Challenge (Harris Brothers Book 1)

THE DOOR SLAMS AND I wait for the tears to come. I wait to feel bad about what I said or did. I expect regret and remorse to consume me. I wonder when what he said will begin to bother me.

Instead…I get nothing.

The fire in my palm turns to ice.

I’m numb.

I’m a rock.

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and looking back at me is a blank canvas. Nothing to connect to. Nothing to interpret. Absolutely zero symbolism in the curves of my face. If I was to say a pun about myself, I’d say, “‘Much ado about nothing.’”

This…is me.

As the days pass by back at work, the same four words continue on repeat in my mind.

I’m charting.

“I’m falling for you.”

I’m setting a bone.

“I’m falling for you.”

I’m eating lunch.

“I’m falling for you.”

I’m having a conversation with Prichard.

“I’m falling for you.”

Speak of the devil. I feel my mobile vibrate in my pocket while walking out of the post-op room where I was checking on a patient, whom I did a shoulder replacement on earlier this morning.

I answer my mobile and adjust the iPad chart in my hand. “Hello, this is Dr. Porter.”

“Indie…Prichard here. I just realised that I’m going to be in the OR for the next four hours with a double knee replacement.”

“Okay,” I reply, hearing the buzz of the OR behind him and realising he’s probably operating as we speak.

“That Harris footballer is coming in today for another MRI. I want to make sure his graft is looking perfect, so I’d like you to be the one to take him to radiology. Not an intern. Got it?”

My chest feels tight. “The radiologist will be doing the scan, so I don’t know why it matters who takes Mr. Harris to the room.”

“Indie,” he warns. “Harris is a VIP and I want you on it. We’re representing the hospital here. I shouldn’t have to explain myself.”

His tone is final, and I know I’ve already argued more than I ever would have regarding any other patient. “No problem, Dr. Prichard.”

“Cheers.”

He hangs up and leaves my stomach swirling. I knew Camden was coming in today because I can read a schedule. But my hope of avoiding him until his surgery was just thwarted by the man who’s supposed to be my mentor.

It’s been ten days since I screwed Camden Harris on that chair in my flat. That stupid, stupid chair. My stupid, stupid brain.

I thought I could fuck away the feeling. I only had intercourse a handful of times and I suddenly thought I could use it as a dagger through the heart? What’s wrong with me?

I’m not ready to see him. I can’t even cope with everything that was said between us that morning in my flat or the night before in my bed. Now I’m being forced to pull my big girl knickers on and face the man who touched me in a way no one ever has.

Bloody hell.

I hate sex!

And of course we had every kind of sex imaginable. Oral, slow, kinky, hard, tender. Earth-shattering. Then he had to add personal sentiments on top of that. Why? The words he spewed at me were so intense, my chest could hardly stand it.

What did he expect to happen? Did he think I’d drop everything and start up a relationship with him? My patient? Relationships for me are difficult enough when sex isn’t involved. I can barely keep up with Belle’s mood swings. Plus he’s so clearly on another level. It would be an utter disaster.

I’m not a footballer’s girlfriend. I’m a planner with goals. I make a course for myself and focus on the steps I need to get me there. I checked the Penis Number One box! This is why I never should have tolerated him pretending to be a number two.

The more I stew on it, the angrier I get. Camden veered completely off my course. He went rogue and didn’t give a damn what I wanted.

The worst part of all is that…I let him.

Just for a moment…I let go.

Guilt consumes me as I recall how I let him hold me—how I let the warmth of his body comfort me instead of terrify me. I allowed myself to feel him, skin against skin, inside of me, and it didn’t send me into a panic like I thought it should have. It felt…right. He whispered those words in my ears, and I closed my eyes and let myself believe them. I let myself be a different person. I thought, just for the night, I could play the part. I could feel cared for. Protected. Treasured.

Just for the night.

Then reality crept in with the morning sun.

It was as if I turned back into a pumpkin.

I lost it.

Like, completely lost it. I turned back into the self that craves space because she doesn’t know any different. The self that didn’t grow up cuddling with a mum in a rocking chair, or even holding her gran’s hand when she crossed the street.

I had to put a stop to what Camden and I were doing and give us both a strong dose of reality. He knew I had a plan, yet he tried to bulldoze himself right past it without a thought about what I needed. I wouldn’t be taken advantage of like that.

So now, here I sit, at the hospital—the place where it all began—trying to convince myself that what happened with Camden in my flat was nothing.

Maybe it was all a scheme. He’s a player after all. He probably just wanted more sex. He hasn’t called or texted. That has to mean something. Not to mention, there’s no way a man like Camden Harris—a football-playing, lady-chasing, vagina-ruining bloke—could fall for the awkward, introvert with intimacy issues.

