They just loved me in their own way—the only way they knew how.
“I have to graduate,” I stressed again. “The job market’s fierce out there, and an MBA will help with that. The sooner I graduate, the sooner I can start my own life away from all of this.” I lifted my hands into the air.
This just happened to be a mansion.
A huge mansion.
With three interconnected swimming pools.
A tennis court.
Two movie rooms.
And a bowling alley.
I think I’d prefer anything but this. If I could choose to live in a dump with my parents and we’d be a family or I could have a mansion and scarcely see them.
I’d choose the dump every time.
“I’ll do my best to help you.” He lifted my legs off his lap. “But first, we ride.”
I blushed. I couldn’t help it.
“You can’t do that anymore,” he whispered, his blue eyes piercing. “You can’t blush when I say things like that.”
“Sorry.”
He muttered a curse and walked away. I could have sworn he adjusted himself near the door, but I was too busy hiding behind the couch to fully commit to ogling him.
“Where’s your bike?” he called over his shoulder before turning around.
“In the garage. It’s kind of dark now, though, let’s ride tomorrow after work.” I totally said it without stuttering or blushing.
“Fine.” He looked exhausted.
“Don’t forget the spider.” I pointed at the bucket. “And don’t let it loose in nature. We can’t have that bastard procreating with another, smaller spider and creating zombie spider babies that take over the world.”
He just stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
And then shook his head as a smile played across his face. “You’re entertaining, I’ll give you that.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you.”
“It was meant to be one.”
We froze, both of us smiling at each other.
“Sleep,” I whispered. “You’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
“Yup.” He gripped the bucket in one hand; the muscles in his forearm flexed. “Take some ibuprofen and ice the spider bite. If you feel any muscle weakness or tightness in your chest, let me know and I’ll prescribe you something.”
“Ah, the power of the pen.”
He rolled his eyes and waved with his free hand. “See you tomorrow morning at eight, Austin.” He hesitated in the doorway. “Be sure to wear something work-appropriate.”
“Oh, so you want me to wear a bike uniform?”
He flipped me off and quietly shut the door against my laughter.
Chapter Twelve
THATCH
I was more nervous for this workday than I’d been since I was out of residency and trying to prove myself. Our Wednesday morning staff meeting took longer than necessary, and by the time it was done, I was in need of coffee. Though for the first time in three days, I’d managed to actually get a good night’s sleep—since I didn’t have to worry about Austin releasing frogs or something else in my apartment.
Really, everything worked out in my favor, since I got a good night’s sleep.
Even though Austin wasn’t a real patient, I still needed to treat her like one. I just hated that every time I thought about examining her, I got so hard, I couldn’t think straight.
Mia, our office assistant, waved me down with her hand, then covered the phone. “Austin Rogers is in your office.”
And so it begins. “Thanks, Mia.”
I only had one augmentation that day, and if the patient didn’t mind Austin watching, I was going to let her scrub in and observe. She’d probably pass out five minutes in, but at least she would get some good material for her blog.
God, was I really doing this?
And if I was being honest, was it really about the fact that I was going to get more sleep at night because I wouldn’t be living in a constant state of paranoia? Or was it just my sick way to be close to Austin without having to commit?
Austin was sitting cross-legged on my couch, wearing black stiletto heels and black on black—it looked hot as hell with her golden-highlighted dark brown hair and pale skin.
“I thought I said work-appropriate,” I admonished, unable to keep the lust out of my voice. I willed my eyes to look at anything but her long perfect legs, the same legs that I used to wrap around my body during sex.
Austin stood. “Hah-hah, very funny, my dress isn’t short or tight, it’s perfect.”
I’ll say.
My eyes greedily drank her in.
I cleared my throat. “Right, so why don’t I give you some paperwork to fill out, the typical patient forms we ask everyone to go through. Once you’re finished, we’ll start on the initial consult.”
“Consult?” she repeated.
“Think of it as an interview that you get to guide.” I started to relax as I went over to the Keurig.
“I brought you coffee,” she interrupted, and thrust a large cup around my body and into my waiting hand. “Hazelnut latte, right? No whipped cream? No calories? No fun?”
Her voice was shaking. This was going to be harder than I’d thought.
“Thanks.” I kept my voice cold, detached. “We both get to feel each other out, you decide if my bedside manner is what you are looking for in a plastic surgeon.” I really should not have said the word “bed” . . . or “feel.” Already I was rising to the occasion. “And”—I turned around to keep myself hidden—“I decide if you’re a good candidate. We’ll start with a simple breast-augmentation consult since, according to you, your professor will eat that right up, but if we have time, we can go over a few more elective surgeries before your three weeks are up. Sound good?”
She was quiet. Too quiet.
I glanced over my shoulder.
To find Austin staring at my ass.
When I cleared my throat, she jerked her head up and blushed. “I’m so sorry, I just . . . sorry.” She partially covered her face with her hand and let out an embarrassed moan. “Breast augmentation first and then other things, got it.”
