Naughty Secrets (Naughty Shorts Book 3)

by Sarah Castille

  The dental hygienist introduces herself as Mariko. She is an intern, also very young, very pretty, and looks like she works out four hours a day. Her nails are painted rose-petal pink to match her perfectly glossed lips, and her hair is so shiny it shimmers ebony under the bright lights. I am suddenly, painfully aware of my callused hands and broken nails, the lines around my eyes from squinting in the sun, and the extra pounds I can’t seem to lose, no matter how many hours I spend working outdoors. Although I dressed up for my visit to Ethan today, I feel every inch a woman who no longer truly cares for herself.

  “I’d better take out this ponytail or I won’t be able to put back my head.” I force a half laugh as I pull out my hair tie and finger comb my hair. “I wasn’t really thinking about lying upside down when I put it in.”

  Mariko smirks as she sets out Dr. Steadman’s instruments on the tray beside my chair. “We get that a lot from women your age.”

  Ouch. Burned by twenty-year-old Mariko. Could my day get any worse?

  “Natalie White.” Dr. Steadman walks into the room, every bit as breathtaking as he’s been rumored to be. Taller than I imagined, even more handsome, with a broad forehead, sensual lips, and a hint of muscle visible below the collar of his shirt, his deep, masculine rumble makes me feel warm inside. “We haven’t met.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Aiden Steadman.”

  His hand is cool. Long, slim, and elegant. Soft, without even the hint of a callus. And clean. City hands, not country hands. My skin tingles when I touch him, awakening feelings I buried long ago.

  “You’ve met my student intern, Mariko.” He waves vaguely in her direction, and I feel no small amount of satisfaction that he doesn’t seem to notice that she’s bent over the tray for no apparent reason other than to demonstrate how low cut a scrub top can be and still pass for professional. “My regular hygienist, Jessica, had a family emergency,” he continues. “Mariko will be assisting today if that’s okay with you.”

  “Of course,” I say magnanimously as Mariko’s expectant smile fades.

  “Let’s make you comfortable, and I’ll take a look at that tooth.” He gently brushes the hair off my cheeks, his fingers dancing lightly over my skin. His touch is nothing but professional, and Mariko is standing beside him, and yet that light caress reaches something deep inside me. I can’t remember the last time I was touched so lightly, or spoken to with gentle words and a soft voice.

  “Everything good?” He pulls up his surgical mask, hiding his beautiful smile as he lowers the chair, giving me an entirely different perspective of Alexis’s newest crush. He is as lovely upside down as he is right side up, but with Mariko clearly aware of his charms—and her own, if I’m reading the low-cut scrub top and ultra-tight scrub pants correctly—and in the office with him every day, Alexis might have her work cut out for her.

  “Yes.” No. Maybe coming here when I am still emotionally raw from my visit to the cemetery wasn’t such a good idea. And does he have to be so breathtakingly gorgeous? It is extremely unfair to his patients who need to have their wits about them to explain what is going on.

  “Open wide.”

  Lying partially upside down with my mouth open wide should kill my naughty thoughts, but as he pokes at my tooth with his sharp-edged tool, I am hyperaware of everything about him. His fresh, slightly spicy cologne reminds me of the forest behind our acreage, and his eyes above the mask are blue and clear, like the afternoon sky on a summer day.

  “I don’t remember seeing your file in my grandfather’s cabinet,” he says, pressing a button to elevate the chair.

  My fingers lace together in my lap, as my blood rushes downward, making me hot in a place that shouldn’t be hot when one is sitting in the chair of a sexy dentist about to get a tooth drilled.

  “I haven’t been here since I was eighteen. I used to be Bianco. Now I’m White.”

  He laughs, a rich, deep, rumble that tugs my lips up at the corners, and Mariko’s lips down as she studies me. I can’t remember the last time I heard Sam laugh. In fact, I can’t remember the last time he smiled. Sam has a beautiful smile. It melted me the day we met, and it melted me the day I said, “I do.”

  “Isn’t that what they call serendipity?” he asks.

  “I suppose so.” Although our marriage wasn’t so much chance as it was necessity. Sam might have had dreams of becoming a rock star and living a life of fame and travel, but at heart he is an honorable man. A good man. A man who moved back to Revival to work on the farm with his dad when we discovered we were having a baby. A man who left his dreams behind, just as I left mine.

