Sticky Situationship (It’s Complicated)

7. Libby

Libby

B rock freezes, his eyes flying to the door. I silently curse whoever is stopping by right now. An interruption is bad enough anytime I’m next door, but right now? It’s agonizing. For me and the aching juncture between my thighs.

Tonight’s the last time I’m going to enjoy the skillful handiwork of this sexy as hell—and well endowed—firefighter for a few months. At least, I hope it’s only a few months. I realize there’s a chance that, upon hearing I need to take a break from our arrangement, Brock may decide to cut things off forever. A possibility that lodges a lump in my throat. An option I’ve tried all day to banish from the back of my mind. With no luck.

I wracked my brain for another solution at the hospital and then for the twenty minute commute up the red line home from Soho. A resolution that would keep Brock in my life. But I came up dry. Dr. Novak is right. The boards are my priority and should be my singular focus. As much as I don’t want to admit it, Brock is a distraction. Plus, I gave Dr. Novak my word.

“Don’t answer it,” Brock commands, dragging me back to the present. He’s uttered the directive in that low, authoritative tone I haven’t heard in a while but always love.

Except now, rather than follow directions, I roll my eyes and scoot toward the edge of the bed. “It’s probably just Mrs. Peters from down the hall. I promised I’d take a look at a rash on her torso yesterday and haven’t had a chance to stop by.”

“But—” he protests, holding up a hand.

“You know her,” I say, grabbing his navy NYFD T-shirt off the floor where it landed only moments ago. “She’s not one to give up if she knows I’m in here.” I slip the shirt over my head, its lingering scent enveloping me and not helping my resolve to cut off things with Brock.

“Libby—” he starts, but is interrupted when the knock sounds again. Three sharp raps. It’s just like Mrs. Peters to be impatient.

“I’ll handle it,” I assure him, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek and patting his bare ass. “Just slip into the bathroom and give me a minute. Then we can pick up right where we left off.”

His gray eyes dart to the door and then swing back to me. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“What?” My brow furrows. If Brock doesn’t think I can get rid of Mrs. Peters in a matter of minutes, he’s never seen me in action, especially considering my motivation to get back to business right now is off the charts.

He shakes off the question, and his gaze rakes me from head to toe. “You look good, don’t get me wrong, but are you really going to open the door like that?”

Brock likes me wearing his shirt? I’ll have to remember that for next time. If there’s a next time. I give him a little push toward the bathroom and shove the thought from my mind.

“I’m decent enough to promise Mrs. Peters I’ll pop over in a half hour. You, sir, are the one who’s naked.” Not that I’m complaining. Brock’s birthday suit is one of my favorite states, but I’d prefer Mrs. Peters not see the goods I enjoy regularly.

He stands immobile, gazing at me. His expression is tense, as if he’s moderating an internal debate, but finally, presses his lips together and nods. Grabbing his jeans off the floor, Brock disappears into the bathroom.

I smooth my hands down the oversized T-shirt and make my way to the door, plastering a smile on my face as I run through the possible causes of a torso rash on a sedentary elderly female.

But when I open the door, the person standing in the hallway isn’t Mrs. Peters.

Not even close.

I blink, certain I’m hallucinating the sight before me. Because rather than my elderly neighbor—or any neighbor from our building, for that matter—I’m face-to-face with my attending physician.

“Dr. Bauer?” she says.

I’ve never seen Dr. Novak flustered, but the pinched brow that tugs her normally perfectly composed face into a baffled expression is confirmation her level of confusion matches mine.

“What are you doing here?” she continues, her gaze shooting over my shoulder into Brock’s apartment.

I would answer. Really, I would. But I’m frozen, my mind struggling to form a coherent thought, let alone generate a satisfactory explanation.

“Dr. Novak. I…um,” I start, suddenly feeling self conscious about my decision to answer the door wearing only Brock’s shirt.

Especially because my nipples pebble from the cool air in the hallway, and of course, I don’t have a bra on. I cross my arms over my chest to cover them before realizing the non-verbal communication signal I’m sending won’t help the situation. Whatever the situation is.

So I uncross them and tug the shirt down, wishing it were longer. And even though I haven’t answered her question or invited her inside, Dr. Novak brushes past me and sets her utilitarian black purse on the counter next to my phone and keys.

