by RC Boldt
My face heats with embarrassment. “Sorry about that.”
He laughs as I finish typing my notes. “Not a problem. Just looking out for your stomach, ma’am. Figure it’s the least I can do—offer to bring you a salad from The Circle…”
Moving the mouse to click and save the updated notes on his file, I turn. “You do realize you don’t need to feed me in exchange for treatment, right?” Holding his gaze, I continue, “This is my job; it’s what I do. I enjoy helping people.”
“You wouldn’t want me to come back with the gorgonzola walnut salad then?” He gives me a knowing look.
“How do you know that’s the salad—”
“That you would order from there?” I nod, and he grins. “Because I pay attention to things that matter.” Rising from the table, he heads to the door of the small room. With a hand on the doorknob, he pauses without turning around.
“I’ll drop by at eleven thirty when you’re ready to close for lunch.”
Before I can respond or protest, he’s gone, closing the door quietly behind him. Leaving me with his words on replay in my mind.
Because I pay attention to things that matter.
And I refuse to admit the impact those words have on me.
* * *
“Your delicious patient is here for you.”
I swear, when it comes to Hendy, Lucia’s Colombian accent grows even thicker. Turning from my analysis of a thermography scan from a new patient, I see her standing in my office doorway and nearly groan at the look she’s giving me.
“He’s bringing you lunch but”—she glances toward the hallway before lowering her voice with a mischievous look—“you need to promise to tell me if he gives you more than salad.”
“Lucia!” I hiss.
“Promise it’s only salad, ladies.”
Shit. Covering my face with my hands, I’m mortified to hear Hendy’s deep voice, amusement lacing his tone.
Braving a glance toward the doorway, I see him grinning at me while Lucia gives him a full once-over.
“What size shoe do you wear?”
He looks at her oddly. “Twelve, why?”
Lucia gives me one of those “See? Told you so” looks. Luckily, my starving stomach interrupts.
“Let’s get you fed.” He steps into my office, toting the bag of food. His body slides into the chair at the small table off to the side of my office while I pointedly ignore Lucia’s eyebrow wiggling.
Moving my rolling desk chair toward the table, I let out a long sigh.
“Tough morning?”
“Yes. I have a patient whose insurance company is refusing our request and documentation for additional visits, and this person really needs it.” Stabbing the lettuce with my fork, I add, “The joys of dealing with health insurance companies,” before taking a large bite of my delicious salad. God, this is so freaking good.
Our conversation is easy, flowing flawlessly as we discuss his progress and how much easier and painlessly he’s moving physically. He’s noticing improvement, and it sends a fierce sense of pride running through me to hear this.
Once we’ve finished our lunch, I lean back in my chair, folding my hands over my stomach. I’ve got that feeling after eating something so delicious and filling that I’m food-drunk. Like a stupor of satisfaction. “That was so good.” Turning to him, I smile. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear his voice just dipped an octave to something low and sexy.
“So, tell me honestly,” I begin, letting my eyes rest upon him. “How are you adjusting to everything?”
He studies me for a beat before looking away, peering up at one of my framed certifications on the wall. “What exactly are you asking?”
I don’t like the fact that he won’t look at me—don’t want him to feel any ounce of embarrassment with me.
“I’m asking how you’re doing with…everything emotionally. I know you’re seeing Dr. Givens.” This psychiatrist has quite a reputation for helping veterans through their transition to civilian life, especially those who battle PTSD.
Finally, he answers, his tone softer than normal, more pensive.
“I honestly don’t know some days…because I have so many nagging questions.” Raising his arms, he rests his hands on his ball cap, still staring sightlessly at the wall. “I wonder why? Why they did what they did? Why they kept me for so long—why they kept me alive? None of it makes any sense. Still.” He pauses, voice lowering to barely a whisper. “Why did I survive and my guys didn’t?” His jaw clenches tightly. “Good men died that night, and I lived. Why?”