  “You’ve got an exposed nerve there, which is why you’ve got all the pain,” he says. “I’ll freeze your mouth and fix it up for you, and you’ll be as good as new in less than an hour.”

  A curious disappointment washes over me at the thought that this will all be over so quickly—this beautiful man with his sexy voice and his gentle touch—the stolen moments with someone who cares, albeit only about my teeth.

  There was no time for caring after Sam’s father died. No time for anything but work. Less than a year after we lost Ethan to an undiagnosed heart condition, we lost Sam’s dad to a heart attack. Hearts are fragile things, it seems. Susceptible to the ravages of genetics and hard living. Vulnerable to hurt. Easy to break.

  An only child, Sam inherited the farm with the blessing of his mother. A lawyer at a big city firm in Columbus, Ohio, she wasn’t cut out for farming life. Only three months after Sam’s family moved to Revival so his dad could become a farmer, his mom had packed up and walked out the door. She had no qualms about leaving her sixteen-year-old son and her husband on their own, and no interest even in staying in touch. I could have forgiven her for missing her city life—farming wasn’t easy, and more than once I’d thought about leaving too—but I couldn’t forgive her for abandoning my Sam, nor could I forgive her for being too busy to visit her grandson before he died.

  Dr. Steadman studies me intently, his head tipped to the side. “You look worried.”

  “I’m not.”

  He puts a gentle finger under my chin and tips my head back until I’m looking into those deep blue eyes. A curiously intimate gesture given we barely know each other. “I promise it won’t hurt, Natalie. I’ll take good care of you.”

  My blood rushes to my face, and for a moment I feel unravelled and strange, like he’s seen the secret part of me that is tired of being strong and capable and self-sufficient every minute of every day. That deep down, sometimes I just want to held and cared for, nurtured and protected the way I longed to be as a child, the way Sam used to make me feel.

  It isn’t that I’m sexually attracted to Dr. Steadman in anything other than a movie-star fantasy kind of way—he is too handsome, too nice, too perfect, and if the rumors Alexis has heard about him are true, his dark secrets are a little too dark for me. I like my men rough and rugged, but in the bedroom, I’m not into shades of grey. But today, when my heart is raw and sore, and I feel so alone, his kindness unlocks feelings I thought were long gone.

  “I trust you, Dr. Steadman.”

  His eyes widen the tiniest bit, and he sucks in a sharp breath. But if I even imagine I see a flush in his cheeks, it is gone as soon as soon as I blink my eyes. And then I am upside down again, and that is the end of my curious moment with Dr. Steadman.

  “How are you feeling?” Dr. Steadman joins me at the reception desk after I’ve paid my bill, all good looks and smiles, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Gina is staring at him like he is her next meal.

  “Good, thanks,” I mumble through my partially frozen mouth. I don’t even try to crack a smile in case I inadvertently drool.

  “You won’t need another appointment unless that filling gives you problem, or if you feel any sharp edges when the freezing wears off.” He picks up the clipboard containing my registration forms and flips through the pages. “Any kids we should add to your file? We should get everyone in the family started on a regular cl
eaning schedule.”

  My heart seizes, and for a moment I can’t breathe.

  “Natalie? You okay?”

  “Yes.” I force the word out. “And no. No children. Just Sam and me.”

  Dr. Steadman puts a warm hand on my shoulder, his forehead wrinkled in consternation. “Are you sure you’re okay? Sometimes people react to the novocaine—allergic reactions, that sort of thing—or they become lightheaded from the chair. Maybe you should stay in reception for a few minutes just to be sure, especially if you’re planning to drive. Mariko and Gina are done for the day, but I still have some paperwork to do. It’s no trouble—”

  He is so easy to talk to, so concerned. He has the gentleness of his grandfather, and yet he can’t be more than five years older than me. “I’m fine. Really.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “She said she’s fine.” Gina grabs her purse and shares a look with Mariko who has just joined us in reception. “Mariko and I can walk her out, just to be sure.” She frowns at me as she holds open the door like she’s concerned about leaving me alone with Dr. Steadman. Or is it the other way around?

