Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(7)

Plus I didn’t want to stress him out while he was interviewing for residencies.

Besides, our time was going to come . . . after we’d both graduated from our separate schools and were helping others to overcome their own deep dark secrets the way we have.

Note sarcasm. Not that I doubted Jesse was going to be hugely successful at his chosen profession. I just wasn’t sure about the overcoming--our--dark--secrets part. It might take a while for Jesse to move past having been murdered and then forced to live as a paranormal being for a century and a half.

And given the mess I’d made of tonight’s mediation, I’d say my chance at being even a passable school counselor was nil, at best.

So I wasn’t that surprised when I glanced in the upper left--hand corner of the obscenely large red envelope Lauren had handed me and saw that it wasn’t from Jesse. It was from someone I recognized, however. Only too well.

Paul Slater.

My own Zack Farhat.

I felt a chill up my spine that had nothing to do with my wet hair and sopping clothing.

“Thanks, Lauren,” I said, and hastily shoved the envelope into my messenger bag. “I’ll just go change and then join you guys for a quick drink. Then I have to dash out again. I, uh, have an errand to run.”

“Or maybe not,” screamed several of the more sociable girls from in front of the TV.

But since they were always saying stuff like this, I didn’t think much of it . . .

Until I threw open the door to my room and found six feet or so of unadulterated Spanish--American male hotness stretched out on my bed.

“Oh,” Jesse said, lowering the review book he was reading for Step 2 of his USMLE exams. “You’re home. Finally. I was getting worried.”

“Oh, boy.” I was too shocked to think of anything more witty to say. “Am I glad to see you.”

I leaped on him like a long lost dog on its owner. I did everything but lick his face. I probably licked his face a little, actually. It was embarrassing, but it’s a very nice face.

“Well,” he said, when I finally let him up for air. “If I’d known this was how you were going to say hello, I’d have gotten here sooner.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked a little breathlessly. There were parts of him I could feel pressing against me that I definitely wanted to feel more closely, but both of us were fully clothed, making the kind of closeness I was hoping for impossible without some disassembly. “I thought you had rotations or interviews or a lobotomy to perform or something.”

“So you do pay attention when I tell you what I do on a daily basis,” he said drily. “How sweet. Actually, I wanted to surprise you. I’ve been waiting here for you for hours.” He held up his cell phone. “Do you ever actually check your messages?”

“Sorry, my phone was off. Then it got soaked, and wouldn’t turn on. I was—-”

“Don’t even try to tell me you were at the library.” Amusement danced in his night dark eyes. “You might have fooled your friends with that one, querida, but you’ll never fool me. Where were you, really? And could you put down that drink? I think you’ve christened us both enough for now.”

“Oh, sorry.” I set my V and C on the floor, then peeled off my messenger bag and coat, and dropped them beside it. I didn’t want to kill the mood by telling him the truth about how I’d been off nearly being murdered by an NCDP. He had a tendency to get cranky when he heard that kind of thing. He was even more overprotective than my stepfather. But in a boyfriend, that kind of thing is actually attractive. “I was helping out a friend who’s flunking Statistics. But you know what? That’s boring, let’s get back to you. What are you doing here, for real? I thought we agreed that Valentine’s Day has become a gross commercial holiday and we don’t believe in it.”

“We don’t,” he said. I didn’t miss the appreciative way his dark--eyed gaze flicked over my form--fitting tee, which had gotten damp despite my leather jacket. Yeah, I’ve still got it. “But this morning a few -people at the hospital were discussing what they were doing tonight for Valentine’s Day with their significant others, and when I mentioned that we don’t believe in the holiday, they—-”

“Properly shamed you?” I threw myself on top of him again. “Oh, my God, give me their addresses so I can send them all fruit baskets.”

He held me close. The bulge was still there. I could feel it, hard as a rock, against my stomach. I snuggled my face to his neck, inhaling. I didn’t think I’ll ever get enough of the smell of him, though it’s changed over the years, from a combination of smoke and old, leather--bound books to the clean, sharp odor of antiseptic soap, thanks to the many times a day he has to wash his hands due to the patients he sees on rotations.

I never knew the smell of antiseptic soap could be so sexy.

“Some of the doctors said I might need to reorganize my priorities, yes.” He grinned up at me. “So I did. I got in the car and started driving.”

“But how did you get in here?” I asked, pretending I had no idea what was going on below his waist. “Men aren’t allowed in the Virgin Vault.”

“Apparently exceptions can be made for dashing young med students who come bearing restaurant reservations.” He glanced at his watch. “Which we’ve now missed.”