my decision-making abilities. I’ve operated on less sleep, though. I guess that’s what the grueling hours of med school and residency train you for.

  She wipes her mouth. “And how do you feel about that decision now?”

  I push the last bit of soft taco to the edge of my plate. “I’m miserable.”

  “So you opted to forgo working things through with him to avoid emotion, and you haven’t avoided it.”

  I slump. “I thought I could just shove it away and get on with my career.”

  “What are you afraid of…really?” She puts down her fork with a clatter and faces me with her prosecutor stare. “I think you’re afraid of your own feelings.”

  I jerk at that. “No. You don’t get it. Whenever I let my feelings rule me, my career suffers.”

  “Is this about your cheerleading accident?”

  “Not fully, but it was a symptom of the problem.”

  “Catch me up here.”

  I blow out a breath. “Whenever I get caught up in emotions, my judgment gets impaired.”

  “Like not telling anyone about your injury.”

  “Exactly.” I slump with relief at not having to explain. Tricia knows what it was like for me in high school.

  “That was a long time ago, sweetie. You’ve matured.”

  I straighten. “No. It was the beginning of a pattern. There was this one time. During my fellowship…” I fill her in on the trouble I got into with writing a scrip for Phil because I’d been too wrapped up in our relationship. I should feel ashamed at not only having to share this black mark with my best friend, and what she must now think of me, but also because I did keep it from her, but honestly? I’m all tapped out right now. I’m kind of in fuck-it-all mode.

  “So when Luke asked you for a prescription…”

  “Yeah. I flipped.” And since I need to be honest, I correct her. “Technically, he didn’t ask. He only jokingly asked if I knew a good doctor who would write one. Trish…I just… He morphed into Phil right then, and I didn’t stop to evaluate. See, my judgment gets impaired when I’m emotional.”

  She purses her lips. “Has your work suffered this week, though?”

  I push my food around some more. “Actually, no.”

  “Then why do you feel like you still can’t make judgment calls? You’re emotional now about Luke, right?”

  “I hesitated in making the right call on Eamonn because of my feelings for Luke.”

  “But you still ended up making the right call…”

  “Yes, but I pushed Luke away without giving him a chance.”

  “Okay, so you have some work to do in your personal life, but, sweetie, I think you have your professional life down pat. Stop letting your fear of emotions dictate your life.”

  She’s right. I’ve been too afraid of strong emotions my whole life, and it’s time I stopped. I’ve always worried that they’d affect me professionally.

  “I’d…I’d like to fix things with him. But I messed up his team’s chances.”

  “I’m not sure you need to fix his team. But remember what I said earlier. When you find the right person, they’ll be worth the complication.” She places cash on her bill and stands. “Speaking of complications that are worth it, Susan’s so nervous about the opening, it’s making me nervous. See you tomorrow night? I need you for moral support.”

  Pepper

  The rest of the afternoon, between appointments, I think about what Tricia said.

  I did screw up by throwing Luke out that night.

  And I want to make it right with him. I trust he wouldn’t ask me to be unethical. Though I won’t change my report—that was the right thing to do—I can offset its effect. The thank you postcard from the Bronx Zoo arrived in the afternoon’s mail, and it’s given me an idea.

  Of course I run through the pros and cons of bringing Phil back into my life, even peripherally. If it will go toward making things right with Luke? Because I also realized that, no, I do not want to end up like my parents—cold and…and fake. Just because that’s how they ended up doesn’t mean I have to.

  I hover over the keyboard and type:

  Hi Phil,

  Been awhile. Listen…

  Can I do this? Just the thought of being in the same room as him, much less talking to him, has me pulling my fingers away. Gah. I look at the wall clock and minimize the screen just as the buzzer rings for my next appointment.

  I help the next patient, write a prescription, and pull up the email again. And drum my fingers over the table.

  I type a few more sentences. And the anxiety of dealing with him washes through me again. I fish out the postcard and flip to the back. The words greet me again, “Meet Phil Stoddart.” A giggle bursts past my lips, and I prop it up against the screen with Phil the Madagascar hissing cockroach staring back at me.

  Fuck it.

  What is Phil to me? Nothing. He has no power over me. If this helps Luke, then I’ll do it. He and his team still want to go to the playoffs, and maybe I can help.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pepper

  Soft jazz coils through the swanky, white-walled gallery on Upper Main and mixes with the low hum of conversation and the occasional cultured chuckle.

  Susan’s artwork graces the walls with track lights angled for optimum viewing. I grab white wine from the table in the corner and thread back through the patrons to where Tricia and Susan are holding court. The gallery owner is placing an orange Sold dot on a nearby painting, which happens to be my fave of hers too—a semi-abstract of two lovers entitled, “Eros and Psyche After the Trials.” Susan’s emitting that need-to-act-cool-but-I-really-want-to-dance-a-jig glow.

  I lean over and whisper, “Congrats.” I really am happy for Susan, and my own turmoil has no place here.

  Susan grins, and Tricia wraps her hand in hers and gives it a squeeze, pride clear in her features and her stance.

  “I think we should celebrate your opening and your sale.” I lift my glass of wine.

  Tricia grins. “I agree. Susan, your choice. Anything but—”

  “The Alligator’s Butt!”

  Tricia groans, so that must have been what she’d been about to say. “Alligator’s Butt it is.” She looks at me and rolls her eyes. “It’s a new bar on South Lemon Ave, and Susan has an unnatural love for the Butt.”

  Susan elbows her. “Hey, they’
ve got great margaritas.”

  I laugh. “Then it has my vote. I’m always up for a new place. Let’s go!” I look around. “Well, as soon as this is over, I mean.”

  “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

  My phone chirps, and I look at the text. It’s Phil. Normally, I’d stuff it back into my purse, but I’ve been waiting for this.

  Hi, babe. I’m in town now. Just checked in at a hotel on University Parkway. Can we meet tonight to discuss this?

  Babe? I’ll need to nip that in the bud. Suddenly, what I thought had been a great idea—invite Phil to meet the team and see if he can stand in for Eamonn—doesn’t seem like such a great idea.

  “Hey, guys, are you okay with my ex meeting us there?”

  Tricia’s gaze snaps to mine. “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice low and cautionary.

  I wave her off. “So don’t need to worry about me going there again. But I need to talk to him in public.”

  She narrows her eyes but gives a nod.

  Luke

  We’d been nursing beers in the War Room, but then we all got sick of our own company and our moping. The others are moping about the playoffs being unattainable. I am too, but not as much as I am about Pepper and how I blew it with her. The team and the camaraderie were the world to me. Helped me stay centered. But it hadn’t been quite what I’d thought it was.

  Also, now that I’ve been with Pepper and see how things could be, the team’s not near enough. And—because I fucked up—that Pepper-filled future is not even remotely possible.

  We’d achieved our team goal—getting the money to get us to the championship—but that no longer matters since we’re short a member. Conor had Tricia’s lawyer buddy read over the sponsorship contract, and then he signed it. I’m reimbursed for the jerseys. And, yeah…

  We moved out into the main part of the bar to play darts. Aiden still hasn’t snapped out of his glum mood from a week ago. Claire is here, as usual, but she and Conor are at opposite sides, taking great pains to ignore each other. I resist rolling my eyes. Instead, I take aim, and the dart flies true, thunking into the cork. Bullseye.