“I don't know,” he said. He set his chopsticks down and leaned back slightly on his stool. “You’re different here than at the hospital.”
I raised a brow. “In what way?”
"Softer. Less guarded." His voice stayed calm but his eyes held mine with uncomfortable intensity. "I like it."
My heart stuttered, then reset itself at a faster pace. “Oh,” I said.
"Oh?" he echoed, that almost-smile deepening slightly.
“I don't know what to say to that,” I admitted.
I opened my mouth to say something else, but no words formed.
I wanted to say that he felt different here too. That seeing him in sweatpants and t-shirts instead of white coats and surgical scrubs made him seem more real.
Instead of saying any of that, my mouth betrayed me. “Your biceps are really defined,” I heard myself say.
His eyebrows rose slowly, deliberately. “What?”
Oh no. Did I say that out loud?
“I mean, from a medical point of view,” I rushed out, words tumbling over each other. “You must work out a lot. Good cardiovascular health is important.” I was making everything worse and I knew it. “For surgery, I mean. Stamina is important for long procedures.”
Stop talking, Mireya. Please stop talking.
“Right,” he said. His voice held a low amused yet knowing edge. “Stamina.”
“And your hands are big,” I added because my brain had fully abandoned me. “Which is good for surgery. Easier to hold instruments. Better grip.”
I wanted the floor to swallow me alive and drag me straight into the center of the earth.
A genuine smile tugged at his mouth, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Are you finished evaluating my physical attributes from a medical point of view?” he asked, barely suppressed laughter threading his voice.
“Yes,” I whispered, mortified. “Sorry. That was weird.”
“It was,” he agreed as he stood. He began gathering the containers without hurry. “But I didn’t mind.”
He walked to the sink and ran water over the plastic bowls. My eyes betrayed me again. They traveled over his shoulders, watching how the fabric pulled across muscle.
They traveled down his back, watching the way his spine shifted under his shirt. They traveled lower, catching where his jeans rested on his hips.
My pulse jumped in my throat and I briefly wondered what was broken inside me to cause this reaction.
I looked down at my phone to distract myself and checked the date. My eyes widened as I counted backward.
Everything suddenly made horrible sense.
Oh. Oh no.
I was ovulating.
That explained the hyperawareness. That explained why my eyes kept tracking the lines of his body.
That explained why my brain kept offering wildly inappropriate thoughts about what those large, capable hands could do besides hold surgical instruments.
I needed to exit the kitchen before I humiliated myself further. I needed to get away before I told him his thighs also looked unfairly good in those jeans.
“I should go to bed,” I announced, shooting up from the stool so fast that the bottom scraped loudly across the floor. “Early morning tomorrow. Need sleep. Thank you for dinner.”
