The Fake Mate
: Chapter 21

“thanks for coming down,” I tell Priya. “I saw this once in residency, but it wasn’t this bad.”

Priya waves me off with her free hand while the respiratory therapist finishes inflating the balloon on the patient she’s just finished intubating. “Don’t even. These can be tricky. I’ve been doing this for years, and I’m still afraid I’m going to chip someone’s teeth with the laryngoscope.”

The patient she’s working on was admitted with severe pneumonia that progressed to levels that made it difficult for them to breathe—not uncommon during this time of year, but still hard to see. They’re sleeping now after the sedatives and paralytics given to them before Priya started intubating, the entire process marking the end of what turned out to be a very long night.

While she lets the RT finish up, Priya pulls off her gloves, tossing them into the waste bin while I let the nurse know to monitor the patient and call me if there are any changes. “Six can’t get here fast enough,” she says with a slight yawn.

“You’re telling me. It should be illegal to work when the sun isn’t out.”

She stretches as she checks her watch. “Only an hour left.”

“Thank God,” I grunt.

She flashes me a sly grin. “Must be nice that you get to go home to your grumpy bedmate, at least.”

“Hardly,” I snort. “He’s been on day shift.”

“Ah,” Priya sighs dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “They were like two ships passing in the night.”

I roll my eyes as she follows me toward the doctors’ lounge. A cup of coffee is exactly what I need to drag through this last hour. “Shut up.”

“Seriously, it’s gotta be hell to be mated to another doctor,” Priya says. “Do you guys, like, have to schedule your sex?”

I feel my cheeks heat in a blush, thinking back to only a few short days ago when Noah and I had very unscheduled sex in this very building. I clear my throat, trying to look nonchalant. “It’s not that bad.”

“Man, I still can’t picture the two of you having sex.”

“Maybe you should just . . . not then.”

She grins. “Are you kidding? My friend is mated to the equivalent of a hot hospital cryptid. Like, there are legends about Noah, Mack.”

“They’re all—”

“—grossly overexaggerated,” she finishes with a snicker. “Yes, you’ve told me. You’re even starting to sound like him.”

That makes me smile. Maybe he’s rubbing off on me. Well, in ways other than the literal sense. Which he most definitely is. The thought only makes me blush again.

“What’s he like at home?”

I tap my chin thoughtfully before I grab an empty paper cup near the Keurig. “Do you remember when we used to have conversations that didn’t revolve around Noah? Those were the good old days.”

“No one asked you to mate Noah fucking Taylor in secret and withhold all the juicy details for an entire year,” she says, clucking her tongue.

“He’s just . . .” I imagine Noah in his own space—his wool socks he’s so fond of and his cotton sleep pants he’s partial to—feeling a smile tug at my lips. “He’s just like any other guy, really.”

“That’s very hard to believe,” she scoffs.

It’s funny. I used to think the same thing.

Priya sighs again. “I’m just jealous. You really are living the dream? You bagged a sexy alpha who makes bank and understands our schedule. Who cares if he frowns during sex?”

“He doesn’t actually frown during sex,” I laugh.

“Shh.” She closes her eyes. “Just let me picture it the way I want.”

I shake my head. “You’re horrible.”

“You love me,” she says, blowing a kiss.

The door to the lounge reopens while I’m loading a K-Cup into the machine, the next sentence hanging on my tongue getting lost in the air when I notice Dennis striding in. I haven’t seen him since the day I went into heat, and his smarmy grin as he enters the room seems to get more and more intolerable every time we run into each other.

Priya makes a face. “I’d better head back up to my floor. Need to finish a few things before I take off.”

I look from her to my cup that is still catching the stream of coffee, leaving me trapped here, giving her a look that I hope says: Don’t you dare leave me with this creep.

Her answering look responds something along the lines of: Sorry, it’s every woman for herself.

Ugh. I can’t even blame her. She gives me a little wave as she retreats, and I try to look busy with the Keurig, hoping that Dennis can read the room.

He can’t, apparently.

“Mack,” he says in a way he probably thinks is friendly, but it comes off more oily than he intends. “How are you? I haven’t seen you since your . . . incident.”

How is it even possible that I never ran into this guy before I met Noah, and now he seems to be everywhere?

“I’m fine,” I say curtly, keeping my attention on my cup. “Just a case of a mixed-up calendar.”

“Never heard of that happening,” he says in a curious tone. “Especially for mated pairs. Those things are supposed to be pretty predictable, aren’t they?”

I turn my head enough so that he can see the hard set of my gaze. “No offense, but this isn’t really something I want to discuss with a near-stranger.”