Snorting derisively, he moves his hands to toy with the plastic straw in his cup. “I wonder if I’m ever going to meet anyone who’s crazy enough to want this.” Hendy gestures roughly to himself. “If there’s anyone out there who will be able to see past it all.”
His dark eyes meet mine, and the pain in the depths spears me. Lips twist up in what I’ve come to recognize as his trademark lopsided smile. “But obviously, I’ve been given a second chance, right? And I, of all people, can attest to life being too short to waste.”
“Hey.” Impulsively reaching out, I grasp his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Any woman would be lucky to be with you.”
His dark brown gaze rests on me, studying me for a moment. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Presleyyyyy!” We both jump as Lucia’s voice breaks the moment. “The deliveryman is here.”
With a smile, I stand and push my chair over to my desk area. Lucia knew I was waiting for the delivery of supplements since they’d accidentally messed up our prior order.
“Thanks again for lunch. Oh!” I reach for my desk drawer where my purse is stowed. “I owe you—”
“Presley.” The way he says my name stops me in my tracks, and I turn back to him. “It’s my treat.” His eyes are soft and contemplative. “Clue: Having lunch with my doctor.”
Wrinkling my brow, I shake my head.
“What is the best Thursday afternoon I’ve had yet?”
With a wink, he’s gone, leaving me standing in my office, his words wrapping tightly around me like a cocoon. His sentiment slips deep within me with an intensely overwhelming effect.
And a part of me—a far bigger part than I’d like to admit—wishes he didn’t have to go.
Chapter Nine
Hendy
“Saw you walking out with a bag of food from The Circle at around lunchtime today.”
Rolling my eyes, I pad over the hardwood floor into the kitchen where Kane’s preparing dinner. “You spying on me now?”
My roommate gives me his trademark grin. “Now, darlin’, those are merely my impressive powers of observation.”
Opening the fridge, I grab an apple and lean against the end of the counter where Kane’s standing.
“What are you making?” Taking a large bite from the apple, I watch him mince some garlic.
“Sudado de pollo.” Without looking up, he begins to dice bell peppers.
I can’t restrain the grin spreading across my face, especially at the sound of Kane saying the dish’s name with his thick Southern accent. At first, when Foster insisted I move to Fernandina Beach and told me he’d found me a place to live—and a roommate, no less—I wasn’t sure what to think. But I’d lucked out because Kane Windham is a pretty cool guy.
Not that I’m planning to tell him that or anything.
I note his extreme concentration on his task. “Su-what?”
“It’s basically a Colombian-style chicken stew.” He finishes chopping the peppers and glances over at me with a sigh. “Go ahead and get it fucking over with.”
Taking another bite of the apple, I chew, eyeing him. Swallowing, I mask my expression to be one of innocence. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
His piercing blue eyes grow squinty for a moment. Then he nods, redirecting his attention to chopping an onion.
“Am I to assume
your famous brownies didn’t do the job of wooing her properly?”
Kane’s broad shoulders drop slightly, continuing to carefully chop on the large wooden cutting board. “Nope.”
“Huh.” Kane’s famous homemade brownies—for which he has a secret recipe—are damn delicious and totally worth the extra miles I need to tack on my morning run.
With a frustrated sound, he abruptly stops chopping the onions. Pausing to turn his face, he lifts his arm and wipes his tears on his shirtsleeve. “I gave her my damn seafood gumbo, too. And still, nothing.” Leaning a hip against the counter, he gazes down at the floor.
“Don’t go getting all maudlin on me, buddy. I get the feeling she’s a tough nut to crack.”
His gaze lifts to meet mine, studying me for a moment. “How are you doing?”
Caught off guard by the sudden change of topic, I don’t immediately answer. “With?”
Kane waves his hand toward me. “With you. With everything. With trying to rejoin the ranks of the undead.”
Noticing that Kane hasn’t used his usual plethora of darlins or other terms of endearments that tend to spill from his lips—regardless of whether he’s speaking to males or females—unease rolls through me. Because the absence of those terms serves as an alert to the serious tone of the conversation.