“Great.” I forced a smile I didn’t feel—after all, I was officially getting no action from a girl I actually loved. No chance in hell my body was going to be cheered by it. “Why don’t you go ask Mia for a new-patient form and a clipboard, and I’ll have one of my nurses call you into an exam room in, say, a half hour?”
“Perfect.” She stood and turned on her heel, marching out of my office like she owned the place.
A small smile formed across my face as I caught a glimpse of her thumb and the Little Mermaid Band-Aid wrapped around it.
I refused to find that adorable.
And that, mixed with her incredibly sexy body—one I was going to touch in about thirty minutes—was slowly driving me insane.
Damn me to hell.
I pulled my long hair into a bun at the nape of my neck and stared up at the clock.
Hell on Earth in twenty-nine minutes.
I grabbed Austin’s clipboard and went into the exam room, making sure to read through every single item as if she were a real patient.
“Austin,” I said warmly, “how are you feeling?”
She blinked up at me with wide eyes. “Like I just gave you way too much medical information for a silly little slit that goes in here”—she pointed at her breast—“while you stuff whatever the hell you stuff up in here”—she pulled her hand away—“and sew me up.”
“I can’t decide if I’m offended at your lack of knowledge about a breast augmentation or just surprised you even know where they are at all.”
She sucked in a breath. “Professional, remember?”
“Right.” Yeah, this was going to be a hell of a lot harder than I’d thought. “Let’s get started with your sheet here, feel free to take notes for your blog, and when it’s time to examine you, I’ll have one of my nurses pop in.”
“Wait, what?” Sh
e went white as a ghost. “A nurse watches?”
I stopped reading her chart and glanced up. “A nurse always watches, so I don’t get sued for touching you inappropriately.”
“But,” she said, her look frantic as she lowered her voice, “it’s all inappropriate if we aren’t together, isn’t it?”
I let out a long sigh. “Austin, it’s my job. Besides, you don’t think these things when you’re at the gyno, do you?”
“My gyno doesn’t look like Brad Pitt and James Franco’s love child!”
I laughed. “Wow, and it’s funny because I so often get told I look like Orlando Bloom with blond hair.”
She slumped in her chair. “I don’t feel comfortable with your nurse seeing my breasts.”
“So, she can’t see them, but the ex-boyfriend you hate can?”
“I don’t hate you.” It was the second time she’d admitted it in the last twenty-four hours. That had to mean something.
“But you don’t exactly like me, do you?” I just had to ask.
Austin was quiet and quickly averted her eyes to her hands on her lap. “So, did I fill out the chart right?”
“Yes, you’re very good at checking boxes. Well done.”
“Hah-hah, sarcasm.”
“You know you don’t actually have to fill in the boxes, right? A simple check mark will do.”
“When I get nervous, I color!” she snapped. “You know this. Lay off.”
“Well, it looks like in order to keep your design intact,” I said as I showed her the clipboard, “you had to gain a stroke and heart palpitations.”
“Hey, the heart palpitations can be real—I’m freaking out about passing this class, and I got bit by a spider last night!”
I glanced down at her swollen thumb. “Does it still hurt?”
“No. Ariel made it all better,” she said in a sarcastic tone.
The day was getting longer by the minute.
“Alright.” I scanned the rest of the sheet. “So basically, at this point I’d ask you if you have any blood-clot issues, since you also filled that in when you were trying to create a smiley face with the boxes.”
“Nope.”
I leaned back and let my training take control. “And why a breast augmentation? What’s your end goal here?”
She was silent.
I glanced up. “Austin?”
“I guess, for the only reason any woman wants plastic surgery. I want to be noticed?”
Funny how she wrongly assumed that only insecure women stepped into my office, when really it was only about 10 percent trophy wife–types and 90 percent women who’d had a mastectomy and wanted to feel feminine again, or women who birthed beautiful children and because of nursing, lost a part of themselves they wanted back. I bit my tongue and looked her up and down. Noticed?
“A guy would have to be dead not to notice you,” I said out loud.
Our eyes locked.
Shit.
I cleared my throat. “Alright, so you want to be noticed. Do you have any idea how large you’d like to go? For example, a high-profile implant is going to look fuller and give you the lift that a push-up bra would give you. A moderate implant may look more natural, depending on your body type, but . . .” Shit, I had to keep it professional, but I couldn’t help picturing her perfect pert breasts and the way they’d always filled my hands, overflowed across my thumbs, and . . . There I was clearing my throat again. “Having seen your body,” my voice rasped, “I wouldn’t suggest a moderate because it could add weight to your small frame.”
She stared at me like I’d just lost my mind and then asked in a small voice, “So, you would perform surgery on me?”
“That is what you’re here for, right?”
“No, I mean, for real,” she explained. “You would . . . make me better?”
“Damn it, Austin.” I placed the clipboard on the table and wanted to follow after it with my head. “Listen when I say, there is absolutely nothing I would change about your body, not now, not ever.”
And there we were again, eyes locked, bodies a mere foot away from each other.
All I had to do was lean in.
All she had to do was follow.
