Hotshot Doc Read online

  “No, no.” He shakes his head. “That’s my office. Keep going. That’s a bathroom. I can’t sleep in there.”

  “You’re about to sleep right here if you don’t help me out a little. I swear you’re dragging your feet on purpose.”

  Finally, we make it to the end of the hall and I kick open the door to his bedroom. I’m expecting it to be in complete disarray just like his office, but instead, it’s artfully decorated. Neat and tidy. His king-sized bed has white sheets and a fluffy gray comforter. Four oversized black and white framed maps hang on one wall. There’s a plant in the corner that looks as if he waters it regularly. I half-expected him to sleep standing up, next to the power station he plugs himself into every night. The fact that he has such a warm, welcoming bedroom does weird things to my heart.

  I need to get out of here.

  “Do you think you can handle it from here?”

  His hand drags along my shoulders and the nape of my neck as he steps away from me. He turns and meets my gaze. “Wait. You’ve been running from me all evening. Just stay for a second.”

  We’re standing a few feet apart in his bedroom, staring at one another.

  I’m aware of every breath I take.

  “I need to go home.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t. Stay here. I won’t try anything, I swear.”

  His brows pinch together in earnest, like he really means what he’s promising.

  I laugh like he’s just suggested something absolutely preposterous. “You’re very drunk and you have no idea what you’re saying right now.”

  Truly, he won’t remember any of this in the morning. I doubt he even realizes who I am at the moment.

  He grunts bitterly and turns toward the bed. He plops down to sit on the edge and drops his head into his hands.

  “I know what you think I am—evil. A man who shouts at you in the OR for every little mistake. Maybe that’s true. Maybe I’m not a good man.” He glances back up at me, and the moonlight filtering through his window catches the sharp contours of his face, the parts of him that intimidate me the most. “I had a wife. Did you know that?”

  My heart races, trying to keep up with his erratic subject changes. He’s inviting me to stay the night one minute then opening up to me about his marriage the next. I should turn and bolt, but my feet stay rooted in place. There’s no way I’ll leave when he’s willing to offer up information his sober mind keeps tucked away.

  “You’re divorced?”

  He nods and looks away. “We got married young, right out of college. Victoria was with me through medical school and part of residency. She liked the idea of being a doctor’s wife, but not the reality of it. I was busy working 80 hours a week. She felt neglected.”

  I stay perfectly silent, waiting for him to continue.

  He shakes his head and drags his hands through his hair. “She left me and she was gone for eight days and the only thing I noticed was that there was more space in our closet. The next time I saw her, I asked her if she got rid of some of her shoes. I can still remember her wistful laugh.”

  It’s strange. I can’t imagine him with a wife, even now. Before tonight, he was two-dimensional to me. He existed as a surgeon and nothing else. Now, seeing him in this room, hearing him talk about his past, I’m suddenly confronted with the idea that there’s a heart beating beneath that suit, that maybe he has wants and desires that extend past the operating room.

  I sense that he’s waiting for me to condemn him for his divorce, so I sigh and take a tiny step forward. “You aren’t evil just because you have a failed marriage under your belt. You were in residency—it was probably a hard time for the both of you.”

  “Maybe, but she’s remarried and pregnant now,” he says, the words coming out twisted and pained. “She’s going to have a family and in all the years since our divorce, I haven’t even had a serious relationship.”

  “That’s because you’re married to your job.”

  His eyes sweep up to me and he doesn’t hesitate before replying, “Yeah, well maybe that’s not enough anymore.”

  And then he collapses back on his bed with a heavy thud.

  Chapter 16

  BAILEY

  I stand immobile, waiting for him to snap back to consciousness, but no, he is good and dead to the world.

  Oh good grief.

  The lower half of his body is hanging off the bed, and he’s still wearing his wool coat and suit. I’m worried he’s going to throw up in his sleep and die. I should let him—it would serve him right for putting me in this predicament in the first place. I look around as if trying to decide what to do, but there’s really only one thing to do, the only decent thing: leave now and shoot up a prayer that he makes it through the night.

