Make Me Yours (Bayshore Book 3)

by Ember Leigh

  He grunts. And that’s it. I frown, wondering if I missed something.

  “Did you get all that?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” The keyboard clacking continues.

  “Okay, so I’ll make a note in my file that gorilla grunts also stand for ‘yes.’” When my joke is met with silence, I barrel on. “So let’s meet up.” I click over to my computer planner, looking at the empty spread of dates stretching out before me. Once upon a time, back in Columbus, my days were booked solid. And I have faith they will be again soon.

  If I can snag the sexy demon from cardiology hell, then I can do anything.

  “I’m a busy man,” he says on the tail of a sigh. “Can’t we do this through email?”

  “We could, but then I wouldn’t be providing you with the top-notch service you—I mean, Nancy—hired me for.” If he can be brusque, rude, and short, then I can deliver the snark. This is an understood reciprocity in client-service relationships. And honestly, I have just enough pride to not roll over and choke to death on my own people-pleasing passiveness like some others in this industry. “There’s a reason I don’t conduct my initial interviews through email. It’s too easy to lie. And I’m here to find someone that works with you. Not against you.”

  “Honestly, I don’t even need to like her.”

  I blink a few times. It’s not the first time I’ve handled a client looking for the trappings of love without any of the affection. But it always surprises me. What’s better than finding someone who actually makes your heart flutter? Even if I’m on a temporary hiatus from all things warm and fuzzy while the cracks of my heart rejoin like an imperfect fracture after falling off a jungle gym, I still believe that there’s someone out there for people. For me. Even for him.

  But let’s be real—Dr. Dom probably doesn’t condone anything that interrupts the regular rhythm of his stony heart.

  “It doesn’t matter. You hired me to do a job, and I’m going to do it in the only way I know how. Which means I’m going to find you someone who appreciates your grunting and your five-word answers. Now let’s set a date. I’ll need one full hour at minimum, an hour and a half max. It can be wherever you want, whatever time of day. I’ll accommodate your schedule because I know what a busy man you are.” I want to roll my eyes, because I’m still a snarky teen on the inside. “I usually meet up at a cafe, the client’s house, or my office.”

  There’s an unnerving pause, and after so much speaking on my end, the absence of it on his end rings harsh.

  “Figure it out with Nancy,” he says a moment later, and then I’m back on hold again.

  I sigh, leaning back in my chair. The view outside distracts me from my frustration. A cute hipster couple strolls by, hand in hand, matching septum piercings on full display. My gaze wanders to the stone pot by the door, which reminds me that I need to figure out what to plant there. I like to try my hand at gardening every once in a while. Just to remind myself that I can keep something alive. Not like it’s my priority, just seems like a good skillset to have. In case I get gifted an unexpected aloe, or the Apocalypse happens.

  “London?” Nancy asks a moment later.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, good, he didn’t hang up on you.” Nancy lets out a terse sigh, the same sound I’ve heard from her after almost every interaction with Dr. Dom. “Now, let’s see here.”

  “Be real with me. Is he always like this?”

  Nancy is clacking on her keyboard in the background. “Like what?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.” When Nancy doesn’t fill in for me, I summon my bravery to speak the truth. “Like he took off the wrong leg in an operation and now everyone else is going to pay for it.”

  “Dr. Daly doesn’t perform amputations,” Nancy says.

  My points still stands…though not on two legs. While I’m imagining the buh-dum-tss at my imaginary stand up show, Nancy swears under her breath. “Hang on, London. His date book won’t open.”

  “Are you scheduling this for him?”

  “Yes, he’s on his way to the OR right now, so it’ll be best if I just tell him where to go and when.”

  “Sounds like a man who likes being told what to do.”

  A wheezing, staccato laugh tumbles out of her. She laughs—for a long time. When she finally composes herself, she says, “Oh, my god that was funny.”