End of.

This MRI today will be a piece of cake.

“Hiya there, Doc,” Tanner says brightly as I round the corner to the waiting room where the nurse told me Camden Harris is currently waiting.

I thought my stomach was going to drop when the nurse paged to tell me he arrived. But seeing him in the flesh, sitting right next to his grizzly bear of a brother, is a thousand times worse.

His blonde undercut is longer than the last time I saw him, but he has it lazily swept off to the side and it looks perfect in that unkempt sort of way. He’s dressed in jersey shorts that reveal an ample amount of his muscular legs, black trainers, and a fitted blue T-shirt that makes his dark, smouldering blue eyes look positively dirty. But there’s a hardness around the edges as he looks at me.

I swallow and adjust my canary-yellow glasses. “Hello, Tanner, nice to see you again. Camden,” I add, looking back at him and trying not to let my insides turn into pudding.

“Dr. Porter.” His voice is low and flat. Emotionless. And extremely formal.

Tanner leaps up out of his chair. “You’d be proud of our boy, Doc. He’s been doing two-a-day workouts all week.”

My brows lift as I watch Camden stand up slowly from his own chair, clearly much less enthusiastic than his brother.

Seeing the look of surprise in my eyes, Tanner adds quickly, “They’re all physical therapist approved exercises, don’t worry. He’s just a machine ready to get back out on the pitch. He’s probably worried I’ll steal his spot with the Gunners if he’s not careful.”

My jaw drops and I turn my wide eyes to Camden. “You got an offer from Arsenal?” I want to reach out and grab his arm, but I resist…barely.

His eyes narrow and he grinds through clenched teeth. “No.”

Tanner laughs. “I just meant his spot that’s coming to him. It’s only a matter of time.” He pats Camden’s stiff shoulder, frowning inquisitively at him.

“Just shut it, Tanner, will you?” Camden mutters.

Tanner looks even more confused.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re doing well,” I add, trying to break the tension and gain control of the emotional torment I feel inside of me. Time to be a doctor, Indie. “Erm…if you’ll follow me, I can take you to radiology. Tanner, you can wait here if you’d like.”

“Sounds great. I’m sure I’ll find something to occupy myself with.” He winks at me playfully and flops back down in his chair.

I turn on my heel and grip the stethoscope around my neck so hard I think I’ll leave bruises. I hate that I reacted the way I did at the mention of the Gunners wanting Camden. If he did get an offer, it has nothing to do with me. I shouldn’t have to remind myself of that.

I can feel the heat of him behind me as I weave us down the corridors of the hospital toward the older part of the building that radiology occupies. His mere presence brings back so many unwanted memories. Hot memories. Sexual memories. Memories of passion…Like the way he took me from behind in the Cry Room, the dirty words he said, the firm grip he had on my arse. He carnally fucked me as if he was a slave to his passion and I was the desired craving. Just thinking about it causes a stirring between my legs.

Feeling the deafening silence thickening, I slow down so he can walk beside me and ask in clipped tones, “So your physical therapy has been going well?”

I chance a glance at him, and his eyes narrow as he watches the air in front of us. “Very well. My knee feels fine.”

“Good. That’s good.”

More awkward silence.

“Be sure you don’t overdo it, though, all right?” I add as we turn another corner.

He cuts me a look. “What happens if I overdo it?”

My brows lift, extremely comfortable answering this type of question. “Well, the graft only allows for the natural movements of everyday life. Things like running, walking, jogging, moving around in your home and work.” My cheeks heat as I think about the movements we did together in both of our homes and elsewhere. “It can be pushed some, but not with the brute force involved in athletics. Twisting, pivoting, things that use the eccentricities of your knee’s full range of motion. All those movements can injure the tendon the graft is attached to. Just be careful you’re not pushing the boundaries.”

He huffs out a laugh.

“What?”

He shakes his head.

“What?” I ask again, adjusting my glasses.

He stops so fast I have to turn and walk back to him. Glaring at me, he says, “I’m aware you don’t like boundaries pushed. I don’t need a reminder.”

My face drops. My mouth falls open. My heart feels heavy. “Camden, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“What exactly are you sorry for, Indie?” His tone is acidic as he says my name through clenched teeth. The muscle in his jaw ticks angrily.

I glance down the hallway as someone walks by. Otherwise, we’re completely alone in this very bare, very dank hallway. “Well…for a lot. But mostly for flipping the script on you so much. I could have handled everything better.”

“How so?” he asks quickly. “Would handling it differently have changed the end results?”

My eyes soften. “No.”

“Then you handled it fine.” His eyes are slits.

