And that's when I stop listening to Heath's blabbering. Because, holy fuck. Brain surgeon? Surely, I'm on some hidden camera show.
I ignore the alarms blaring inside of my head. Or, rather, my vagina ignores them, because there's a hot, funny, hot, brain surgeon living down the hall from me, who's also hot. And a brain surgeon.
I can't.
My mind disengages from the present conversation as I start mentally planning a wedding ceremony under the Brooklyn bridge with white roses and teal bridesmaid dresses. I'm interrupted when Heath sneezes and groans loudly.
"Who the hell gets allergies in the summer?" he asks. "My damn sinuses are killing me."
The door behind me opens.
"Try breathing in some steam," I say, without thinking. "I've got some tea tree oil in my bag."
Jackson laughs, and I turn to find him dressed in business casual clothing. A white lab coat hanging over his arm. It's such a stark contrast from the running clothes and I stare for a second too long.
"Ha, ha. Very funny," he says, humorless. "I take it Heath's been telling you about our mom?"
I look to Heath who furrows his brows in confusion, but before I can answer, Jackson goes on. "She's one of those crazy hippies."
"Crazy hippies?"
"Our mom thinks she can cure anything with a little oil or a little positive thinking. Drives me nuts."
"Tea tree oil works, though," I say.
He must think I'm kidding because he glares at me, playful.
"Don't get him started on that," Heath says. "He gets a hernia every time he hears about holistic stuff."
"It's just ridiculous," Jackson cuts in. "None of it is based on research, might as well call it witchcraft. It's like these paraprofessionals, dealing with situations they have no business getting into..."
I raise an eyebrow at Jackson, my silence daring him to go on.
"…running into complications that could've been easily avoided."
"Jackson is not at all biased," Heath mocks. "He's not exactly looking for reasons to not cut people open."
My expression must belie what I'm thinking because Jackson smiles, relaxed, and asks, "You know what I mean, right?" Then pauses before adding, "What's your specialty? I caught sight of pink scrubs when you opened your bag. Are you in obstetrics, pediatrics, or what?"
"I'm a midwife," I say. Jackson's smirk slides from his face. "A holistic midwife, fresh out of the school of witchcraft and wizardry. But, I do prefer the term witch to paraprofessional. The latter is bad for business, you know what I mean?"
Cue awkward silence.
Heath pulls his lips into his mouth, eyebrows creeping up in surprise. He turns his attention back to the television as if he was never part of this conversation.
Jackson clears his throat, then his lips part in what is sure to be an apology. "Didn't mean to offend you."
"Yeah, I'm sure you didn't," I say. "But lucky for you, my sister is almost here, so I'll just go ahead and cut this lovely bonding moment short and meet her outside."
I get to my feet, finding satisfaction in the way he hesitates. He studies my face like he's trying to figure out how to take back what he said. Too late. He's just admitted to thinking what I do with my life is a joke. That's more than a little hard to swallow. The alarms in my head are now not so silent. I've been here before and it didn't bode well.
The wedding is totally off.
Heath continues to pretend he's invisible on the couch, but I manage to catch his eye long enough to wave goodbye. I grab my bag and Jackson is quiet as he escorts me to the door. Before I walk out, he says, "Hey, it was great meeting you."
"Yeah," I say, matter-of-fact. "I bet it was."
"Why don't we go out sometime so you can explain your witchcraft to me?"
"Can't go on dates while the moon is full," I say with a regretful smile. "I'm too exhausted from practicing witchcraft all night. But maybe after the equinox."
His brows furrow at the word. He attempts to resist a smirk but fails. My lips turn up, too, because I can't help it. Because he's so painfully, ovary-twitchingly handsome, I want to punch his face.
I want to punch his sexy face for ruining our marriage before the wedding.
His tone is suddenly serious when he says, "Damn. I dropped the ball with you, didn't I?"
"Oh yeah, dude. Big time."
CHAPTER TWO
Jackson
THE FLOWERS SORT OF look like her. They're pretty in a simple, effortless way, giving off quiet waves of unapologetic wildness. I pick them up at the farmers market while out on my morning run. I'm hoping they say, I like you. I'm hoping they also say, sleep with me.
But most of all, I'm really hoping they say, I'm sorry.
The woman dropped into the middle of my morning, as unexpected as the thunderstorm that rolled through, with her quick wit and sparkling caramel eyes. Things had been going so well up until I went ahead and stuck my foot so far down my throat I couldn't find the words to make light of the situation. And she'd been so visually put off I was sure she was more stung than she'd let on.
When I get back to the building, I knock on her door but get no answer. I leave the bouquet on the floor in front of her door along with a note.
__
Dear Freckles,
These made me think of you.
In fact, I don't think I've stopped thinking of you.
I'm sorry I was a jerk. Let me make it up to you.
In desperate need of your one-liners,
Jackson (Dimples from down the hall)
__
I leave for work satisfied, picturing her face when she opens her door and finds the flowers. Women like flowers. I don't know what it is about them that make women all giddy.
When I arrive home from work, I walk past Samantha's door and I'm glad to see the flowers are no longer where I left them. I go into my apartment to find Heath working out in the living room, using the coffee table to stabilize his sit-ups.