  “I lost a child.” My words come out in a rush. I don’t know if it is the gambler in me—the girl who left home with only a few dollars in her pocket and her wannabe rock-star boyfriend to pursue her dream—desperation, or the sheer and utter loneliness of loving someone who doesn’t love me back, but I tell him about Ethan. “Today would have been his tenth birthday, so it’s just a hard question to answer.”

  My heart pounds. I didn’t do anything wrong, and yet I felt as if I did, as if I just betrayed Sam because I shared my pain with a handsome stranger simply because he is kind.

  “Natalie . . .” His voice is deep with sympathy. “I shouldn’t have assumed.” He gestures to Gina and Mariko. “Ladies, I won’t keep you. Enjoy your weekend. I’ll look after Natalie.”

  Mariko’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “See you on Monday.”

  “Bye, Natalie,” Gina says softly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say after the door closes behind them. “That was awkward. I should get going.”

  “I lost a child too,” Dr. Steadman says gently. “I know how hard it is when people ask that kind of question, and how difficult birthdays can be. Would you like to talk? I was planning to head over to Sticky’s after work for a drink. Why don’t you join me, and you can tell me all about him?”

  A dam breaks inside me. No one ever says, “Tell me all about him.” No one wants to know Ethan. They say, “I’m sorry for your loss”, or “Oh, you poor thing,” or “It must have been terrible”, or worse they say, “Are you trying to have another one?” like Ethan can be replaced. People don’t want to hear about a child who died. They are afraid of feeling sad, of being inadequate, or of not knowing what to say . . .

  “T-t-tell you about him?” Between the partially-numb mouth and the shock, I am barely coherent.

  “Of course.” He brushes my hair back over my shoulder, his touch as light as the whisper of wind on a warm, summer day. “I want to hear all about your little boy. He should be remembered on his birthday.”

  Yes, he should. But by his father, not by a stranger with a big heart and a gentle touch.

  I check my watch. I managed to pick up Sam’s part and the checks from the bank before my appointment, but Sam will be expecting his dinner soon. He’ll sit in his usual chair, complain about his hired men, and then we’ll talk about the weather and farm prices, new government regulations, and equipment. We won’t talk about Ethan. He won’t mention my appointment, or ask if I’m feeling better. He won’t notice my hair or the new dress I bought to remember Ethan’s birthday. When he’s done with his meal, he’ll head out the door to put in a few more hours of work before dark, and then he’ll collapse into bed so he can do it all over again tomorrow.

  I never miss dinner. Revival’s shops close every day at five o’clock, and even if I am late running errands, there is always more than enough time to drive home and get something on the table by six. Occasionally Alexis drags me out to the bar with our old school friends, or to see a movie at the new cinema in town, but I never leave until Sam has his meal, or at the very least a plate of food ready to be heated up with a note or text letting him know where I am. What will Sam do if I don’t show up for dinner? Will he even notice I am gone?

  “Yes. I’d like that.” I smile. “I’d like that a lot.”

  Chapter Three

  SAM

  “Natalie?”

  Puzzled, I flick on the kitchen lights. I don’t really expect Natalie to be here because her truck isn’t parked outside, but it’s dinnertime. I can’t remember a day when I’ve come in from the field to find no Natalie in the kitchen.

  “Nat?” I raise my voice, although if she were here, she’d answer. Our bedroom and living room are within hearing distance of the kitchen, and Natalie never goes upstairs.

  The house is silent. Cold. It feels wrong. Like its life crept away when my back was turned.

  Our border collie, Rebel, follows me inside, sniffing around for his bowl. I felt a slight niggle of worry when I saw it empty by the door. Although Natalie sometimes goes out with her friends in the evening, she never ever forgets to leave us a meal.

  “Looks like we’re on our own tonight.” I give him a pat and take care of his food and water before looking for my plate. I search the counters, stove, microwave, and fridge, and come up empty. No plate. No food. No note. Not even a text to let me know she’s running late.

  The niggle turns into full-blown worry. Where’s my girl?