“Camden—”

“Indie, I have loads of girls I can ring any time. I’ve already had a couple call this week, so don’t trouble your mind with any more thoughts of whatever brief thing we were.”

It’s not a physical slap, but it hurts so badly my eyes sting. “Fine then.” I turn back on my heel and don’t slow my pace until we reach radiology.

I glance in through the thick window and the tech indicates he needs five minutes. I bite my lip. I don’t know how I’ll make it five full minutes. I want to leave now. I want to run away from this horrible, awkward, unpleasant sensation that’s consuming my body.

“Find yourself a number two yet?” Cam asks, leaning against the hallway wall as if we’re having the most casual conversation ever.

I nearly growl, “No. And it’s none of your business.”

He laughs. “Hey, I’m just curious. You seemed pretty determined and it’s been a while since I last saw you. I figured you’ve been busy.”

“Not as busy as you apparently,” I snipe.

He huffs out another exasperating laugh. He’s laughing! He’s laughing as if this is any normal day and what happened between us was nothing. Then that voice in the back of my mind pipes up and reminds me that it was nothing. It reminds me I all but yelled that at him. What we had was just sex. I was just his doctor. He was just my patient.

“I have a right to be curious. I was a part of the list after all,” he drawls and pats me on the shoulder like a guy. “Plus, we’re mates, right?”

My eyes turn to saucers at his platonic touch that feels like hot coals against my skin. “Mates? You think we’re mates?”

Shrugging his shoulders, he replies, “We’re a bit more than doctor/patient.” He winks and the look in his eyes is pure evil. “What was it you called us…Oh yes, ‘just sex.’”

“Someone could hear you!” My eyes scan the hallway for anybody within listening distance. He’s being so careless, I can’t take another minute. “They’ll come get you when they’re ready.” I turn to leave, but his hand flies out and grabs my arm.

“Indie,” his voice is pleading. It’s a tone I recognise better than the one he’s been giving me. I want to lean into it and let it comfort me. It’s the tone that brings back so many memories of fun and lust that it physically hurts my ears.

I turn back to him and look right up into his eyes. “No, Cam. I’m done. You’re making me feel small and silly and stupid and childish just like they did.”

“Who’s they?” he snaps.

“Those girls! Those girls from school I told you about in confidence because I thought you cared. Because I thought we were friends who could trust each other. Because you came to my home and we shared a meal, and I thought that meant something. I didn’t tell you so you could use it as ammunition to hurt me.”

“It did mean something. And I’m sorry.” He slices his free hand through his hair and looks down the hallway. His jawline is taut with emotion, but he’s never looked more beautiful. He looks back at me and his ice blue eyes are now warm and soft again, just as they were the night I last saw him in my flat. “Indie, I hurt you because I was angry. But you hurt me because you don’t care enough. One is certainly worse than the other.”

His words are so true I want to wish them away the moment he puts them out into the universe. For some strange reason, they make me think of my parents and the fact that I don’t even have a framed picture of them anymore. The one I had when I was six was at my gran’s house and got boxed away in storage with the rest of her things. They care about me, but never enough.

I want to ask him, “what’s enough,” because I genuinely don’t know. But the one thing I do know is that I probably can’t feel it. I feel my lower lip wobble, so I pull it into my mouth to chew on in a vain attempt to hide how this encounter is affecting me.

His grip on my arm softens as he moves his thumb to stroke the inside of my elbow. His blue eyes are soft and sympathetic when he says, “Look, we had a fun time while it was good. Let’s just leave it at that.”

I nod woodenly, knowing that this peace offering is probably more than I deserve, yet, for some mysterious reason, I don’t want to accept it.

Suddenly, the radiologist swings the door open and we spread apart instantly, both looking anywhere but at each other. He doesn’t seem to take notice and ushers Camden in for his scan.

I can’t bring myself to wait. The radiologist will have to see him out. He’s given me a peace offering and I need the space to accept it. What Camden and I had was fun while it lasted, but now it’s over and I need to move on.

“We’re going out,” I proclaim, pausing in front of the on-call room door where I find Belle standing at her locker. This sense of urgency has been coming on ever since Cam left a few hours ago. “We’re going to get dressed up. I’m going to let you do my makeup, and we’re going on a mission.”

“Well, yeah,” Belle replies. “I already told you a few days ago that Old George has Irish Way playing in the beer garden. I got us tickets for tonight, our first Tequila Sunrise night. Don’t you remember?”

I bite my lip at the realisation of how utterly vacant I’ve been all week because this doesn’t ring any bells. Well, no more. I’m done feeling the sting of that slap on my hand. Cam’s completely over me and probably off screwing a new girl as we speak.

“That’s right.” My eyes narrow with strategy. “Old George is perfect.”