His plans for a start-up couldn't start up sooner. I need him out of my place and space.
"There's a box for you," he says, without pausing his set. On the way up, he gestures to the kitchen counter with his mouth, since his arms are crossed over his chest.
A black box sits on the counter, about the size of what would fit a bottle of wine. I pull back the lid to find a note inside, laid over tissue paper.
__
You tore beautiful flowers from Mother Earth and left their rotting corpses at my door. You're a monster.
May they rest in peace, along with my impression of you.
__
I laugh, not even knowing if it's a joke.
It has to be, right? I look back at Heath, subconsciously seeking his opinion as though he's been listening in on my thoughts.
Heath doesn't even glance my way, but in the middle of his sit-ups, he says, "Yeah, man. I'd give up on that one. She's a little bit on the crazy side just like her sister."
"You think so?" I frown, turning the card over only to discover my own handwriting with my original note. "You think she's serious?"
Heath pumps out a few more sit-ups, then lies back on the ground for a break. "What do you think it is? Flirting?" he asks. "You sent her flowers and she returned them in a makeshift coffin. If that's not crazy, I'm not sure what is."
I take the wine box with the withering flowers and dump them in the trash. Heath and I eat dinner. He tells me about his latest project and I nod periodically, but I'm distracted. My mind is preoccupied with whether or not I should reach out to Samantha again. Her satirical response all but screams, leave me alone. On some sadistic level, her satirical response also screams, play with me.
I want to know more about her.
Not more. Something. Anything. I know nothing at all, really. All I know is our senses of humor link together like two pieces of the same chain, and I can't help but crave more interaction with her.
I want to see her again, but shy of crowding her at her own ap
artment—which I don't want to do—I'm not sure how I could manage to run into her.
The thought proves to be unnecessary, though.
As I'm leaving for work, a hand jams between the elevator doors, which spring back open to reveal Samantha standing on the floor landing. The sight of her nearly knocks me on my ass.
The first time I laid eyes on her, I thought she was attractive. She'd been soaked and slightly disheveled in a way I found sexy. I guess it helped the rainwater had glued her clothes so tightly to her body that her breasts might as well have been bare in front of me.
I enjoyed the sight of her then, but this morning? She wears a bright blue top that brings out the gold in her hair, her face is crisp and refreshed, and when her light brown eyes lock with mine, they flicker with intensity. She seems reluctant to enter the elevator, as though wondering if she has a choice.
"Oh great," she says, dryly. "We meet again."
My lips twist into a wide smile, unable to hide how excited I am to see her again. Beside me, she stares pointedly at the elevator doors as they shut. Her entrance brings the sweet scent of lavender, mixed with an earthy smell I can't put my finger on. It's a combination I've never smelled before, but one that suits her.
There's an almost amusing tinge to our silence, as though we are both thinking of the flowers and waiting for the other to bring it up.
Instead, I say, "You're prettier than I remembered."
"Yeah? It's this new face cream I've been using. It's made from the juices of a bull's testicles," she says, in the same flat tone she delivers everything. I've never met someone who spoke that way and yet managed to not sound like a robot, somehow injecting personality in-between the syllables. "Really moisturizes the skin," she adds. "I can get you a sample, if you'd like."
"I'd like that, if it means I get to see you again."
"We live in the same building," she points out. "You'll be seeing me a lot."
"Not the way I want."
I swear she blushes at this. She makes a point to keep her eyes on the elevator doors, but I make a point to stare at her. Sliding my hands deep into my pockets, I fight the urge to tuck away the loose strands of hair framing her face. It's not that they look bad, they don't. They're just insanely tempting. They add to this otherworldly sort of wildness about her. Like she's an elusive creature teasing me with its presence, daring me to try to tame it.
"Quit staring at me," she says. "You're crowding my chakra."
I chuckle at this. "What's a chakra?"
She doesn't answer and I get the feeling she herself doesn't know.
"Are you messing with me, Samantha?"
Again, she doesn't answer, but I think I catch the hint of a smirk.
And I get it. I get why she would mess with me. She's punishing me for the things I said about what she does for a living. I don't doubt she's laying it on really thick to prove a point. What she hopes to gain from this, I don't know. If she thinks she's putting me off, she's not. If she thinks she's dissuading my pursuit, she's not. I've never quite enjoyed being around someone I barely knew as much as I enjoy being around her.
"Go out with me."
It's not a question, it's a given. We owe it to ourselves to at least give this a shot and see whether we truly like each other or not.
The elevator comes to a stop and the doors open. She walks out between them, backward, keeping her eyes on me as I follow.
"Can't today. I need to pick up some supplies before I head off to birth babies. Castor oil, wool of bat, eye of Newt. Things like that. And also, I've already decided I don't like you."
"Really?"
We walk alongside each other to the front doors. Her coolness is a definite turn on, the way she seems completely unconcerned with whether my eyes are on her or not, or somehow completely unaware the sight of her sucks me in like a vortex.
I open the door for her. She thanks me and heads off down the sidewalk, the opposite direction from where I'm about to go.
"You're denying the inevitable, Samantha," I call out.