  “Well, thanks. So it’s true?” This is research, after all. If Dom is secretly submissive, I need to know this when matching him off.

  “No. Not at all. I mean, yes, it seems like, well…” She pauses, then in the background, I hear her say, “Yes, Dr. Daly. It’ll be on your desk when you get back.”

  Nancy returns to the line but doesn’t say anything right away. When she speaks, it’s in a lower tone. “Okay, he’s gone. All I’m saying is that Dom wears the pants but likes for someone else to tighten the belt. If you know what I mean?”

  That is 200% more risqué than what I expected Nancy to ever say, especially in relation to her boss. This inspires so many questions. Like: Why do you know about how he wears his belt? And: What color underwear does this man prefer?

  “Are you and Dom…?” I begin.

  “No, not ‘wear the pants’ like that! Oh, please. Never. I’m married.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that,” I say, fighting a laugh. Nancy sounds genuinely mortified. “He is an attractive man.” Attractive is the understatement of the century. He’s attractive in the same way one might call Mount Everest a hill. “I’m sure he has plenty of…you know. Girlfriends. Dinner dates. One-night stands. Whatever you want to call them.”

  Nancy snorts in a way that I understand to mean yeah, right. “Dr. Dom would have plenty of dinner dates if he ever paid attention to anything other than his computer screen and his patients. And that, my dear, is where you come in. I want this man to be happy. He claims to be happy saving people’s lives, but you and I both know he needs more than that.”

  This is fascinating. Nancy actually cares about him. Even when he grunts like a hog and tries to kick strangers out of his office. “Is he paying you to say all this?” I ask it like a joke, but I mean it.

  Nancy laughs again, the wheezing kind that comes from the depths of her soul, on the heels of “paying me to say this!” When the laugh clears, she says, “Are you always this funny?”

  No. I am only this funny when I don’t try, or when I’m confused about a new client’s true character. Both of which rarely happen. Instead, I say, “You bet your ass I am.”

  When she calms down, Nancy says, “Dr. Daly is rough on the outside to those who don’t know him, but he’s got the best bedside manner of any doctor I’ve seen in my life. That’s really saying something. Even though he’s covered in barbs, in the center he’s allll gooey chocolate.”

  I blink a few times, trying to refrain from desiring the gooey chocolate of Dom’s innards. But damn, I love chocolate. Especially the melty kind. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  We figure out the earliest possible time for me to insert myself into Dominic’s schedule. By a stroke of luck, it’s the following day at lunch. He always takes an hour, which he usually spends in his office, Nancy explains. But his one o’clock surgical consult for tomorrow canceled, which means he’ll have no excuse not to meet me for my questionnaire interview. She suggests someplace with light lunch fare, based on his preference for heart-healthy options, like fish and sparkling water.

  “Typical cardiologist, right? He’s probably legally required to eat that for lunch,” I murmur offhandedly, which sends Nancy into another giggling fit. “It was part of the Hippocratic Oath—Cardiology edition,” I add, which only sets her off more.

  She’s in tears by the time we hang up, and I’m feeling equal parts rock star and incompetent newbie. If only Nancy were my client. Not only would I hit it out of the park, I’m sure she’d sing a five-star review from the top of her lungs for the rest of our combined lives.

  But Dom? I might be lucky to get a
three-star rating from him—probably on Bing only—and that’s provided I can find even one person to warm his deep-frozen heart.

  This questionnaire interview will be the perfect litmus test to assess just how difficult the next six months might be. Professionally, of course, but also sexually.

  Because there is no part of my body that doesn’t react to this man when I look at him. The ten syllables he tossed my way over the phone today might as well have been a pay-by-the-minute sex chat. He is that Mount Everest attractive, and God help me, I’m not supposed to be climbing this hill.

  Dr. Dom wants a wife of convenience, and I’m positive I’ll find him one.

  I just wish we’d met under different circumstances. Hell, in a whole different reality. Where he might be even slightly more open to being attracted to me, because my body is begging for a something else of convenience.