  Just kidding.

  I heave a reluctant sigh then step forward to take off his shoes. As I unknot the laces, I talk out loud, telling him things I’d never have the courage to say if he were awake.

  “I hate you for doing this to me. This was supposed to be a fun night. I could be back at that wedding right now, dancing with Cooper and having the time of my life. Sure, I absolutely hate dancing, and yes, I’m not really that into him, but who knows—weddings do funny things to people.

  “Also, how dare you ask me to sleep here with you?! What if I didn’t have enough sense to realize you weren’t being serious? You could really get a girl’s hopes up saying things like that!”

  Once his shoes are on the floor, I heave his legs up onto the bed and assess the results. His body is bent at an awkward angle. He’s probably not that comfortable in his suit, but there is no way I’m undressing him. Also, with his weight on top of them, I can’t exactly draw the blankets down. His coat should keep him warm enough. I button it up, just to be sure.

  After I’m sure he won’t roll off the bed, I head to his kitchen and pilfer a mixing bowl and a glass from his cabinets. I fill the cup with water and set it beside the bowl on his nightstand. Then, I think better of it and find a bucket in his garage so I can plop it onto the floor beside his bed. If he gets sick, I am not cleaning it up.

  “I don’t think you’re evil, necessarily, though you are married to your job, which is probably why your wife left you. I don’t really blame her. She probably was neglected. Patricia tells me you sometimes sleep in your office at work. I bet in your residency days you slept at the hospital more often than not.”

  I shake my head and realize now that he’s asleep in his bed with strategically placed water and a bowl and a bucket in case he’s sick, my work is done. I need to leave, except when I get my phone out of my purse to call an Uber, I find it’s dead. D-E-A-D. It was all that bathroom dawdling and reading by the fire.

  NO. NOooO.

  After some quick Nancy-Drew thinking, I retrieve Matt’s phone from the pocket of his coat, but it’s locked. I try to break into it using his thumbprint, but it’s no use. I need the passcode. What fresh hell is this?!

  His phone will allow me to place a call to 9-1-1, and I actually consider it.

  “Hello, yes this is a very serious emergency.”

  Josie is probably worried sick about me, but there’s nothing I can do. Matt doesn’t have a house phone. I’ve searched high and low. I consider knocking on a neighbor’s door to ask to use their phone, but it’s late and even though this is a nice neighborhood, there are crazy people everywhere. I’m not trying to end up in anyone’s basement tonight.

  Then it hits me: DUH, I’ll plug my phone into Matt’s charger and wait for it to juice up. I’ll be on my way home in no time.

  His charging dock is on his nightstand, so I drop my phone onto it and then slide down to the floor so I can rest my back against his bed. I take off my jacket and use it as a blanket, then I stand and steal a pillow so I can actually get comfortable. It smells like him and I try hard not to let the scent wind its way around me, but it’s no use. I’m in his bedroom, listening to his steady breathing and using his pillow to cradle my head. I am all up i
n his personal space and I have free rein. I could snoop anywhere I want. I could turn and open the drawer of his nightstand. I shiver at the thought of finding condoms or some other proof that he’s a living, breathing man with needs—sexy, R-rated needs.

  I put up caution tape and roadblocks around those thoughts and turn my attention to the window in front of me. The curtain blocks most of the light outside, but I can still see a sliver of the moon. I’m admiring it as a yawn breaks free. My eyelids feel oh so heavy. The two glasses of champagne I had during dinner have made me extra sleepy. Maybe that waiter did give me a heavy pour after all. I fight to keep my eyes open, knowing my phone will be charged soon, but it’s no use. My eyes flutter closed and I tell myself to stay awake…to check to see if my phone is charged…to…

  I have the most delicious dream. I’m a princess and there’s a dragon holding me captive in a medieval tower. Fortunately, there’s a brawny prince with the bluest eyes and the darkest hair. He’s brave and chivalrous and really knows how to rock a suit of armor. All the other princesses in the land think he’s hot, but he’s my prince. He’s come to slay my dragon and rescue me from the tower. After an intense duel in which he comes out the victor, he finally reaches my room way up at the tallest peak, and he lifts me into his arms. I think we’re headed out of the tower, but instead he carries me over to a bed. It makes no sense—we need to go in the opposite direction, out of the room. I really need to go home. I tell the prince my sister is waiting for me, but he insists I stay on this soft, warm bed as he tucks me under the blankets.

