Page 19 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Meanwhile his son, the one I actually dated, can barely return a text message with the urgency of a sloth on sedatives. Nathan Clarke saves people for a living. He walks into trauma cases and drags people back from the edge with those same capable hands, then turns around and asks if I’ve eaten lunch in that calm, clipped voice that makes it sound like an order.

There are moments—brief, traitorous, awful moments—when I wonder whether I ever stayed with Nate as long as I did because some part of me liked having a reason to orbit his father, and the thought is so wildly inappropriate I want to throw it out a window and pretend it never crossed my mind.

The worst part is this is ancient. Embarrassingly ancient.

I had a crush on him long before I had a name for what to do with it, the kind that lived in the back of my throat every time he walked into a room in a dark suit looking composed enough to make self-restraint feel like a religion. Then, at some glossy charity event, he introduced me to his son with one hand at the small of my back and a distracted smile that I misread for disinterest.

After that, I did what any supposedly rational woman would do: I shoved every reckless thought into a locked box, told myself he was my boss, told myself the age gap alone was enough to make this a terrible idea, and told myself that mixing work with pleasure—especially when the work belonged to Dr. Nathan Clarke—was a mistake.

“Athena.”

The way he says my name makes my stomach drop.

“I said I’m fine.”

He doesn’t move.

Instead he glances down the hallway briefly then back at me.

“Come with me.”

Before I can protest, he guides me a few steps toward a nearby door marked ON CALL STAFF ONLY. He opens it, ushers me inside, and closes it behind us.

A narrow bed sits against one wall. A chair and a locker take up the remaining space. Nathan turns the lock on the door before narrowing all his focus on me.

Up close, the exhaustion from surgery still clings to him, but the focus in his eyes is something else entirely.

“Athena,” he says quietly. “Talk to me.”

I would, but I’ve pretty much lost the ability to produce speech.

Nathan stands between me and the door with his arms folded loosely across his chest, and the quiet intensity in his gaze makes it hard to look anywhere else. My pulse is still uneven from the phone call with my mother, and now that picture sits in the space between us like a secret neither of us can ignore.

“I told you I’m fine.” My voice sounds thin, almost like a male character from one of my favorite sitcoms.

“You’re not,” he replies calmly.

The certainty in his tone irritates me immediately. “You don’t get to diagnose me,” I snap. “You’re not that kind of doctor.”

His mouth moves slightly, the faintest hint of amusement touching the corner of it. “I’m very good at reading people.”

I scowl up at him. “That’s convenient.”

Since I can’t find another argument, I move toward the bed and plop down on it, more to put distance between us than anything else. Nathan doesn’t sit.

He leans one shoulder against the wall and studies me with a level of attention that makes my skin feel hot. I can feel his gaze traveling over my face, noticing the red around my eyes and the tension I’ve been trying to hide all morning.

“Did something happen?” he asks.

“My ex-boyfriend cheated on me,” I reply flatly. “You probably heard already. The hospital grapevine is very efficient.”

His expression changes slightly. “Ex…”

I look down at my hands. “Yes.”

Nathan exhales slowly, and the sound carries something controlled and restrained that makes my chest tighten.

“He’s a fool,” he says.