Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(62)

“No burning, no discharge?”

Instinctively, I cup my groin protectively. “No.”

“Well? that’s good.” She smiles at me as she stands, and moves to wash her hands. “I’ll do a brief visual exam and then we’ll collect some blood, okay?”

“No swab?” I ask.

She winces apologetically as she turns and dries her hands, opening the trash bin with a foot lever. “I’m very good; it will be quick.”

The nurse turns, snaps on a pair of gloves, and walks toward me. That snap rings through the room and I hear every one of her footfalls.

In the end—no pun intended—it is quick, although I could go an entire lifetime without having a dry cotton swab stuck up my dick or the awkwardness of having a nurse my mother’s age turn over and inspect every facet of my junk. But after giving a small vial of blood for testing, I’m off.

I feel lighter as I walk out of the clinic, checking one thing off my turning-over-a-new-leaf checklist. I’m not particularly worried. Even with Mia, I wore condoms.

It’s just the vague nausea that accompanies the possibility of STDs. I haven’t always been having sober sex, and many times the not-sober sex was also relatively acrobatic. What are the chances a condom broke and I have no idea? What are the chances I got head—never with condoms, I’m an idiot, I know—from a girl with herpes?

I grip the steering wheel tightly in one hand as I leave the clinic and turn up the music with the other, trying to drown out the spiral of panicky thoughts. I have an entire, unscheduled day ahead of me. Only a month ago this would have been my ideal situation, and easily solved: head to Andrew’s or Daniel’s for beers on the patio, some polo scrimmaging in the pool in the afternoon, and the bar later.

But nothing on that list sounds right today. Daniel is, in fact, a complete douche. He has a newborn son with a waitress he banged for a few weeks, and now has to work his ass off to cover child support, yet still manages to spend most of his free evenings at a bar, trolling for sex. Andrew is only marginally better, but he still tends to cycle through girlfriends every few weeks. Cody is enjoying a suddenly-single sex rampage, so I’m assuming he’s given up on reuniting with Jess. Only Dylan is a genuinely good guy, nice to women, deserves someone great . . . I just hope he’s not into London.

London. Fuck.

As soon as I think of her, my brain careens full bore into the idea of seeing her today. Surfing last weekend was more fun than I’ve had in recent memory, and after a week of insane hours at work, and not seeing her at all at Fred’s, I’m like a dog on a scent—unable to get past the thought of spending the day doing all of the best nothings with her.

I hit the Bluetooth button on my steering wheel. “Call London,” I say, and take a deep, calming breath while it dials.



* * *



“WANT SOMETHING TO drink?” I call out over my shoulder as she takes off her shoes and drops her bag near the door. “I’ve got beer, water . . . juice boxes . . .”

London comes up behind me in the kitchen, looking over my shoulder into the fridge. “You have juice boxes?”

I shrug, trying to lean back without her noticing so I can get closer. She smells like the beach, and coconut oil. I let myself enjoy the five-second fantasy of us sitting on the beach, London sitting between my legs while I rub oil all over her back. Then she relaxes into me and I rub oil all over her ti—

“Luke? Juice boxes?”

I blink, looking back down into the fridge, focusing on the cold air against my front. “I took Grams grocery shopping last night and she always insists on stocking my fridge, too.”

“And she got you juice boxes?” she says, voice softer now. “That’s extremely adorable. I want to meet this woman.”

“She’ll be at our wedding.”

London laughs, stepping away. “Right.”

Closing the fridge, I tell her, “She also got me Ritz crackers and string cheese.”

“Does she think you run a day care?”

I laugh. “She likes me to have my snacks,” I tell her. When she backs up to let me grab some crackers from the pantry, I catch another whiff of her. “Did you go surfing this morning?”

“Yeah. Just went to Black’s for a couple hours.”

Black’s Beach is probably the best surfing in San Diego County. I know this not because I’ve spent any time swimming there, but because it was one of Dad’s favorite spots back in the day—and I try not to think too much about it also being a nude beach back in the day, too.

“It was pretty busy,” she adds. “Entitled surfer dudes everywhere.”

My body reacts to her as if she’s a girlfriend, and I need to tell my brain to cut that shit out. Grabbing two juice boxes from the fridge and the sleeve of Ritz crackers, I point to the living room. “I believe we have a date with some Titans.”

London follows me into the living room. “You sound pretty confident.”

“I’ve been practicing since the night you spanked me.”

“Probably a good idea,” she says, and bends to grab a controller off the coffee table. “You sucked pretty hard.”

“At the game, you mean. The sex was stellar.”

She doesn’t answer, but her practiced silence tickles me, and I can’t help but push, just one more time: “Does being back here, at the start of it all, have you feeling nostalgic?” I ask her over my shoulder before bending to grab the remote.