  He moves to walk away and I say, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Then I make exaggerated smoochy noises with my lips. Because, hello! This dream is not G-rated. I want a kiss, dammit, but the prince just chuckles and walks away.

  Pfft. Just my luck, getting a prudish prince.

  This is the last part of the dream I remember before I jolt awake in a room that smells like sandalwood and pine, lying on sheets that are way softer than anything I can afford. It takes me all of three seconds to realize I’m still in Matt’s house, and worse, I’m in his bed! Oh god, that means he must have picked me up and put me up here himself. He was the prince—and I begged him to kiss me!

  I bolt upright and look around the room. He’s not in bed with me. THANK GOD. I scramble out from beneath the covers and leap to my feet. With a shaky, nervous breath, I glance down. Oh, phew. Fortunately, I’m still in my dress from last night, though it’s a little askew. I grab my phone from the charging dock and turn it on. Josie called me 37 times.

  I call her back right away.

  “OH MY GOD. I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!” is the first thing she says as the call connects.

  I hold a hand over my mouth, scared to make too much noise. I don’t know where Matt is. He could be coming back any minute.

  “Listen, I’m alive. It’s a long story, but I’ll be home soon.”

  She groans. “Good, I’m glad, but it’s 5:45 AM and I’m going back to sleep.”

  The call abruptly ends.

  Okay, well, at least that’s taken care of. I tiptoe around and gather my things. My jacket is on the floor. My shoes are sitting neatly beside the bed. Matt must have taken them off for me like I did for him, and I shiver thinking of him undoing the little strap around my ankle. For some reason that seems more thoughtful than when I yanked off his dress shoes, but maybe I’m reading too much into it.

  Once I have everything I need, I tiptoe to the door of his bedroom. If I make it outside without being noticed, I can just order an Uber from down the street, or who knows, I could always hitchhike home with some grizzly trucker. Last night, I was worried about crazy people. Now, I’m so embarrassed by how I behaved that a good ol’ kidnapping doesn’t sound so bad anymore.

  I hear a noise behind me and freeze, glancing slowly over my shoulder like I’m expecting Freddy Krueger to make an appearance. A second later, Matt steps out of his bathroom, toothbrush swishing back and forth across his teeth. He’s wearing gray sleeping pants and no shirt and I blink an untold number of times as if my eyelashes will flap hard enough to carry me right out of this situation.

  “Good,” he says with a quick nod. “You’re up.”

  Then he turns and steps back into the bathroom so he can spit out his toothpaste and rinse his mouth. My eyes flick to his window and I wonder if I can make it across the room and outside before he’s done. But no, a second later, he’s back in his bedroom, brushing past me to get into the hallway. Now he’s sans toothbrush and still sans shirt. I feast on the sight that is his tan back and broad shoulders and muscly biceps, but when he glances back to look at me, I shoot my gaze to the ceiling so fast, I think I sprain a muscle in my eye.

  “C’mon, I’ll make breakfast.”

  I laugh. “For a second there, it sounded like you said the word ‘breakfast’, but that can’t be right.”

  He scrunches his brows in confusion. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  I hold up my hand. Why are we talking about food, of all things? Aren’t there more important details we need to work out? Like, oh, I dunno, when we took the major leap from enemies to shirtless breakfast companions? “Hold on—did I or did I not fall asleep on the floor of your bedroom last night?”

  He frowns and turns around, leaning one shoulder against the wall and crossing his arms. His abs are insanely toned. “You did.”