“Of course, of course.” He raises his hands palms out in an apologetic gesture. “Just concerned, that’s all.”

“I appreciate it,” I answer flatly, “but I’m fine.”

“Good to hear,” he says with another slimy grin. It really is creepy, the more you look at it. He smiles the way I imagine a Venus flytrap would when it sees a fly. He shoves his hands in his pockets, leaning against the opposite wall, seeming to have no intention of leaving. “It must be nerve-racking to think of him leaving.”

I turn again with a cocked brow. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, I just meant . . . Well. You know the rumor mill. There’s all the talk of Noah transferring to Albuquerque. I have friends over there. Bunch of gossips.”

“I see,” I answer measuredly.

I turn back to my cup, pulling it from underneath the Keurig spout and moving to the canisters where we keep the cream and sugar.

“He’s still considering,” I finally say, as carefully as I can. “We’re . . . still talking about it.”

Which is entirely untrue since I have absolutely no say in the matter. The knowledge of that is hitting me full force at this moment, and it leaves me with a strange feeling. One that’s . . . unsettling. With a wrinkled brow I stir my coffee, forgetting for a second or so that Dennis is even here until he speaks again.

“Ah, well. I know we’d certainly miss our resident genius. Plus, I can imagine it would be hard for you if he took the job.”

But I don’t know that. It’s possible—probable—that he will.

Why does my chest feel so tight?

I hide my tumultuous emotions with a slow sip from my cup, my eyes focused on the warm liquid as I manage a half shrug. “I’m sure Noah will come to the best decision.”

“He always does,” Dennis replies with that smile that is starting to make my skin crawl.

“Right.” I tip my mug in his direction, needing to get out of this room. “Anyway. Better get back to it. Have some things to finish up before I go home.”

“Of course, of course,” Dennis says with a wave. “Good to see you again, Mack.”

I nod, because I can’t possibly return the sentiment, escaping the lounge with my cup in hand as I release a measured breath. I really, really don’t like that guy. I can see why Noah doesn’t either.

Thoughts of Noah tug at something inside, Dennis’s talk of the possibility of Noah moving and the reminder that it’s been a possibility since this . . . thing we’re doing started—it causes a twinge in my chest that doesn’t go away even when I rub my hand there. If my mood weren’t suddenly so dour, I’d be texting Noah making a joke about needing a consultation. As it is, I walk in the direction of the nurses’ station with slow steps, my thoughts scattered, bouncing around in my head with nowhere to settle.

I can imagine it would be hard for you if he took the job.

It’s funny, until Dennis said it . . . it never occurred to me that it would be.

“this show is completely inaccurate.”

I grin at Noah from my side of my small couch, fighting the urge to laugh at his disgusted expression aimed toward my television.

“It’s not supposed to be accurate,” I tell him. “It’s supposed to be dramatic.”

He makes an indignant sound, folding his arms across his chest and spreading his legs out further in front of him in a move that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. My couch isn’t the largest piece of furniture out there, but with Noah on it, it looks downright small.

It’s been days since my run-in with Dennis, and I haven’t been able to make myself bring any of it up to Noah. It’s our first shared day off since the weekend I stayed over, and I’m not exactly dying to ruin it with talks about his least favorite person at the hospital or my growing insecurities about what we are and what his possible new job might mean for . . . whatever this is. It doesn’t sound like a fun conversation in my head, and I can’t imagine it being any better spoken out loud.

And besides, I’ve realized these last few days that the possibility of bringing it up only for Noah to brush it off would be far more painful than it has any right to be. Because what if he gets freaked out that I’m even worrying about it? This entire thing between us was built on a lie, and just because he asked me on one real date doesn’t mean he’s ready to propose or anything.

Not that I want him to.

Jesus. My brain is a mess.

“Did you see that?” Noah points at the screen, his brow knitted together. “He just touched his arm after scrubbing up for surgery. That’s a contamination hazard!”

“I’m sure they were really worried about medical accuracy when writing Derek Shepherd’s character,” I laugh.

“And that woman is wearing earrings in an OR,” he grumbles. “Seriously, who wrote this shit?”

“You know, I’m starting to wonder why I thought it would be a good idea to watch this with you.”

He catches my eye, a sheepish half smile curving on one side of his lip. “Sorry.”

“Nah. You’re cute when you’re grumpy.”

He frowns. “I’m not cute.”

“I think so.” I scoot across the inches of couch that separate us, leaning into him to brush my lips across his cheek. “Adorable, really.”

He turns his face just enough to let my mouth catch at the corner of his. “Mhm.”

“We can watch something else.”

“It’s fine,” he murmurs. “I’ll try not to be too critical.”