She stops and turns to glare at me. "The inevitable?"
"You can't keep up this act forever. You like me. You want to go out with me. Our chakras are drawn to each other. They ride the same elevator."
Her eyes narrow just slightly. "I suggest you take the path of least resistance."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
She points in the opposite direction. "Away from me, pretty boy."
I stare after her as she walks off again, offering a mouth-watering view of her hips swaying to a natural, confident rhythm.
I'm smiling like an idiot, like I haven't just been turned down for the third time in just as many days. The aftereffects of her presence are the same as the energized rush of endorphins that flood me after a run. After surgery.
My life is hectic, but in the chaos, I find precision. I cut into delicate brain tissue to remove tumors, rebuild damaged pathways, on a daily basis. I approach everything in just about the same way. If there's an outcome I want, I move in the direction of it. I push, I walk, I crawl—whatever it takes to just keep moving in that same direction.
I see something I want right now. Someone I want.
Getting this woman to agree to one date can't be so hard.
I've never taken the path of least resistance, not once in my life. Samantha's a challenge and I'm one persistent son of a bitch.
CHAPTER THREE
Samantha
"DO YOU MIND IF I move this dead carcass over here?"
Grace passes by me in a flash of blonde hair, carrying a sunflower in a small clear vase. The flower's the only one remaining from the arrangement Jackson left for me a few days ago.
"Shut up," I say, half laughing into the glass of wine cradled between my hands, my prize after a long day of work.
She positions the flower in the center of our dining table. The yellow petals add a gorgeous pop of color to the otherwise worn, whitewashed wood. Sunflowers are my favorite, so wide-eyed and whimsical, bright and cheerful.
The truth is that I loved the flowers. I'd never seen an arrangement like the one he'd left. He must've put it together himself because it was strange and beautiful. None of the flowers matched, their wild colors competing for attention and reaching a sort of chaotic harmony. Like maybe these flowers didn't fit in anywhere else and were forced to form their own tribe, the tribe of misfits.
A feeling I'm all too familiar with.
"I know I've said this before, but this place is so swank," Grace says, stepping back to view the dining room appreciatively.
It's all courtesy of Delilah.
My sister's strange but beautiful furniture was scoured from thrift shops around the city. She has an eclectic style she wears like a cloak, draped around her to warn others that all who enter will encounter strangeness. And I love her for it.
On the continuum of crazy town, Grace errs on side of caution, Delilah leans toward the crazy, and I hover somewhere safely in the middle.
Or so I like to think.
"You're going to scare him off with your antics," Grace says, sitting down beside me. "He's going to think you're crazy. He's going to think you're Delilah."
She gets comfortable, folding her legs under her and grabbing a nearby quilt to cover her bottom half.
"I don't care."
The words fall flat, a kernel of the truth peeking out behind the blatant lie. So, maybe I do care a little if Jackson thinks I'm crazy. Maybe I'm mad at myself for getting my hopes up the instant I met him. Beautiful man, the perfect harmony of humor, cool blue eyes that bathe me in tantalizing intensity.
Freaking brain surgeon.
I wanted to want him. I wanted to like him.
I think I did both, way too quickly.
Delilah joins us from the kitchen, carrying a plate. "You guys, you have to try these."
Grace and I exchange a look. Delilah fancies herself a baker, with her collection of aprons and large array of expensive baking gear decorating
the countertops. She tries so hard, bless her heart.
"Ah, I'm on a diet," Grace says as if disappointed. "But, Samantha, weren't you just saying you were dying for something sweet?"
I glare at my asshole of a friend.
"These aren't exactly sweet," Delilah points out. "They're sugar-free, gluten-free, fat-free, dairy-free, oatmeal cookies."
No flour, no sugar, no butter, no milk…
"So…they're just baked balls of oatmeal, then?" I ask, turning to smile slyly at Grace. "Dude, they're perfect for your diet."
Delilah sets the plate on the coffee table, takes a 'cookie,' and sits down in the armchair across from us.
"Eat up, there's another batch in the oven," she says, looking on expectedly.
Grace tucks her blonde hair behind her ear. She and I both bring the oatmeal concoctions up to our mouths, slowly, as if playing a game of chicken.
"Wait—so this guy's a surgeon?" Grace asks suddenly, coyly lowering the cookie. "You obviously have a type."
"We know they hit it off well with the parents," Delilah muses, rolling her eyes for good measure.
Our parents are obstetricians. Holiday dinners tend to end up in arguments where my father inevitably reveals his disappointment at the fact that neither my sister nor I chose traditional medical careers. The only time I've ever managed to make either of them proud was when I brought home a penis wielding surgeon. It was as if my ex's profession made up for mine.
Delilah gets it worse than I do, but she takes it in stride, not caring much one way or the other what my parents think. I, on the other hand, can't keep from getting defensive. Because having to defend what I do to anyone frustrates me beyond measure. Like the little girl inside of me that secretly seeks my parents approval wants to jump up and down and beg for validation.
"What kind of surgeon?" Grace asks, interest brightening up her blue eyes.
I answer immediately to avoid taking a bite. "Neurosurgeon."
You and Me Page 2
