Wes Blakefield was the definition of perfection. His jaw was set in straight, solid lines. His skin was tan, and he had the greenest eyes this side of Ireland. Not to mention he was well over six feet tall and had broad shoulders and arms to match. On top of that, he had one hell of a dick. I covered my mouth. I wasn’t supposed to look at him like that. He was a patient. Not a demi-god. Not a male model that could melt the panties off every nurse in this hospital. No, he was a patient. My patient.
“Dr. Ashworth? Dr. Ashworth?” I jumped, startled to hear my name intrude my lewd thoughts about what Wes wanted me to do with his erection. Was he serious?
I twirled around, blushing. “Yep?”
“Mr. Hamlin’s knee is still swollen, and Ms. Parish’s elbow is definitely not getting any better,” the nurse reported. “They’re both asking for you.”
“Of course. I’ll be right there.”
I closed my eyes and took a slight inhale, pushing out the dirty thoughts of Wes Blakefield. It wasn’t my fault those thoughts were there, I told myself. He was the one who thought I was a hired whore and flashed me with all his glory. It made me hot again just thinking about it. Hot and mad. I tried to remember how offensive he was. How he thought I was just some cheap piece of ass sent to pleasure him. I was a brilliant surgeon—not a call girl.
I stormed toward Ms. Parish’s room. Elbows and knees first. I’d check on my horny patient again later.
I guess I always thought when I moved to San Antonio, I would find a place in the city, close to the hospital, and put down some roots. But as I flung my keys on the kitchen counter in my efficiency apartment, I realized I wasn’t anywhere near that step. I hadn’t even started looking at houses or apartments. I kept renting the same extended-stay studio, waiting for a sign that San Antonio was the place for me.
The furniture was generic. So were the horrid, pale paintings on the wall of scenes from the Alamo. But for some reason, they reminded me it could all be temporary if I wanted it to be. I could leave. I was on a week-to-week lease with this place. Nothing to move except my clothes. I wore scrubs most of the time, anyway. I hadn’t been on a single date since I moved here. There was no reason to pull out that little black dress or put on a strappy pair of fuck-me heels. Life was work. And work was my life.
I heated up a bowl of soup, poured a glass of wine, and sat in front of the TV. Today at the hospital had been nothing but non-stop chaos. It started when everyone flipped out about the Wranglers’ quarterback, and ended with the director of orthopedics calling me in his office to talk about our high-security protocols. I swear, everyone had lost their damn minds over this patient. I never discussed my patients’ conditions with the press, and I didn’t need a lecture reminding me that a high-profile patient had to be able to trust that the hospital would never report his injury.
I finished my soup and reached for my laptop. I typed Wes Blakefield into the search engine. I clicked on the star’s website. He had his own page dedicated to his records. I skimmed the stats, but they meant nothing to me. He had won awards I’d never heard of. I didn’t care about football. I hit the back button and clicked on an article.
I chewed my bottom lip as I moved from article to article, picture to picture, studying him. Absorbing information about his social life. The man was single and seemed to be at every social event in the city. His killer smile was beyond photogenic. There were women. Lots of women. It seemed he had a new girl on his arm at every restaurant, charity event, or party. I never saw the same one twice.
I slammed the computer shut and headed for the shower. I peeled off my scrubs and stepped into the warm water. If I could wash away everything that happened today, I would. But in less than twelve hours, I would be right back there, starting all over again. I ran the loofah over my body, when an image of Wes flashed in front of me. I scowled at myself. He was the wrong kind of man to start thinking about. He was clearly a womanizer. An egotistical maniac. He may have the rest of the world fooled, but I knew a narcissistic prick when I met one. I should—I had lived with one for a year.
I made the decision right then. I had to give him to Dr. Evans. There was no way I could keep him as a patient. There was something bad about Wes Blakefield. The more I scrubbed the bubbles into my skin, the more I knew I had to stay far away from him. He made me uncomfortable. He made me think things I shouldn’t think about. He made me want to wipe that smug playboy look right off his damn perfect face.
I turned off the water and wrapped a towel around my body. I placed my hand against my cheek. Did he actually think I was attractive? When I looked in the mirror, I saw a doctor. A surgeon. A woman who put her patients first. I let my hair tumble from the clip holding it in place.
I quickly twisted it back into a bun. It didn’t matter what Wes Blakefield saw. After tomorrow morning, he would no longer be my patient, and I’d never have to see him again.
5
Wes
I rubbed my eyes, grumbling about the lack of sleep I got last night. Every fifteen minutes, there was a nurse taking my vitals. And they sure as hell didn’t look like the hot nurse I fucked the other night. I even offered to pay them to leave me alone, but they only laughed, thinking I was joking.
I let my head sink into the pillow, hoping I could at least catch a nap before the next one came in, poking me with some kind of torture device.
“Good morning, Mr. Blakefield.” The door swung open and in walked Dr. Ashworth.
I sat forward, forgetting how exhausted I was. I suddenly had a new burst of energy.
“Hey, Doc.”
She walked toward me, and I noticed her hair was down today. It was layered in long strands over her shoulders. She was more beautiful than she was yesterday.