“The day you stop being critical is the day I start worrying about your health,” I tease.

“My mother says something similar,” he huffs. “Often.”

“Oh? Your mom isn’t as . . . rigid as you are?”

I waggle my brows on the last word, and he rolls his eyes. “My mother doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” He eyes me speculatively. “She’s much more like you, if I’m being honest.”

“Like me?”

“You know . . .” He waves his hand in a circular motion, smiling. “Personable. Outgoing. Fun.”

“I think you’re lots of fun,” I tell him, trailing my fingers across the T-shirt stretched over his chest.

He snorts. “You’re probably the only one.”

“They just don’t get to see the sparkling personality you hide under all those frowns.”

“Right.” He chuffs out a quiet laugh. “My mother would adore you.”

For some reason his casual statement makes my pulse quicken. “You think?”

“Oh, definitely. She’s been badgering me to bring you to dinner for weeks.”

My heart is thundering now, and I can’t say why. “She has?”

He seems to realize what he’s said then, his eyes widening and his lips parting. “I . . . I mean . . . Don’t worry. I told her it wasn’t a good idea.”

“Oh.” My heart rate feels almost like it comes to a dead halt. Why am I so disappointed? “Right.”

“I just mean . . .” He looks flustered, like he doesn’t quite know what to say. “I only meant that I wouldn’t want to put you on the spot or ask you to do something you didn’t agree to when we started all of this.”

Something you didn’t agree to.

It’s like a gut punch, those five words, and I do my best not to let it show. Nothing he’s saying is untrue, or even unwarranted; logically, I know that just because we are wading into new territory, it doesn’t negate how we started out—but the lines that seem to be blurring are so muddled that I can’t figure out what’s what anymore. It leaves me feeling uncertain. Something I hate feeling.

I school my features, waving my hand in front of my face and doing my best to look unbothered. “It’s fine. You’re totally right. It would probably be weird.”

“Right . . .” His expression is hard to read, but for a second I can almost imagine a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but that doesn’t make sense. It’s gone as quickly as it comes. “Exactly. Especially since we’re in such . . . uncharted territory right now.”

“It’s fine, Noah,” I tell him with as much assurance as I can muster while my stomach is tying itself up. “Better not to rock the boat before we figure things out between us.”

He looks at me like there’s something he would like to say, but isn’t sure how to voice it. His lips are pressed into a firm line, and there’s a wrinkle between his brows that is deeper than usual, and I can’t decide if he’s worried that he’s offended me, or if he’s worried that I’m hoping for things that I shouldn’t be. The latter alternative is something I have a feeling would gut me even further.

Seriously, what is wrong with me lately?

“Sure,” he says finally, reaching with his hand to cover my own, still resting against his chest. “Not until we figure things out.”

And maybe part of me hopes that he’ll broach that conversation, the one where we figure things out, but either Noah is hoping the same, or he’s just not ready to have it. His thumb slides back and forth over my knuckles, and then he leans to press a kiss to my forehead, clearing his throat before returning his attention to the show.

“Oh, for God’s sake. He’s not even wearing eye protection! What about blood splatter?”

Despite my roiling emotions, I can’t help the tiny chuckle that escapes me. “They wouldn’t be able to see into McDreamy’s eyes if he wore goggles in surgery.”

“Honestly,” Noah mutters grumpily.

He’s still holding my hand, the warm weight of it offering some comfort in face of the errant thoughts flitting through my head. I can’t remember a time when I’ve ever been in a situation where I wanted to talk to a man about what we “might be,” and honestly, with the anxiety it’s giving me, I’m not sure I’d ever wish for it if given the choice. Everything about Noah and me was supposed to be a casual thing that we both benefited from, and as it’s slowly morphed into something decidedly less casual—I find myself stuck in limbo without any direction.

This romance bullshit is for the birds.

I snuggle closer into Noah’s side as if the heat of his body will somehow quiet the loud war raging in my head, and his arm immediately circling my shoulders weirdly only makes things worse. Apparently, against my will I now analyze everything Noah does, my brain forcing me to search for the hidden meanings that might not be there.

It’s fine, I tell myself. Stop worrying about things that might not even matter. Just enjoy where you are now.

I take a slow, surreptitious breath just to let it out, hoping that emptying my lungs will somehow empty my head. Not that it works. I close my eyes as I listen to Noah continue to pick apart Grey’s Anatomy, hardly even hearing what he’s saying as I allow the low timbre of his voice to wash over me, basking in his heady, warm scent that calls to my blood and centers me in a way that nothing else ever has.

It’s funny, when I asked Noah to be my fake boyfriend . . . I never imagined a possibility where I might wish for it to be real.

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