CHAPTER 22 TESSA

For the entire two hours and forty-two minutes it takes me to get from Fallon Ridge back to Chicago on Wednesday, my thoughts are scattered.

Mostly I’m thinking about Tristan.

But my father, Cam, and my brand-new half-siblings creep their way in, and it’s a confusing whirlwind of swirling thoughts.

Blasting Stone Temple Pilots didn’t help.

Should I call him?

I stuck the receipt with his number on it in my wallet. I’m gathering up the courage to use it, as he told me to.

Should I get in touch with Stephanie or Michael?

I didn’t know they existed until a few days ago. I’m not quite sure where I stand on any of it. It feels like something I don’t want to explore. I’ve spent my entire life up to this point not knowing, and even though my liar of a father never fessed up, that doesn’t mean I want to hop into sisterhood with virtual strangers.

And he’ll never be able to give me the answers. I think that’s what hurts most of all.

I hated him because of the way he betrayed me, and I didn’t even know the half of it. I wrote him off seven years ago. We didn’t have a relationship—sort of like he didn’t have a relationship with Stephanie or Michael or whoever else is out there.

I preferred living in ignorance, I guess.

And it’s within my rights to continue to ignore this. If my career as a nurse paired with my history has taught me anything, it’s how to compartmentalize. I’ll lock up dear old daddy in a box with my half-siblings and leave them in a far corner of my mind. I’ll toss away the key.

I have other things to focus on.

Like the fact that Cam showed up to the funeral.

I stop for gas a few blocks away from my apartment. As I get out of the car, the stench of a gas station fills my nostrils, and it oddly reminds me that this is home now. Chicago is my home, not Fallon Ridge.

And it’s with new resolve that I choose to leave my father and all his lies back in Fallon Ridge.

I don’t want to think about what he did. I wrote him off seven years ago, and I said my final goodbyes over the last week. Part of me feels some vindication in the fact that he wasn’t just an asshole to me . He was that way with everybody . All his kids. The wife he lied to. The women he left behind, his congregation…hell, his entire life was a lie.

I just want to leave Fallon Ridge behind me even though I know I’ll never fully be able to put Tristan out of my mind. I guess that’s the difference between the boy I thought was the love of my life and the father I already said goodbye to.

Maybe I should dial the number on the back of that receipt Tristan handed me after all.

As my tank fills, I stop inside the convenience mart to pick up a few things. I grab a frozen macaroni for lunch, a couple of different flavored seltzers for tonight, and a pack of gum, and it’s when I’m standing in line at the register that I see it.

Tristan Higgins. On the cover of some tabloid photographed next to his wife.

The caption below it makes my heart stop for a beat.

From a troubled marriage to baby news?

Baby news? My chest feels tight, like someone’s pressing a heavy weight on it.

I grab the magazine and toss it onto the counter at the last second beside the pack of gum the cashier will pick up next to scan. It’s masochistic, but it’s also necessary. I need to see what’s inside that magazine. I need to study the photographs, need to read the article…need to know if Tristan’s wife is pregnant.

On second thought, I pick up the magazine and place it back on the rack.

For one thing, those magazines only get the truth right about half the time.

But beyond that, I shouldn’t do this to myself.

It’s in that moment I make a decision. I take my bag of stuff out to my car, rifle around in my wallet for the receipt with his number on it, tear it in two, and toss it in the trash can.

Texting him or calling him—getting in touch with him—it’ll only hurt us both in the end.

It’s impulsive, but it’s the right thing to do.

I slip into my car and cry the remainder of my ride home.

Sara is still at work, and the office is open a few more hours. I debate going in just to get my mind off Tristan, and thoughts of Cam slip back in.

Despite what he said after we had sex, he could be right for me if I’d just give him a chance. It’s time to stop letting the past blind me. It’s time to move forward. Tristan sure did, so why can’t I?

And maybe, just maybe, Cam is the key to that.

Cam, who showed up for me.

Cam, who held my hand at my father’s funeral.

Cam, who must’ve said it would never happen again with me after we did it in his office out of fear of getting close to someone.

Maybe I need to take matters into my own hands. I can’t help but wonder whether the reason it hurt so much when he told me it wouldn’t happen again wasn’t because he hurt my pride. It was because there’s something deeper between us, and it was the first time I felt that way since Tristan.

That might be something worth exploring.

He wouldn’t have shown up in Fallon Ridge to hold my hand if he didn’t think so, too.

Rather than stopping into the office with the hope of running into him, I send him a text.

Me: I’m back in Chicago. Can I see you?

His reply doesn’t come right away, but maybe he’s in surgery or with a patient. He’s a busy man, and it’s not like he has time to just drop everything and text me.

I turn on the television and leave reruns of Friends on as background noise as I unpack my duffel bag. I put away my toiletries. I microwave my macaroni. I start a load of laundry.

None of it is enough to distract me.

I stand near the window and stare out at the “view” comprised of a CVS and other apartments too close. Having gone back home to Fallon Ridge makes me realize how much I miss small town living. I miss space and fresh air and friendly hellos. In the big city I have none of that. People stare at the ground in an attempt to avoid eye contact.