  I send her a text, then stare out the kitchen window, half expecting to see our blue farm truck rumbling down the gravel driveway. Barely five feet four inches tall, Natalie insists on driving the truck to town, even though she has to use a cushion for visibility. Our hired men often smirk when they see her pull up, and more than once I’ve had to use my fists to shut down their comments about the little woman in the big-ass truck. Natalie may be small, but she is strong and brave and willing to lend a hand no matter how difficult the job, or how inclement the weather. Something that couldn’t be said for my men.

  When no truck appears, I open the fridge and stare at the shelves full of bottles, containers, fruit, and vegetables. I so rarely have to prepare my own food; I have no idea what to do. Finally, I spot a container of eggs on the bottom shelf beside the raspberries I picked for Natalie on my way home yesterday evening. Natalie loves raspberries, but they didn’t grow well in her garden.

  “Whaddaya think, Rebel? Should we see if I remember how to make an omelette?”

  Rebel, now well into his tasty meal, doesn’t even bother to lift his head.

  Driven by hunger, I pull out a bag of mushrooms, a block of cheese, and a few limp scallions, and place them on the counter with the eggs. Next, I search the cupboards for a bowl. I was a fair cook back when Natalie and I lived in Billings together, but after we moved to the farm, we unintentionally took on more traditional roles. Out in the field or in the pasture from dawn to dusk, and with a team of hired men to manage, I don’t have time for cooking. Except when we need extra hands in the field, Natalie is mostly at home. She runs the business side of the operation and the accounts, as well as the household and the garden, and has taken on the task of preparing our meals.

  Finally, I locate a bowl and manage to crack four eggs into it along with a vast quantity of shells. After spending ten minutes trying and failing to fish out the little pieces, I cut a few wedges of cheese, chop them up, and throw them in along with a scallion and a handful of mushrooms. Feeling proud of my accomplishment, I carry the mixture over to the gas stove and study the multitude of dials.

  “Did I buy this?”

  Rebel thumps his tail, and I take it for a yes. We renovated the kitchen after my father passed away, although I had little input into the design. Unable to cope with being in the house where he and I had to make our own way after my mother ret
urned to the city, I left everything to Natalie and she handled it all without complaint, from the financing to sourcing the materials and appliances, and from hiring the contractor to supervising his work. She got it done at half the quoted cost and at twice the speed. My Natalie is a force to be reckoned with.

  “What the hell? It looks like an airline cockpit. Which dial goes with which burner?”

  My now well-fed dog has no answers. He stretches and lies down on the warm spot on the floor where the sun streams in every evening. For a moment I consider just pouring myself a bowl of his food, but I decide against it. Not because I’m worried about getting ill, but because in a fight between Rebel and me, I have a feeling he might win simply because I couldn’t bear to hurt him.

  Fed up with trying to figure out all the knobs and buttons, I grab a gas lighter, turn on a few burners, and flick the switch. Flames shoot up, singeing my eyebrows and the front of my hair. Rebel jumps up with a yip of warning and pushes himself between the stove and me, urging me back.

  “Jesus Christ.” I turn off the burners and pour a jug of water over my head as the acrid scent of burnt hair fills the kitchen. “Where the fuck is Natalie? You think she’s still at the cemetery?”

  Rebel looks up at me and tips his head to the side as if telling me he doesn’t know. He came with me early this morning to visit Ethan’s grave, when the morning light first streaked across the sky. I always go to the cemetery early so that Natalie can visit Ethan alone whenever it suits her during the day. We never visit him together. Never talk about him. Never discuss having another child. I always figured she’d come to me when the time was right, but after years passed and she didn’t bring it up, I assumed she was done. As an only child, I always dreamed of having a big family, but Natalie is everything to me, and I’ve willingly given up that dream to have her in my life.

  I check my phone again. Send another text. Leave her a voice message. When I get no immediate response, I turn on the radio, hoping the music will calm me down. George Jones’s “The Grand Tour” fills the kitchen and I focus on the music as I make myself a cheese sandwich. Natalie has eclectic musical tastes, ranging from punk rock to pop songs, and metal ballads to mournful cello concertos, but she always puts on the country music station when I’m in the house because she knows it’s the only music I can listen to without thinking about Ethan and the songs I played for him on my guitar in the three short months we had together. But that’s Natalie. She shows her love through small acts of kindness, even after Ethan’s death broke her heart.