  But now, he’s my client. Crossing this boundary is, and always has been, a huge no-no. And after what I went through in Columbus?

  The line between client and pleasure has never been bolder.

  Chapter 4

  DOM

  It’s October first when I meet London for our lunch date.

  No, for our interview. It’s an interview, which is something working professionals utilize for regular, boring, non-sexual purposes. Not a date that will lead to kisses, heated touches, or mutual groping in the broom closet of the downtown Cleveland restaurant.

  Right. Easy enough to remember. I repeat this over and over to myself as I maneuver the tight side streets of downtown Cleveland, looking for a place to park before I meet her at a rooftop restaurant known for its spectacular view of Lake Erie. I’ve been here once before, ironically on one of the few dates I’ve managed since med school.

  It was a failure, of course, reminding me of the other unshakeable truth that med school drilled into me, beyond the Hippocratic Oath: romance is a waste of time, because love is a myth.

  But since I’m a man of data and evidence, I wanted to test my hypothesis before finally shutting myself off entirely. The date I brought here two years ago was someone I found on Blaze, one of those insanely popular dating apps which blew up overnight and then immediately garnered a reputation for being perfect for one-night stands. I matched with a metric shit ton of women, but only took out three. Each one was disappointing in her own way, and not a single one of them woke up the butterflies currently stalking my stomach.

  Meeting with London like this was not how I foresaw the matchmaking process. Instead, I imagined it to be some sort of sterile, algorithmic process directed distantly by an older woman—matronly, even—who I would never cross paths with on Blaze. Someone I could see as the human equivalent of an app. Useful. Mostly updated. Slight cost to use. Can delete at any time without consequence.

  But instead we have the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever had the displeasure of hiring, at a price tag that I can only assume is related to the fact that this venture is now labeled URGENT. Deleting London isn’t an option, because I need her and because there’s a festering curiosity inside of me that demands I learn more.

  Once I park the Beemer, I assess myself one last time in the rearview mirror. I should ditch the tie. I unknot the charcoal silk and toss it into the passenger seat. I’m checking my watch on the way to the building. If service is fast and London is fast, I’ll make my two o’clock appointment with time to spare. It feels weird to go out for lunch. I’ve eaten in my office exclusively for the past year, discounting the occasional pharma rep who sets up shop in the shared cafeteria in the clinic building.

  And I’m okay with that. I get more work done that way. Work is my life. And focusing on it one hundred percent is the goal. In the foyer of the office building, I step inside the elevator and jab the up button. The elevator doors slide open, revealing the enclosed part of the rooftop restaurant. With no distractions in my life—like unnecessary lunches and an ultimately disappointing dating life—I can focus on what really matters: success.

  Even though my familiar rationalizations bring back that yank in my gut that’s getting harder to ignore.

  I scan the area, and without realizing, without even trying, my gaze lands on London.

  Looking all types of jaw-dropping distraction.

  She’s outside on the patio, sitting in a square of golden sunlight, the side of her head pressed against the encircling steel railing. The top of the railing is lined with skinny flower boxes, flower-laden vines tumbling over the edges. So not only is she bathed in sunlight and set against the impressive backdrop of a sparkling Lake Erie, she’s framed with flowers and smiling up at the sun with her eyes closed.

  I pause near the sliding glass door, too entranced by the sight of her to proceed. What am I looking at here? An angel? A mid-day, working woman meditation practice? A real-life Snapchat filter?

  This is why London can’t be the woman for the job. She wants to interview me? Well I want to interview her. For entirely different reasons than this board position and eventual notoriety. For a lot of the reasons which led me to Blaze.

  A server stops at the table, snapping her out of her rooftop reverie. He’s younger, bedecked with enormous ear plugs and a cutting-edge haircut. He either offers her a hilarious drink or he’s flirting with her, because she bursts out laughing, and when he walks toward me, I can see the lovesick smile dangling on his lips.