“I…uh—” I say, still fumbling for words as I automatically shut the door and trail after her, shooting a desperate look at the closed bathroom door.

She stands in the middle of the tiny apartment, hands on her hips. Her low-heeled Mary Jane’s are only a few feet from our clothes—and the condom wrapper—strewn across the floor. Speaking of the floor, I wish it would swallow me whole right about now, but no such luck. Instead, my face scrunches up at the sight of the mussed-up bed that leaves little doubt as to what Brock and I have been up to.

Without warning, she spins to face me, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. “Are you the girlfriend Brock’s been talking about for months?”

Wait, what? Brock has a girlfriend? My stomach churns, and suddenly, I feel as if I’m going to throw up.

The possibility he’s seeing someone is like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head without warning. My mind races, heart pounding, as I process the notion. A wave of jealousy—hot and unexpected—crashes through me, and a numbing chill seeps into my bones.

“I…” I start unable, for the third time now, to articulate a complete sentence. Or answer a single one of Dr. Novak’s questions.

But before I falter any more, the bathroom door swings open, and Brock, wearing only his jeans, emerges.

“Mom.” He makes his way over to Dr. Novak and embraces her in a quick hug while I silently lose my mind.

“Mom?” I murmur, because what else is there to say considering my life has suddenly and unexpectedly turned into an episode of The Twilight Zone.

With an arm still looped over her shoulders, Brock turns to me. “Mom, I’d like to introduce Libby Bauer. Dr. Libby Bauer, I mean. Libby, this is my mother, Dr. Patricia Novak.”

“Your mother ?” I blink, trying to piece together what on earth is going on. My eyes dart from Brock to Dr. Novak and back, and suddenly, I can’t unsee the identical shade of charcoal gray eyes. How did I never notice the glaring similarity before? “But… But your last name is Harris.”

“I’m remarried,” Dr. Novak explains. “Harris was my first husband’s last name. We lost Brock and his younger sister Charlotte’s father over a decade ago now.”

I knew Brock lost his dad, just as I did when we were both in our late teens. But I didn’t know that man had been married to Dr. Novak. Clearly.

“Wait, do you two know each other?” Wrinkles crisscross Brock’s forehead as he glances between us.

“She’s my attending physician,” I reply at the same time Dr. Novak chimes in, “Dr. Bauer is one of my residents.”

And because this moment isn’t insane enough, she adds, “A very promising resident,” and looks pointedly at me.

I swallow, unsure what to make of her statement. So instead, I turn to Brock. “Why didn’t you tell me your mother oversaw a residency program at Manhattan General? You know I’m a medical resident there!”

He flinches at my outburst, but at the moment, I’m too distraught to care.

“I didn’t know that. I figured you were at Central Park West,” he replies, naming the hospital only four blocks west of our building.

A logical conclusion, I suppose. And, now that I think about it, I can’t remember a time when the exact hospital I’m at came up. Plus, what are the chances that out of all the residency programs in Manhattan, I’d be placed at the one where my hot firefighter next door, no-strings-attached lover’s mom would be in charge? Slim to none.

“Plus,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “It wouldn’t have mattered to me either way.”

For a moment, I ignore Dr. Novak’s keen glance. I have a more pressing concern to address. “Just like it doesn’t matter that you have a girlfriend?”

My tone is harsh, snippy even, but I don’t care. I know our agreement was always no strings attached, but I didn’t think Brock was seeing anyone else. And the more the idea settles in my chest, the deeper it cuts. Like a razor-sharp scalpel twisting in my side. But I have only myself to blame.

“I…uh,” Brock starts, looking uneasy. Probably because he’s been able to keep the fact a secret for the past few months. And now, the truth is out.

My fingers clench into fists tight enough to turn my knuckles white. And I keep going because it’s better than breaking down.

“Well, it’s been fun while it lasted,” I stammer, fighting back the tears threatening at the back of my eyes. “If you’ll excuse me.”

I scoop up the articles of my clothing within reach and spin toward the door, ignoring Brock’s feeble attempt to explain as I grab my keys and phone from the counter.

“I need to go study. Dr. Novak, I’ll see you in the morning. Brock,” I say, not bothering to glance back, though I feel his towering presence approaching from behind. I turn the doorknob. “This is goodbye.”