I raise an eyebrow. “The undead?”
He matches my expression. “It’s accurate, don’t you think? For someone declared—”
“I got it,” I cut him off, taking a bite of my apple and turning my eyes away.
“Look, man, I get it. It’s not like I’ve known you for long, but I’m also no stranger to seeing and enduring some terrible shit out there. I’m not saying I know exactly what you went through, but I know it took a while to get over what happened to me.”
Folding his arms across his chest, the strength of his stare is unnerving. “You never go without a shirt or a hat, man. Never. And it’s fucking Florida.”
Huffing out a laugh, I try to play it off. “What are you saying? You jonesing for my body? My pretty face?”
Kane doesn’t even crack a smile. “You need to come to terms with your appearance. Don’t be ashamed of that shit, Hendy. Those are fucking battle scars. Trophies. A testament that you endured some crazy shit and lived to tell about it.”
Looking away, he stares sightlessly at the oven. “Not everyone can say they came back from the dead.” Turning to me again, he keeps his tone firm as if to brook no argument. “You need to own it. You rose from the ashes. Like the damn phoenix. Don’t get me wrong. I get hiding beneath the ball cap because people can be insensitive as fuck. But this attitude…” He juts out his chin toward me. “This mentality that you’re a freak show and have nothing to offer—it isn’t healthy.”
Eyes narrowing, I clench my jaw so hard it’s a wonder I don’t crack any molars. “You done?”
Our gazes clash for a long beat. Finally, his lips curve, and he softens his expression into the fun-loving, charming Kane I’ve come to know. Hooking his thick arm around my shoulders, he tugs me toward him, wrapping me in his arms.
“Bring it in, darlin’. Hug it out.”
Jesus. Kane is massive, and if I didn’t know better, I’d accuse him of being on steroids, but I know he’s on the up-and-up. He works hard to stay in shape and keep his body as well-honed as it was during his days serving as a Green Beret.
I’m not exactly a scrawny guy, but he could easily serve as a taller version of John Cena. I’m a bit taller and leaner but still manage to stay in shape. It’s been a bitch, at times, to continue to push myself to maintain a fit physique—especially throughout my recovery.
He hugs me tightly, lightly slapping a hand on my back. I go along with it because Kane’s a hugger. Affectionate, fun, lighthearted.
Up until the moment he starts swaying us from side to side and humming, “I’ve Had The Time Of My Life” from Dirty Dancing.
Wrenching from his hold, I glare, but honestly, it’s without much heat. “Not cool.” I’m not really pissed. Yeah, he might get under my skin, but anyone with an ounce of sense can recognize he’s a good person. Genuine. Not that Foster would hire anyone less than legit to work for his security consulting company.
Kane’s shit-eating grin is wide. “Aw, darlin’, don’t be like that.” Raising his eyebrows pointedly, he adds, “Not everyone’s lucky enough to get me to break out my Swayze on them.”
Rolling my eyes, I wave toward the remaining ingredients on the counter. “What can I help you with?”
The mood lightened, we work on preparing the dish—one of us sautéing while the other adds the remainder of the ingredients to a large pot.
But in the back of my mind, his words echo.
You should own it. You rose from the ashes.
Chapter Ten
Presley
I’m so turned on that I’d swear heat is radiating from my body as his lips trail down my stomach. My surprise is warranted since Dylan never does this. He’s usually more of a get-right-down-to-business kind of guy. And he’s not a big fan of oral sex. Receiving it, yes—giving it, no.
Not to mention, the naughty things he’s whispered in the dark silence of my bedroom. He’s vocalizing what I’ve always wanted—words I’ve always fantasized about him saying. Things I’ve asked for that he’s turned his nose up at and made me feel like a freak of nature for suggesting. Like something was wrong with me for wanting dirty talk.
Right now, however, it’s as if he’s experienced a complete change of heart; like he knows what I need—and want.