  My stomach churns with something I don’t even want to think about. I step out onto the patio, and when she spots me, something shrouded slides across her face. She stands as I approach, and for a moment I think that maybe I’m supposed to hug her. No, I just want to hug her. The chocolate-brown blouse she has on today pairs exceptionally well with her sea-foam eyes, and the khaki pedal pushers highlight a tightly-packed ass I forgot to even look for the other day in my office.

  “Hey, Dom.” She offers a breezy smile, gesturing to the open seat across from her.

  “London.” Her name sounds too good on my lips. It’s annoying. “Were you waiting long?”

  “I actually came early so I could enjoy the amazing weather. Isn’t this a fantastic October?”

  I reach for the menu, ready to get down to the business of not looking at her for the next hour. This is already embarrassing for reasons I can’t articulate. Just your regular, virile male, seeking the help of the hottest woman in the world to find me a fake wife. She knows as well as I do that the subtext here is, “Help me because I have failed with women.”

  “It’s great.” The sun is warming my back, and the fall scents in the air make me feel like I’m drunk on nostalgia and freedom. I should do this more often, but that would entail changing my lifestyle.

  So that’s a hard no.

  “I thought this might be a nice place to come so you could get some fresh air,” she goes on, swinging her gaze out toward the lake. “Seems like you don’t do much, other than work.”

  “There are a lot of people out there who need my help.”

  “But you know you can’t be in work mode constantly,” London says.

  “Nor can you be in therapist mode constantly.”

  When she smirks, I give her what she’s looking for. “Aside from work, I go to the gym and sleep.”

  A sad smile graces her lips. I yank my gaze back down to the menu. It’s too easy to slip up and get lost watching her.

  The same server appears, London’s suitor, and he looks less than enthused to see me here at her side. I order a sparkling water with a slice of lime, which earns me a lifted brow from Earlobe Man.

  “Sure you don’t want a beer? Or anything with some bite?” He pumps a fist for emphasis. “We have great IPAs here,” he says. It’s a subtle challenge to my masculinity. If we were birds of paradise, this would be the precursor to him puffing out his feathers and hopping around on a tree branch to attract attention. London is watching, curiosity sizzling between us.

  “I have to go back to work,” I say, coaxing my own teal feathers to lay flat.

  “Oh
, come on. The beautiful woman in front of you got a wine spritzer.” He turns his attention to her then, squinting. “It’s London, right?”

  She smiles demurely. “You remembered.”

  “If I show up to surgery this afternoon with even a trace of a buzz, I could actually kill someone,” I clarify, the smile on my face hardening. Okay, so some of my teal feathers are coming out.

  “But it’s worth it for an afternoon spent with London,” he goes on, sending a wink her way. Gag me, already.

  Still, I preen some of my bird of paradise plumage. “I’ll remember that when you show up in my clinic with an earlobe injury. Those things snag easily, if you haven’t learned by now.”

  His chin lowers. “Be right back with the drinks.”

  He walks away, leaving me in a cloud of just how lame he thinks I am.

  London snickers. “Snags easily?”

  “You must not have seen the data about how many ripped earlobe surgeries are performed yearly.”

  “No, I missed that memo.” London is grinning like she knows a secret, her hands curled under her chin. She looks at me like we’ve been meeting here for lunch for years already, and this is just one more exciting date to add to the list. Except this isn’t a date.

  But the sunlight begs to differ. It bathes her blonde tresses in the same way God smiles upon creation. Her mouth, which can only be described as luscious and an impossible shade of pink, is curled up at the edges. Traces of summer linger over the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks in the form of freckles. Fuck, she’s beautiful.

  I would eat every inch of her, and then some. And then again, for dessert.

  “Our server missed the memo, too. He was too busy falling over himself to flirt with you.”

  “He’s a little young for me, but it’s nice to know that I can still rope in the college crowd as I near thirty.”