  “And did you or did you not lift me up into your bed and tuck me under the covers?”

  “I did, but then I slept out on the couch. Nothing happened.”

  My cheeks burn because there’s still one more thing I need clarification on. I rush the words out on one breath. “Good, okay. Also, I dreamed that I asked for a kiss—that didn’t happen, right?”

  His face completely transforms as his mouth breaks into a devastating smile. “No, that definitely did happen. It was cute. You puckered up and everything.”

  Just as I thought. I cross my arms and put my head down and fast-walk right on by him. I head straight for the door and I think if I pick up enough momentum, I won’t even have to stop to open it, I can just barrel straight through the wood.

  His hand reaches out to catch my shoulder and he tugs me back. “Wait, I said it was cute. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

  “Embarrassed isn’t the right word. Traumatized is more like it. I’ll need therapy.”

  He offers me a little half-smile and my gaze pings back and forth between that and his swoon-worthy bedhead.

  “Well it’s nothing worse than what I did. Getting drunk, forcing you to put me to bed—I don’t think I’ve been that wasted since my college days.”

  Somehow, I doubt he was that drunk even then.

  “You told me about your ex-wife,” I admit in an effort to get everything out on the table as soon as possible.

  He looks less than enthused. “Ah.”

  “And you told me the hospital was going to give me a massive raise.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Strange. I don’t remember that part.”

  Then, much the same way I led him to his car and into his house last night, he puts both of his hands on my shoulders and pushes me in the direction of his kitchen. I have no choice but to allow him to direct me to his table and deposit me in a chair. There’s already a freshly brewed pot of coffee waiting on the counter, and he pours me a heaping mug.

  “Cream?” he asks.

  “Please, and don’t scrimp.”

  “Sugar?”

  I arch a brow. “You’re not going to lecture me about how bad it is for my health?”

  He smirks. “I’m off the clock.”

  “Then yes, please. Just a little.”

  Matt making that cup of coffee is arguably the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen a human do. It’s like when you see a hot dude holding a puppy. Alone, both things are adorable. Together, they’re unstoppable. I try to contain my enthusiasm though. There’s no need to drool on his wooden farmhouse table. I don’t have enough in my savings
to replace it.

  He brings me the mug and has me taste it.

  “Good?” he asks, watching for my reaction.

  His toned abs are less than a foot from my face. I shoot him a thumbs-up in lieu of speaking.

  With a nod, he heads back to the fridge and starts plopping ingredients onto the counter: mushrooms, spinach, cheese, eggs.

  This all seems so remarkably normal, which makes me feel even more uncomfortable. How is he carrying on as if this is any other Sunday morning? Suddenly, I’ve had enough. I can’t do it.

  “What exactly are we doing here?” I ask. “Right now?”

  “You’re drinking coffee and I’m making omelets.” He bends down to open a drawer in his fridge and I stare at his butt for two seconds before I realize what I’m doing and look away. “Do you want ham in yours?”

  “Yes, of course—but that’s not the point. Could you please just stop moving for a second?” I shoot to my feet and fist my hands by my sides.

  He finally gets the hint and turns to face me.

  “You said things last night that you can’t take back,” I begin, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible. “You said your brother’s experiment might have worked. What did that mean?”

  He heaves a deep sigh, like the subject seems daunting to him. “I think we should have this conversation after we’ve eaten.”

  I resist the urge to stamp my foot. “No. I want to talk now. As I was putting you to bed, you said even more things! Maybe they were just drunken ramblings, but they seemed like more, like you were actually opening up to me.”

  There. The truth is spilled across his kitchen floor, and I’m waiting for him to pick it up and discard it as he pleases. All he has to say is that he was drunk. Then we can shove all these weird feelings under a rug and get back to having a working relationship that’s tenuous at best.

  He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “I remember everything I said.”

  His gaze is heavy and intense.

  I want to look away, but my next question is too important. “And do you regret any of it?”