Belle frowns. “Indie, you’ve been weird all week. What is going on with you? I saw Camden Harris’ brother Tanner today at the hospital, so I know he was here. Did something happen between you two? Your eyes look a bit more Tarsier Primate today than usual.”

A tiny part of me wants to tell Belle everything—to blurt out every nasty word that was said between Camden and me. But then I would have to tell her I let him push into me without a condom. That I knew he was doing it and I wanted him to do it. That I craved the feeling, but then, like a lunatic, I wigged out on him afterwards. I accepted him, rejected him, and then slapped him. She’ll think I have schizophrenia. Sharing will only shine a bigger light on how truly detached I can be, and I don’t want Belle to see that side of me. She’s the one person who embraces my quirks. I don’t want to wreck it. Plus, I need her to keep me going on this Penis List mission.

I defiantly raise my shoulders and reply, “Nothing bad happened with Camden. I accomplished my goal, so it’s time to move down the list. Tonight we’re on a Penis Number Two mission.”

She eyes me skeptically. “Shag ‘em and bag ‘em is more my gig…But hey, you are officially deflowered, so who the hell am I to judge? Just call me your wing-woman, darling.”

“Two more, please!” I shout down to the cute bartender and blink slowly, appreciating the cut of his jeans. “You know, those jeans would look even hotter on a footballer,” I slur over my shoulder to Belle. “God, they can wear jeans!”

“Too right,” Belle growls, raising her glass in a toast to hot thighs. “I’m craving a footballer for myself right about now.”

My brows raise. “I’m not craving a footballer. Come on, we’re here for Penis Number Two. Stay focused.”

“Well, Stanley is right there. Primed and ready.” She points toward the end of the bar where Stanley quickly looks away.

I shake my head. “Why does he always end up everywhere I am?”

“Because you invite him,” she sings.

I sigh. “I know. He asks and I don’t want to be mean. Stanley is a nice bloke.”

“So why don’t you put him out of his misery and shag him?”

“His eyes are too brown,” I grumble.

She begins to argue with me as the bartender sets down our tequila. We grip the glasses in our hands, do a quick cheers, and gulp down the spicy liquid.

“Tequila Sunrise!” Belle shouts, giggling happily. “Well, just straight tequila I guess, but the sentiment is there.”

“Tequila Sunrise,” I murmur, propping my head on my hands.

Belle whacks me on the arm. “All right, we’re good and buzzed now. It’s time to get serious about Penis Number Two before we get so pissed we can’t pick a good pecker.”

Turning away from the bar, we lean our backs against the dark lacquered wood and admire the scene for a moment. Old George’s beer garden is a gorgeous outdoor sight at night. It’s located in the alley behind the pub and is completely ensconced in high lattice fencing covered in crawling ivy. Rustic picnic tables fill the left side, but they’ve removed several for a small dance floor and the band on the right. The ground is all original cobblestone—there’s probably horse manure stamped into the divots from the Medieval era. Because of this, you can always spot the regulars from the tourists. The regulars are in sensible flats while the tourists wobble around awkwardly in heels. It’s not a proper night at Old George if you don’t see at least three girls take a tumble. Top the entire scene off with string after string of Edison bulbs and you have the most gorgeous, glowing, backyard party you’ve ever seen.

“I love Old George,” I coo.

“I know, love. You look fab tonight, too. Have I told you that?”

“You look better,” I murmur.

Belle is kitted out in black leather leggings and a studded, black tank top that makes her look as badass as the combat boots she’s rocking. I’m a bit more colourful in floral print leggings and a fitted white T-shirt that Belle says makes my tits look great. Wearing my hair down is usually the only accessory I need to spruce up an outfit. That and my black vintage eyewear.

“Okay, so let’s do this.” Her gaze narrows on the crowd. “Are you sure you don’t want to give Stanley a shot.”

“I’m sure.”

“So what’s the type you’re looking for?”

My face turns serious. “Penis Number Two type. Sweet, sensitive, and a nurturing lover. Must cry when he comes.” I giggle as I remember that little tidbit from our list.

“I meant physically,” Belle says around the straw of her drink.

My brows rise. “I don’t know…I guess I like light hair.”

“What else?”

“Maybe tall and broad.”

“Yes…”

“With eyes that smoulder.”

“Got it.”

“And I wouldn’t say no to some abs.”

“What about another crack at Penis Number One?” she asks, her eyes locked on something behind me.

“That’s not what—”

She grabs my chin and turns my head toward the far back corner of the beer garden. Despite the darkness, I can make out the outlines of two huge, strapping men sitting on top of a picnic table. It looks like a hairy and non-hairy set of twins.

“Oh no,” I say.

“Surprise!” she giggles and clutches my arm, yanking me in that direction.