Does he regret it? Touching me like that?
He must do, to be this weird about it.
“We got a reply,” the doctor says a minute later as he leads me across the courtyard. I hurry to keep up with his long strides, my damp hair dripping on the paving stones. “A journalist from the city paper wants to meet. Specifically, she wants to come here.”
And talk to us both.
I swallow, mouth dry, and wring out my hair while Dr Whitaker keys in the code to his office building. For the first time, it hits me that he’s risking a lot by doing this for me—putting his whole career on the line to expose my father. He’ll be in the governor’s cross hairs after this, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that my spite is hereditary.
“Are you sure?”
Dr Whitaker nods briskly as he holds the door for me. “I double checked the name. She’s legitimate.”
That’s not what I meant.
It’s weird stepping into his office now. I’ve been here three times since The Knee Incident already, but each time has made my heart pound like crazy. I’m like a serial killer returning to the scene of the crime, getting a second-hand high from the memory of my bad behavior.
I flirted with Dr Whitaker that night. I egged him on; practicallybeggedfor him to touch me.
And for a blissful moment back there, he actually did.
“I’ll show you the email. You can draft a reply.” The doctor leans over his desk, tapping away at his keyboard. Dr Whitaker has really nice hands: tanned and strong. The navy necktie he’s wearing dangles forward as he types, just crying out for a girl to yank it.
“Be honest with me, Doc. Did you go to medical school just because you look so good in a white coat?”
He hides a smile—with effort. “Whit,” he says.
“Woo?”
“No, Whit. That’s my name. People call me Whit.”
People. Friends and loved ones.Me.
“Hey, Whit.”
His eyes crease at the corners. “Hey.”
And I’m so giddy about all of this. The terse but clearly interested email from the reporter; the golden sunshine spilling through the window; the scent of chlorine on my skin; the taste offreedomon the tip of my tongue.
That smile. That ghost of a smile.
When Whit steps back from his desk, waving for me to take his place, I don’t keep a careful six inches of space between us like the last few days. No: I bounce across his office and throw my arms around his waist; I flatten our bodies together and bury my face in his tanned throat.
Whit stands there, frozen. It’s like hugging a statue in the park.
Then finally,finally,when I’m about to give up all hope, a breath shudders out of his strong chest, and his hands spread over my back to press me closer.
I melt against the doctor with a sigh.
“Huh.” He rubs a cautious circle on my shoulder blades. Can he feel my heart going nuts? Is that medical concern in his voice? Hey, am I dying? “Your t-shirt is damp.”
Ah, yeah. “I’ve got my bikini on underneath. I went swimming with Janice.”
He grunts, and then we’re cuddling in silence.
Cuddling.There’s no other word for what we’re doing: standing locked together, breaths steady, hands roaming slowly. Brushing and grazing. Tracing lines of crackling heat. The Knee Incident’s gotnothingon this, and I’m living the freaking dream right now.
“You’re very muscly.”
Another grunt. A stubbly chin rubs against my temple, strands of my hair catching on his bristles. What would that chin feel like against my inner arm? My stomach? My thighs?
“You’re nearly free, Poppy.” Dr Whitaker drags one palm down the length of my spine, scorching right to my soul.
I gasp, my hips pressing forward against his. It’s pure instinct, okay? I can’t help it, and when he presses back, white static fills my brain.
Freedom.
He’s right. It’s so close, but for the first time in my life… I don’t feel like running anywhere.