Page 89 of Not Safe for Work

“You’ve been to a doctor?”

I toss him an exasperated look. “Yes, Rafe. I’ve been to a doctor. Many of them. Over and over.”

“You’ve had an MRI? Seen a neurologist? Is it a tumor?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Of course I have, and it’s not a tumor. I promise. It’s just something I have to live with.”

He tucks his shirt into his waistband and buttons his cuffs, much to my disappointment.

“Taking all that medication can’t be healthy.”

“It’s this, or spend half my life in bed writhing in agony.”

“I don’t like it,” he says, his brows drawing together.

“That makes two of us. Now get out so I can take a shower.”

“I’ve seen you naked, Tris,” he says, eyebrow arched.

“Yes, but you’re annoying me now.”

His face cracks into a smile, and he laughs to himself as he leaves, but not before tossing another wicked look over his shoulder.

Once he’s gone, I can’t help but smile, too.

An hour later, we find ourselves suffering through today’s lecture. We agreed to sit on opposite sides of the room in some wayward attempt to remain focused. But to no one’s surprise, it’s not working at all. I find myself stealing glances at Rafe every 0.02 seconds, only to find him doing the same. I couldn’t explain today’s topic if my life depended on it.

As the facilitator drones on, I feel his eyes traveling up my legs. I purposely wore a short, swingy skirt, entirely intent on being distracting because I’m annoyed that he refused my request to stay in bed. After another glance, I attempt to focus on the facilitator, but my thoughts are a million miles away.

A moment later, my phone buzzes from where it sits on the table.

Rafe: I can’t stop staring at your legs.

I smile at the screen before I swipe it open and type back.

Me: Who is this?

I return my attention to the front of the room, knowing my reply has probably earned me that villainous glare.

Rafe:

Rafe: I can still taste you. It’s making me insane.

My pulse skips. Rafe is also a dirty texter. That fairy godmother does good work.

Rafe: Uncross and then cross your legs the other way.

I don’t look at him as I reply.

Me: Seriously?

Rafe: Yes

Finally, I allow my gaze to slide to him. His hands sit balled on the table, one clutching a pen in his hand while his intense stare practically peels back the layers of my clothing.

Me: First, roll up your sleeves.

His smile morphs into deep satisfaction as he reads my text. Our gazes meet, and he doesn’t waver as he slowly unbuttons his cuffs and rolls them up as if this is exactly what he intended all along.