Page 38 of The Love Operation

I’m breaking Delenn’s rules, and I’ve jeopardized everything I’ve been working for. If this lapse in judgment loses me the chief position, I will never forgive myself.

Chapter 9

Anatomy of Attraction

I startle awake, but my alarm hasn’t gone off yet. It takes three disoriented seconds to realize I’m under my comforter, still in my scrubs and lab coat.

At least I slept.

I roll over, and the scent of Isaac’s cologne wafts up from my collar like an apparition. It hits me square in the chest. My mind threatens to spiral back there, to us in that hallway, but shame sloshes in and sours my stomach. Not because of the kiss itself, but because of how much I wanted it—how much I still want it—and what I put at risk to have it, just for a few ill-advised minutes.

I couldn’t be more disappointed in myself. Not only did I give in to base needs with someone who’s off-limits, but I also spent the little time I had before falling asleep reliving it.

Not just the intimacy or his hands. Him. The flash of vulnerability in his expression before I kissed him. The way he’d waited for me. The way he would’ve walked away.

I’m the one who failed.

For a moment—a dangerous, hopeful, traitorous moment—I wonder what it would feel like to wake up beside him. Not just to his scent on my clothes.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, chasing the thought away.

Isaac Thompson is not an option.

Even if we tried something, I know where it would lead. Same road. Same result. Another name on the tombstone of my relationship graveyard.

I can’t risk that.

I won’t.

Not with him.

But I also won’t wallow. If there’s one thing my mother taught me, it’s that strong women don’t crumble. They calculate. They adapt.

Right now, I need her. I need her clarity. She has this uncanny ability to dissect a problem, lay it out like an anatomy lesson, and stitch it back together in a way that makes the most sense. I like to think I inherited that from her. But with this—him—I’m too close. My heart is interfering with good surgical judgment.

I consider calling her. But I can’t. Not right now.

She’s currently floating in the emotional soup that is my life. And you don’t ask soup for advice.

I glance at Tad Cooper, curled on his rock shelf, his iridescent skin glowing faintly in the dawn light. He looks like wisdom. I must’ve brought him in here last night.

He looks like he’s saying, You know what you could do?

My skin prickles, the feather of an idea exciting me. I wonder if this is how Spider-Man felt when that arachnid bit him and gave him powers.

Yes, my scaly wonder, a very good idea.

I can visit my mother—just not in the usual way I’ve done before.

I close my eyes and call it up.

The scent of roses hits first, drifting in from the circular window above the plush seat. I’m fifteen, curled beneath a quilt, recovering from the flu. My mother sits beside me, reading from a thick book about infectious disease because it’s the only story I asked for.

When she closes it, she runs her hand across my forehead, brushing my sweaty curls aside.

“Keep reading,” I rasp.

She smiles, soft and sure. The look I’ve spent my whole life trying to earn.