“Your sweet pussy’s all mine, Presley.”
Those words—let alone combined with the other deliciously wicked words he’s been whispering—nearly send me over the edge right from the start. And the way he says my name, it rolls off his tongue sounding sexy, different, unique…desired.
His hands push my legs farther apart, lips latching onto my clit while he simultaneously slides one thick finger inside me. My body arches off the bed as pleasure floods through me. My arousal drenches his finger, and when he adds a second, there’s no mistaking my soft moan echoing throughout the quiet bedroom.
Whatever brought out this version of Dylan… I hope he never retreats.
As he continues to glide his fingers in and out of me while his tongue and lips toy with my clit, I feel the signs of my fast-approaching orgasm. My hands move down to his head between my spread legs. As my fingers thread through the soft strands of his short hair, finding purchase, I tighten my grasp. His groan reverberates through me, pushing me closer to the edge. When he adds a third finger, pumping inside me and sending me over the precipice, he growls, “Look at me.”
The moment I open my eyes, gazing down at him as he sucks my clit hard, still pumping his fingers in and out rapidly, I cry out, my inner walls clenching as my orgasm hits me hard.
I cry out in the dark bedroom, my body moving of its own accord, riding his fingers and coating him with my release. But it’s for more than one reason.
I cry out from the pleasure he’s given me. Yet within that cry are notes of surprise. Shock. Dismay. Guilt. Embarrassment.
I had an erotic dream—to the extent I orgasmed…by fantasy alone.
Guilt because the eyes I’d looked down into didn’t belong to Dylan.
They had belonged to Hendy.
* * *
“Well, now. I must say someone looks mighty satisfied this morning.”
Doing my best to ignore Lucia’s appraisal as I enter our building, I greet Clara as I pass her on the way to my office.
Setting my items down and placing my purse in my bottom desk drawer, I internally groan when I catch sight of Lucia standing in my doorway. With a sigh, I turn only to find her pressing her hands together in a praying pose, eyes closed.
“Please, Lord Almighty. Tell me that Dylan finally rocked my chica’s world. Pleeeeaaaassee.”
At my silence, Lucia peeks at me with one eye. “No?”
I don’t imm
ediately answer, letting a beat of silence pass first. “No.”
Lucia’s crestfallen expression would be amusing—if it pertained to a different topic. Her shoulders droop, and disappointment lines her features. “Should have known better than to expect a miracle,” she mutters under her breath.
“Lucia.” There’s no mistaking the warning in my tone. Lucia has never been a fan of Dylan’s, but she’s kept it well under wraps. Lately, however, she’s been more vocal.
She tosses up her hands. “Ay, Dios mío! I simply want my friend to have hot sex!”
My eyebrows raise with a pointed look. “Because you, yourself, have hot sex?”
Squinting at me, she purses her lips. “Not. The. Point.”
Barely resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I slide past her and set off to check in with my receptionist before we begin to see patients for the day. But before I make it two steps down the hall, Lucia’s soft spoken words reach my ears.
“I think something delicious happened with you and that man.”
Her words instantly bring an onslaught of heat to my face, and I’m grateful I’m not facing her. Because I know very well if I were, she’d see everything.
I don’t dare dissect what happened; can’t face what—who—woke me up this morning.
That the man in my bed while my fantasy played out was most certainly not my fiancé.
* * *
“How’s the pain?”
I’m desperately avoiding eye contact because I swear the moment my eyes met Hendy’s when I entered the adjusting room, I felt as though he knew everything. That he could tell what I had imagined earlier this morning when I was alone in my bedroom.
That he knew I had ridden his fingers—had soaked them with my release.
Oh my God. I need to get it together. Act professionally, Presley. But it’s no use. It’s like my lady parts are raising their hands—if they had hands, that is—and yelling out, “Hollaaaaa!” like the rapper Missy Elliott.
O-kay. Wow. That was just weird. Mentally shaking it off, I plead silently for a do-over for the day. I’m calling mulligan.