How Much I Feel - Marie Force Page 0,35
did. In a big way. I nearly flunked out after my first semester. I was a disaster until one of my classmates took me under her wing and made a real student out of me.”
“Is that all she did with you?”
“Oh no, we fucked like rabbits between marathon study sessions.”
I laugh so hard I end up with tears in my eyes. “The way you say things . . .” I wonder what it would be like to fuck like rabbits with him. The thought makes my face flush with heat and embarrassment as a tight knot of desire settles between my legs. I cross them, hoping to quell the sensation, but that only makes it worse.
He flashes a sexy grin that has my skin prickling with awareness of him. “I’m told I have a way with words. But seriously, she saved my ass. We were together through med school, until we got residencies at programs on opposite sides of the country and went our separate ways. Long-distance relationships are hard enough, but throw in two residencies, and it became impossible. We’re still friends, though. She reached out to me after the disaster in New York. A mutual friend told her what was going on.”
“That was nice of her.”
Nodding, he changes the radio and lands on a Cuban station. “News travels fast in medical circles.”
I sing along to the song in Spanish, adding some hand gestures from my dance training.
“Are you fluent in Spanish?”
“Sí. You can’t grow up here and not speak the language.”
“I took years of Spanish, but I suck at comprehension.”
“Glad to know you suck at something.”
“I suck at a lot of things.” He waggles his brows suggestively. “And other things, I’m really, really good at.”
Dear God, I want to know about those things. I want to experience those things. I want to—
Stop it. Be professional and stop lusting after your colleague. Do your job.
I have a sudden moment of inspiration. “Turn the car around and go back.”
“Go back where?”
“I’ll show you when we get there.”
“You’re the boss.” He finds a place to turn around, and we retrace our path to the park where the men are playing dominoes.
“Park there.” I point to a rare open spot on the street. “Come with me.” Jason follows me to the gathering of men. “Excuse me.” I recognize some of them from Giordino’s, especially Mr. Perez, who brings his wife, Eva, in on Saturday nights. They range in age from sixty to ninety, and all of them know who I am and who I lost. Such is my life after working at the restaurant since I was old enough to roll silverware into napkins.
In Spanish, I tell them, “My friend Jason is new in town and doesn’t know how to play dominoes. Would you mind if he watches?”
“Not at all,” one of the men replies, moving over to make room for Jason on the picnic bench. “Have a seat.”
Jason sends me a questioning look.
I give him a nudge forward. “Roll with me.”
He walks around the table to take the open seat.
Speaking in both English and Spanish, the men start giving him pointers, rules and advice, arguing about the best strategies and generally confusing the hell out of him. Thankfully, Mr. Perez translates for Jason.
Despite his initial reluctance, Jason gets sucked in, asking questions and fully participating as I suspected he would. The game is loud and spirited, dominoes clicking against the table with rapid movements that have Jason struggling to keep up. I suspect that doesn’t happen to him very often, and the faces he makes are comical.
I pull out my phone and start taking photos, moving around the table for better lighting and angles.
He throws his head back and laughs at something one of the men says about another’s idiocy, giving me the money shot.
Many minutes later, he resurfaces from the game, looking around until he finds me with the phone. I’m aware of the exact second he figures out what I’m doing and why.
He flashes a warm, private smile that lights me up from within. Every part of me is aware of him and how he makes me feel just by smiling at me. Despite the fact that we’re surrounded by people, the connection between us seems intimate somehow.
“We’d love to share the photos I took on Dr. Northrup’s Instagram account. Would any of you object to being in the photos?”
“You’re a doctor?” one of the men asks.
“I am.”
“What kind?”
“A pediatric neurosurgeon.”
They’re obviously impressed. They tease him about doctors they’ve