Page 53 of The Backup Plan

Lucas studies me for a long moment, rises from the table, and for the first time since we met, he doesn’t argue. He just nods and then walks away.

Emery

I give myself one hour.

That’s it. One solid, focused hour to finish charting, finalize notes, and to send the last round of updates to coaches, management, and the PT team before I shut my laptop and do something wildly indulgent.

Like buy colorful throw pillows. Or a plant. Or maybe I’ll go wild and buy a few candles that smell like flowers and happiness and not antiseptic.

It is Saturday after all and while I love work, I also need to sort out the rest of my life here.

I sit cross-legged on the couch, tablet balanced on my knees, enjoying how the afternoon sun spills across my living room floor. My place is still painfully bare—even with the boxes I had here already unpacked and broken down flat on the floor by the door.

And those purchases I’ve been thinking about will happen today. Later. Soon. I just need to finish my work first.

“You’re always working, Emery. What happened to the fun-loving girl I fell in love with? I didn’t sign up for this kind of life. All work and no play,” Jared says, disdain—or is that disgust—edging his voice.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and bite back the contempt I feel. This will be the new complaint, now? That I work too much?

“My job is a lot. Do you think I love bringing work home? Of course, I don’t but I haven’t worked this hard to be half-assed on something. The hospital was slammed yesterday and it’s important that I finish—”

“Oh yes. Important this, important that. Who knew I was going to be married to someone so goddamn important, right, Dr. Porter?” He rolls his eyes and my gut churns.

“I’m running on fumes here,” I say as tears of frustration fill my eyes. The battle between fulfilling my dreams and goals and balancing the fragile ego I never realized Jared had is getting so fucking old.

“Fine. Run on fumes by yourself. I’m going out. I refuse to stick around here, waiting for crumbs from the illustrious Dr. Porter’s table.”

I shake the memory away.

How many times did I sit at home waiting for him to come home—or wondering if he would? How many nights did I blame myself for the strife in our relationship despite knowing how goddamn hard I was working to balance both sides of my life?

In the end, it didn’t matter. His inability to be happy for my success was our downfall. Who I was becoming, the reputation I was making for myself, was benefiting us both, but all he could see was me trying to one-up him. And in hindsight, I know it didn’t matter what I did or how I did it, Jared would have found fault with it.

Knock. Knock.

I freeze, the sound jarring me from my thoughts.

If I stay quiet, whoever it is won’t know I’m home. Because let’s face it, no one knocks on doors anymore without texting a heads-up. No one but people trying to sell shit. I almost ignore it and then hear, “Doc, it’s me.”

Lucas.

I move everything off my lap and when I open the door . . . I forget how breathing works.

He stands in my doorway with a towel wrapped low around his waist and soap everywhere.

In his hair.

On his shoulders.

Trailing down his chest in lazy, foamy rivulets like he got distracted mid-shower and decided to ruin my concentration instead.

His skin is flushed. Clean. Bare.

Very bare.

My brain short-circuits.

“Hey,” he says casually, like he isn’t standing there half-naked and dripping on my welcome mat. “I know I’m crossing several lines here, but . . . can I use your shower? Mine just”—he gestures vaguely over his shoulder—“stopped.”