Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
“I feel like a fucking fool,” she says as she hops off the counter to pace. “I’ve done this before, Blake. I’ve been the one whose emotions are on the line, and I get nothing in return. No information. No say. Like I’m the little woman who doesn’t need to know more than he’s willing to give her.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“That’s what it feels like. We both have high-stress jobs. Who is better equipped to empathize at the end of the day than each other?”
She’s not wrong. Not at all.
“I can share you with your job, Blake. I knew going into this that you work sixty hour weeks, and our shifts are all over the place, and there will be times when we just don’t see each other. Fine. I can deal with that because we both love what we do, and it’s important. And I’m fucking proud of you! You save lives every day. That’s a big fucking deal, and I’m here for it.”
She’s fucking magnificent with her flushed cheeks and bright eyes, in that pink dress that molds her body perfectly.
And I’ve fucked up so badly.
“I tell you when I’ve had a hard day. You see it written all over me, and maybe that’s a mistake on my part. Maybe I shouldn’t show my emotions so freely—”
“Don’t you dare hide from me, sugar.”
“But you’re hiding from me.” She stops her pacing, faces me and her eyes are practically begging me to understand. “You never talk about it. You never confide when you lose a patient, or when you’re excited because you found an early diagnosis and can help someone. For all I know, you sat in your office and played solitaire all day.”
I cross my arms over my chest and don’t bother interrupting her because she’s on a roll. And she’s not wrong.
“Sure, the Grey’s Anatomy thing was funny, but that’s nothing compared to losing a patient from an accident today. Christ, Blake.”
She shakes her head and turns to look outside.
“I can’t tell you everything that happens at work—”
She spins and pins me in another glare. “Don’t do that.”
I sigh and drag my hand down my face. “I never talk about work,” I try again. “I never have. My family doesn’t want to hear about a mangled knee, or a ninety-three year-old woman with a broken hip that will likely kill her. I do the job, and then I go home, Harper.”
She listens, but she’s no less pissed off.
“I need you to talk to me,” she says. “Because I can’t just close myself off and not talk to you about the shit that goes down at work. That’s how I process, and I made the mistake of doing that before, and then it was held over my head as all of the reasons I’m bad at my job, while I didn’t know dick about what happened at his workplace. I really didn’t know him at all.”
“I’m not him.”
“No, you’re worse. Because I care about you so fucking deeply that—”
I can’t stand it. I pull her to me, boost her back up on the counter, and stand between her legs, her core pressed to my hard cock.
“I’m not him, Harper. I’m sorry that I hurt you, and I’ll work on it, but don’t compare me to the piece of shit who traumatized you so badly that when triggered, you have fucking panic attacks. Don’t do that.”
Her lower lip quivers, but she clears her throat and swallows hard.
“Don’t shut me out,” she whispers and rests her forehead against mine. “Just talk to me. And if you don’t want to talk, say that instead. But don’t pretend that everything is okay when it’s not. Because it makes me feel like I trust you implicitly, but you don’t trust me back.”
Those last three words are said in a whisper, making my heart hurt.
“I trust you, baby. I didn’t want to overload you.” She starts to interrupt, but I place my finger over her lips. “You had your say. Now I’ll have mine. You have had a rough two days, Harper. Rougher than most. I understand it was wrong not to tell you the truth when you asked, but it wasn’t because I don’t trust you. I just wanted to have a fun evening with you. I really do leave most of my work at the hospital.”
Framing her face in my hands, I kiss her gently, and she grips my wrists but doesn’t push me away.
“This job, being here in my hometown, is a lot of pressure. Most of the time, I love it. I thrive under it because I’m helping people I’ve known all my life. But it’s a lot, too.”
Her eyes soften, and she pushes her fingers into my hair, soothing me.
Christ, she soothes me.
“How do I tell my high school math teacher that her husband has brain cancer?”