I reached out to touch her just as a knock sounded and our head nurse poked her head in. “Dr. Holloway, are you ready for me?”
“Yup.” I shot to my feet and pointed to the gown on the table. “You can keep your skirt on, but take your top off and try to drape this the way that Nancy instructs. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
I couldn’t leave that room fast enough.
I walked down the hall into my office and slammed the door behind me, taking a few soothing breaths as I leaned against my desk.
The fact that she would even question the way I had always felt about her body, considering the way I worshipped it with my mouth and hands, completely floored me.
It never once occurred to me that she would be insecure after our relationship ended. Of course, it made sense, I was in the business of fixing flaws, so it was my job to find them.
Only, whenever I was with Austin, the only flaw I saw—was me.
Chapter Thirteen
AUSTIN
Nancy was nice.
If you liked women who should be aging naturally, but instead looked like they had had their faces frozen one too many times and had their eyebrows nailed to the top of their head.
She was beautiful in a really harsh, she-could-either-be-eighty-or-forty way.
I wasn’t against plastic surgery—I was just more a fan of its looking natural—and nothing on Nancy looked natural.
When she left to let me change, I peeled off my shirt so fast, I nearly caught my head inside the neck hole—not because I was eager to get Thatch’s hands on me, but because I wanted this whole embarrassing situation to be over.
I was uncomfortable, and I knew Thatch. I’d had sex with him, he’d seen me naked, and my teeth were still chattering.
I made a mental note to include that in my post.
That no matter who it was.
You were still topless in a doctor’s office while bright fluorescent lights peered down on you, revealing every single flaw hidden in the dark.
A loud knock had me jumping out of my skin.
“I’m r-ready,” I said, trying to sound confident.
Thatch strolled in along with Nancy right behind him.
He washed his hands.
Wait, why was he washing his hands?
“I don’t want you to be cold,” he whispered so only I could hear. “And who knows where my hands have been.”
He was making a joke.
Trying to make me feel better.
But it only made me feel worse—because my body knew exactly where his hands had been not so long ago.
All over me.
“Alright,” Thatch said, snapping me out of my pathetic trip down sexual-fantasy lane where Thatch wore an eye patch and slapped my booty. “I’m going to jot down a ton of stuff that won’t make any sense to you, basically to see if one breast is bigger than the other, measure distance from the nipple to the breastbone, so just hold still and try not to slump, alright?”
I gave him a jerky nod while he pulled out a marker.
It was like sorority hazing where they would use markers to circle every imperfection and write horrible names like “slut,” “whore,” and “bitch” on the pledges.
Only it was five thousand times worse.
Because I wasn’t drunk.
And nobody joined me in my shame.
It was just the sexiest man alive, with a marker in his hand, hell-bent on pointing out what was wrong so he could fix it.
Oh, this had been a really stupid idea.
Thatch smiled warmly at me. “Relax, this is what I do, you even gave me a shiny award for it.”
I nodded my head. “You’re right. Okay.” I straightened my shoulders and stood tall. “I’m ready.”
He pulled back the fabric, revealing both
of my breasts, and sucked in a breath as his eyes dilated, the marker frozen midair.
“Dr. Holloway?” Nancy coughed. “Everything alright?”
“God, yes,” he whispered under his breath. “Sure, Nancy, I just forgot I left the garage door open.”
I gave him a funny look because he didn’t have a garage.
And he gave me one back that said, Shut your mouth before I doodle on your face with my marker.
So I did.
He cupped my breasts briefly, lifting the right, then the left. I really tried not to respond. I did. Swear. But when his knuckle grazed my right nipple, my body reacted. He noticed, because, duh, how could he not? My breasts were basically begging for his attention like the little sluts they were.
Meanwhile Dr. Thatch was just doing his job.
I was in hell.
He fired off measurements while his nurse wrote them down, and as he predicted, none of them made sense to me.
“Your left is larger than your right,” he said in a detached voice.
“Great,” I said in a “please kill me” voice.
“Just slightly, though, you wouldn’t notice it.”
No, but he would.
He did.
I had to wonder if that’s what he’d done after sex, mentally gone down a checklist of all the things he’d fix on my body if only I’d let him.
“Almost done.” He looked up at me for the first time since the examination started. “Nancy,” he said without looking back at her, “grab one of the sports bras from the cupboard, please.”
“Right away.” Her back was to us.
And then Thatch’s hands were on me.
On both breasts, massaging with his fingers as he leaned in and whispered in my ear. “You. Are. Perfect.”
He pulled back before I could say anything.
Tears welled in my eyes.
How did he even know what I was thinking?
And why? Why did he have to be so nice? It was hard to be angry at him for hurting me when he was nice.
And beautiful.
Don’t forget beautiful.
Nancy handed him the bra, which he handed to me. “Go ahead and put this on.”
I slipped off the hospital robe and pulled on the sports bra.
“Alright.” He grabbed a clear implant that had rough edges and another that had smooth edges. “The rougher implant is a cohesive gel. It holds its shape better, but it feels harder.” He held it out to me.
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