Although I suppose having everyone up in your business twenty-four seven is a major disadvantage to small town life.

I sigh as I think about what I really want out of life. A husband. Kids, three or four. I was an only child, or at least I thought I was. I grew up one, anyway, and I always wanted a sibling. Little did I know I had them, they were just secret.

I shake my head. Life is messy and complicated and ugly. I want to get to a place where that mindset changes. I want it to be messy and complicated and beautiful, and right now, it’s hard to see the beauty in much of anything.

I want a house with a big backyard for my children to play. I always pictured the big white house on Main Street in Fallon Ridge as my dream home. I want the wraparound white porch with the swing and the six bedrooms that I can fill with kids and hobbies and the pool in the backyard. I want to be a soccer mom driving a minivan.

Who dreams of owning a minivan? Me…the girl who grew up an only child and fit into the back of my dad’s Lincoln just fine by herself.

I like my career, but my true dream is to be a stay-at-home mom to my kids. I went into nursing because I wanted to be a caretaker, and I always imagined I’d use those same skills with my own children. And then, when they’re grown and off to school, I imagined I’d go back to work to fill the hours of my days.

Someone knocks on my door, interrupting my thoughts, and my brows dip as I wonder whether some delivery person has the wrong apartment. It happens all the time.

I ignore it as I stare out at the CVS sign, hoping the person will check the address and figure it out, but there’s another knock.

I blow out a breath as I make my way over, and I peek through the peephole. My breath catches with a gasp, and then I open the door.

“What are you doing here?”

The man standing on the other side wears a suit, and he moves his gaze from the floor up to my eyes. His burn with heat.

“I got your message,” Cam says. “I figured rather than wasting time with trivial matters like arranging a time and a place to meet, I’d just stop by.”

“How do you know where I live?” I ask.

“Staff records.” He chuckles, and his tone is cautious with his next question. “Are you doing okay?”

“I’m okay,” I lie.

I’m not okay, but somehow the fact that he showed up today is helping with that.

He showed up.

And not just today.

Is he playing games? Or am I just na?ve? Maybe it’s some combination of both.

What the hell am I doing? I can’t be so fixated on the past that I miss what’s right in front of me.

I open the door wider to allow him in, and he glances around our modest apartment as he takes it in. I close the door behind him, and I lean against it.

“You wanted to see me?” he asks.

I don’t move, and I don’t respond, either. “Don’t you have patients to see? Surgeries to perform?”

He nods. “I do. But I also have a thirty-minute window from a cancellation and you’re not far from the hospital.”

“So you just…show up?” I don’t know why I’m pressing. I’m fishing for something, maybe. Playing games.

“Don’t play games with me,” he warns. “You won’t win.”

Strange that he knew that’s what I was doing…but he seems like the experienced sort of guy who can read women well.

It seems like it’s okay for him to play, but not for me to play.

Maybe it’s his secret kink.

“I’m not playing games,” I say.

He takes a step toward me where I still stand with my back pressed to the door. He brushes a stray strand of hair from near my eye, and then he says quietly, “Then tell me what you want.”

What I want…

I want to stop thinking about Tristan.

I want to be less confused about my father and the things that were uncovered over the last week.

I want to be sated and I want Cam rocking my body with pleasure.

I want him to make me come the way he did in his office.

I want him .

“I want you,” I finally answer.

He presses his body to mine and his lips move to my neck. “A half hour isn’t enough time for everything I want to do to you.” His scruff of his chin is raw and scratchy, a beautiful reminder that this is real.

This moment isn’t just in my imagination. He’s real and he’s here with me, ready to give me everything I’m asking for.

I lean my head back against the door to give him better access to my neck and he peppers kisses along my skin up toward my mouth. His mouth covers mine, and our tongues dance and tangle as we give into the hot need and lust that flies between us.

He kisses me with abandon, yet he’s leisurely, too—like he doesn’t need to leave in the next thirty minutes to get back to his patients. I kiss him back with all the same abandon and leisure because I actually have nowhere I need to be, and meeting him beat for beat, step for step is exactly what I need right now.

There’s nowhere else I would rather be.

The moment when Tristan held me after the funeral flashes through my mind, but I push it away. I can’t do anything about it anyway.

It’s time to move forward.

And with that thought in mind I reach down over his pants. I cup his hard length in my hand as he thrusts his hips toward me. He moans and the sound presses a needy ache between my legs.

I break my mouth from his long enough to say, “Come on in.”

I don’t know if I’m talking about my apartment or my body, but it doesn’t matter. Both, I guess.

I take his hand and we walk down the hall toward my bedroom. I’m not expecting Sara to come home anytime soon, but considering we haven’t had any talks about sharing this news with anybody, it’s best not to screw in the entryway where anybody could walk in on us.

“I need to be quick,” he murmurs.

I rip my shirt over my head in response, and a soft smile quirks his lips.

I unhook my bra and pull it off, dangling it from my fingertips as my eyes burn into his where he stands a yard or so away from me.

“I have condoms,” I say a little stupidly.

He raises a brow. “I thought you were going through a dry spell.”