“How’s your hand feeling?” She bent to take a look at the incision.
“Hurts like hell.” I tried to catch a glimpse of her eyes, but she was studying my fingers.
“Well, it’s not swollen much.” She twisted her lips together. “But I’m not happy with this finger.” She pointed to my index finger.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s the most swollen.” She jotted something on her clipboard before placing it on the table. She retrieved the stethoscope from her neck and adjusted the ends in her ears. “Let me take a listen.”
I had had more physicals than I could count. The trainers for the Wranglers were constantly checking my heart rate. Checking for hydration and iron count. Physical therapists examined every muscle on my body. But I’d never in all those exams reacted like this. My heart started to pound as she leaned over and placed the cold disc on my chest. She moved it down my rib cage, and I could feel the heat of her fingers. I wanted to grab her and pull her on top of me—she smelled like sweet shampoo and vanilla. But I only had one good hand, and she’d already made it clear what she’d do if I tried anything again.
She moved the stethoscope to my right shoulder and slid it along my bicep. I could hear my veins hammer from my pulse as her fingertips explored my skin. She traced over the tattoo covering my right arm.
She stepped back, wrapping the stethoscope around her neck again. “Your circulation is fine. And you have a strong heartbeat. I’m not worried about blood flow.”
“Oh, you never have to worry about that.” I waggled my eyebrows.
“I’m talking about your broken hand.” She glared at me.
“Come on, Doc. Just a little joke. Thought I’d break the tension from yesterday.”
“Mmmhmm.” She scribbled more notes. “As far as I’m concerned, yesterday never happened.”
“It was funny. Don’t you laugh?”
Her eyes hardened. “I’m a surgeon. Your surgeon. And if you want to get back to football, then I suggest you take this more seriously and stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I’d never wanted to fuck a woman so badly. I didn’t know if it was her attitude or her body, but I had a primal need for her I’d
never felt before.
I wanted to kiss her smartass lips until they were red and swollen. I wanted to rip that doctor’s coat off and bend her over this bed. I knew I could have her screaming my name. She’d already seen my dick, and the way she reacted to it, I knew she was impressed. All women were.
“Mr. Blakefield?”
I looked into her eyes, dragging my stare from her tits. “What?”
“Do you agree with the pain management plan?”
“What?” She must have been talking while I was planning how to get her uptight ass into my bed.
“Do you have someone you want to bring in for this? Someone who is going to help you at home?”
I laughed. “I don’t need any help at home, Doc.”
“Aren’t you right-handed?”
“Yeah,” I scoffed.
“Then you haven’t really thought through what it’s going to be like not being able to use your hand for eight weeks.”
“Eight weeks!” I almost jumped out of the bed.
“You have a fracture and I had to surgically realign two of your bones. This is easily an eight-week recovery.”
I shook my head, feeling the fire behind my eyes. Now she’d pissed me off. “That’s not happening. The playoffs will be over.”
She closed her eyes. “Playoffs, games, that’s all anyone talks about since you were wheeled into my OR.” She pursed her lips. “This is your hand we’re talking about. If you reinjure it, you could do permanent damage.”
“Give me some HGH. I know you’ve got something that will speed up the recovery process.”
“I don’t. I have pain meds to help you get through the first week, and I have an excellent physical therapist if the team isn’t able to handle your recovery. But that’s it. There’s no magic cure. No special injection that’s going to work. You have to heal.”
I chuckled. Of course there was. We all knew about the recovery drugs players used to get back on the field. I wasn’t going to be any different. I’d find a way to get my hands on some. The Super Bowl was on the line. The Wranglers would be behind me one hundred percent.
“When am I getting out of here?” The quicker the hospital released me, the quicker I could talk to the trainers about super meds. Eight weeks to recover was not an option.
“You need to be fitted for a brace and a sling.” She looked down at her watch. “We could have you out of here in a few hours. I’ll get started on the paperwork.”
It was instinct. I reached out to touch her wrist, but my right hand was still bound to the mold. I winced at the reminder of my injury.
“Thanks.”
She tucked a pen into her pocket. “You’re welcome, Mr. Blakefield.”
“You know you can call me Wes.”
She had thrown up a professional wall so high I didn’t know if I was strong enough to break it down, but I sure as hell was going to try. I was used to getting what I wanted, and I wanted this woman.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Her blue eyes softened. “I’ll see you back here in two weeks to check on your progress.”
I could have argued and said the trainers would take care of me. The team doctors would oversee the rest of my recovery and wouldn’t want any interference with the treatment, but I didn’t disagree.
“I’ll see you in two weeks, Doc.” I grinned as she closed the door.
6
Lennon
I handed Wes Blakefield’s chart to the nurse to input into the system. I walked away from the station, ready to check on my next patient. I didn’t want to think about whether it was intentional that I had checked on him first. I tried to tell myself it was so I could escape if I needed to. I would have an excuse if those smoldering eyes of his got under my skin again. I pulled my shoulders back, knowing I kept things professional in there. I didn’t cross any doctor-patient lines.