“Always good to be prepared.”

“You weren’t prepared last week at the office,” he points out.

“I wasn’t expecting to be screwed in the office last week,” I counter.

He purses his lips. “You and that smartass mouth of yours are going to get you into some serious trouble.”

It’s my turn to raise a brow. “Are you going to punish me, sir?”

His eyes take on a needy fire I haven’t seen in him before. “Would you like me to?”

I’m not sure what we’re talking about anymore. I was sort of joking. I’ve never actually been with someone kinky , but if being dominating is his thing and I’m determined to move forward, well, I guess I’ll try anything once.

I drop my jeans to the floor along with my panties, and I bend over my bed as if to give him permission to do his thing.

He licks his lips as I glance over my shoulder at him, and he steps toward me. He grips my hips in his hands and bumps his very hard cock still trapped in his pants against my ass, and then without warning, he shoves three fingers into me.

“Ah,” I cry out, and as I get used to the feel of his fingers, he cracks his other palm against my ass cheek.

Hard.

It hurts, but it also does something to my traitorous body. His fingers are suddenly comfortable inside me as wetness drenches his hand, and then he takes another crack at my ass with his open palm.

I gasp and cry out again.

He’s still fingering me, and he leans over me so his body is pressed into my back. He reaches around me to cup my breast in his hand then pinches a finger over my nipple, and it’s more pain that somehow delivers pleasure. My knees feel weak as the ascent into climax starts to wash over me, and I moan my encouragement for him to keep doing what he’s doing.

God, this feels good.

I’m close, so damn close , when his voice cuts sharply into the silence of my room. “Where are the condoms?”

He stops the thing he’s doing with my nipple and pulls his fingers out at the same time.

I can’t seem to form words through the ache of need racking my body, so I point to my nightstand as I collapse my front side onto the bed and close my eyes. I give everything over to my other senses as I feel the chill in his absence, as I listen to him open the drawer and locate the box, as his spicy scent that’s warm and wrong fills my nose. He returns, the heat back behind me, and I listen to the rip of the condom packet and the hiss of his zipper. And then a moment later, his fingertips grip onto my hip as he positions himself and slides into me.

I’m drenched for him as he starts pumping, and my body picks up right where he left it as it screams for release. It hits me too fast. I want to enjoy the moment, to forget everything else awhile as he fucks me, but I can’t. It’s too good.

I scream through my orgasm as he hammers into me, each thrust deep as it hits the place of pleasure. I come hard as I allow the pleasure to wash over me.

He continues pumping into me even after I collapse down, spent from what he just did to me. It’s not long before he hits his peak, too, a curse falling from his lips as he gives in and pleasure rips through him.

He falls on top of me for a beat when he’s done, the two of us lying there in exhaustion, but then he pulls out, gets rid of the condom using a Kleenex on my dresser and the small garbage can by my door, and zips his pants back up.

I force myself up, too. He has to leave. I have to let him out. I can take a nap when he’s gone.

He doesn’t say anything as I get dressed. Instead, he checks his phone.

“I have to get back,” he says quietly.

I nod as I pull my shirt back over my head. “I’ll walk you out.”

When can I see you again?

The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I find I can’t ask them. I don’t want to seem too needy, don’t want to force this to be anything other than what it is. I hate myself for a second that I’m not being exactly who I am, that I’m putting on some sort of act to seem a certain way for him, but he’s a confusing creature.

I don’t know what this is.

I don’t know how to define it, but I also don’t know if I need to.

He’s the only man I’ve ever had sex with who I haven’t formed some sort of commitment with, and maybe that’s what makes it so damn hot with him.

It’s a little forbidden since we work together, a little illicit since we’re not really supposed to be doing it. It’s hot and wrong.

And I want to keep doing it.

I wonder how he feels…but it feels so immature to ask, like I’m showing my age by even wondering these things. So I won’t. I won’t ask. I won’t embarrass myself.

He pauses by the door and gazes at me a beat. “I, um—” he cuts himself off, and it’s odd to see the always polished and professional Cameron Foster stutter over his words. “I want you to know up front that this can’t be anything other than two people meeting in secret to have sex. It’s just us, okay? Nobody can know.” He glances at the mantle in the apartment where a photograph of Sara and me cheesing at the camera sits displayed prominently. “ Nobody .”

I wince at his description, but I mask it quickly. Why not? Why can’t we have more? The words cross through my mind, but they sound so childish. They sound like they’d only be proving the age gap between us means something when I don’t want to prove that at all.

He answers the question before I get a chance to ask it.

“I just…I don’t want to disrespect Paul. He’s an incredible physician and I respect the hell out of him. On our drive to Iowa, he admitted he thinks of you like a daughter, and I wouldn’t want to do anything to tarnish your relationship with him or mine.”

I nod. “I understand.” I’m not so young and immature that I can’t understand that.

“Thanks,” he mutters. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my cheek, a heady contrast to the way he just ravaged me in my bedroom and a tender contrast to his words that this is just sex. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” I echo, and then he leaves and I’m left alone to wonder whether I can really handle secret sex with Dr. Foster.