But I had heard his heart beat. I heard it pick up as I moved across his body. My fingers lingered on his skin, tracing the lines on the tattoo running up his forearm. He might be a notorious playboy, but I had made his heart race. I smiled before walking into Ms. Parish’s room.
“Good morning. And how is that elbow today?” My seventy-five year old patient needed all my attention, and I had to stop thinking about the Wranglers’ quarterback.
“Dr. Ashworth?”
I was packing up my bag for the day in front of my locker. The shift had gone well. Two smooth surgeries and my patient recovery rate was stellar this week.
I turned to look at the nurse in the doorway. “There’s a delivery here for you at the nurses’ station.”
“Oh?” I wasn’t expecting anything, and the sales reps usually scheduled appointments with me.
The nurse looked excited. “I think I know who it’s from.”
“All right. I guess I’ll pick it up on my way out. I’m almost done.”
But she stood in the doorway, waiting for me to walk with her. God, I wish I could remember her name. She was the one who always wore the brightest scrubs. The happy kind with rainbows and kittens. Oh right, she was Sonny.
I followed her through the corridor to where the nurses were huddled together. All I could see were tufts of cellophane through the circle. The whispers stopped as soon as I appeared.
“She’s here.” They giggled. “Looks like you have an admirer, Dr. Ashworth.”
They stepped back, and I took a look at the contents through the clear wrapping. “What is this?”
Sonny piped up. “It’s from Wes Blakefield. He sent you every possible Wranglers memorabilia there is.” She tapped at the basket. “Cups, koozies, a signed football, and it looks like that’s his jersey number.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I hovered over the monstrosity of football crap.
“Read the card. Read it,” they urged.
This wasn’t how I wanted to receive a gift. Not with everyone gawking around me. And not from a current patient. This was wrong on so many levels.
Sonny shoved the envelope into my hands. Cautiously, I pulled the card from inside.
Thanks, Doc
WB
That was all it said. I pushed the note back inside. I wasn’t going to read it aloud.
“You all can get back to work now.” I tried to shoo them from the basket as I wrestled it into my arms.
“It is from him.” There was a chance half of them were going to faint right there. “Oh my God. Wes Blakefield sent you a gift. You know what that means, right?”
I looked at them blankly. “It doesn’t mean anything. He’s a patient. Of course I’m going to donate everything in the basket.”
They looked shocked.
I scrambled for an explanation. “It’s against hospital policy. You all know that.” I held the basket tighter to my chest, wondering what in the hell had urged that man to send this to me.
“Good night.” I marched out of the hospital, knowing how ridiculous I looked, trying to keep the cellophane from blowing back into my face.
The next day wasn’t any better. As I was leaving for my shift, another delivery arrived. This time, the quarterback land-slided me with every type of chocolate on the planet. And these weren’t ordinary chocolates. They were imported from France, Switzerland, and Germany. Had I mentioned in conversation at some point that I was a chocoholic? I couldn’t think of a single personal thing I had revealed to him. I was professional toward him, even if he was a flirt and a player. I never encouraged him to send gifts or pursue me, did I?
I scowled at the fancy boxes tied with exotic silk ribbons. There was another card attached. I read it in the silence of the doctors’ lounge. I crumpled it in my hand. Who was this guy? He thought he could send presents and chocolate and I’d what? Just fall into his arms and beg to get in his bed?
I knew his type. I’d met them all over D.C. Funny thing was, once they found out I was a surgical resident, I suddenly seemed less attractive. That was until I met Ben.
Ben was another resident in my program
, and after studying and working together, it seemed to make sense to be roommates. Roommates turned to sex when we were both in the apartment together. Somehow that felt like enough of a relationship to me. After a year, I knew we were a good match. He was handsome and smart and not intimidated by my work. We had everything in common. He was the perfect guy on paper. I could go through a list and check off all the things I wanted in a partner. Except one. The most important one.
But all of it changed the day I found out my roommate was fucking another woman.
I couldn’t help it. I ripped into the chocolates and started eating one of the pretty pink ones. By the time I looked down, I had eaten six. I crammed the lid on top and lifted the boxes in my arms. I needed to get home. Thinking about Ben pissed me off. It reminded me why I was here alone. Why I had left D.C. Why I didn’t bother to split things in the apartment and had driven to Texas with only a car full of clothes.
I wiped an angry tear from my cheek and raced past the nurses. I didn’t want to hear about my admirer. I wasn’t up for girl talk. They didn’t know what I was going through. Broken by one asshole, just to be pursued by another.
The next day, I slammed the cabinet to my locker, eager to get out of the hospital so I could make it home and take a shower. I had been in surgery for six hours putting a twenty-year-old’s leg back together after it was smashed in a car accident. The concentration and focus it took had wiped me out, but the surgery was a complete success. With rehab and physical therapy, he’d be able to walk again, and we were able to give him hope for more than that.
Sharing the news with his parents after the surgery was a relief. Their faces lit with joy, and I knew I could leave the hospital knowing I had kicked ass today.
Beauty and the Billionaire Bad*ss Page 17