Make Me Yours (Bayshore Book 3)

by Ember Leigh

  “I’ll send you the address.”

  The line goes dead. Five points: Dom hung up on me.

  While the inspiration is bubbling, I start a new Excel file and type out the title “DALY SCORE CARD”. Yes, I am a shining example of professional adulthood. This is where passive aggression gets you, folks. Right here, which quickly segues into beginning emails with per my last email.

  I spend a few minutes breaking out the infractions—hanging up without saying goodbye, interrupting, not acknowledging me, grunting like a gorilla—and assign some random point values. The highest yielding infraction, according to my new scale, is “firing me/insulting my work performance,” with a hefty 55 points, which serves as the ultimate threshold of assholishness. I pray we don’t reach it.

  But what would the prize be if he managed to keep his score below official asshole levels? If I were insane, I’d ask for a night with Dom in bed. But since I’m sane, I’ll just go with the quiet, lifelong satisfaction that I’m a nicer person than he is.

  For some reason, my entire body is buzzing. With dread, with anticipation, with middle-school grade giddiness that comes from wanting the hottie asshole; it’s everything at once. The irony of our meeting place tonight is almost too delicious to bear. Of course, a man looking for a Barbie needs to be a Ken doll himself.

  And that’s what I need to focus on. The Barbie dolls of his future. I’ve already started a preliminary pool, culled from the high-end dating software I’m subscribed to. But what gives me my edge in the matchmaking world isn’t what app I use. It’s my network.

  Even though I’ve never lived in Cleveland, I moved here with a ready-made network that would make most PR firms jealous. It’s because I never forget a name, I always make a good impression, and gosh darn it, people like me.

  Some people are born with naturally perfect eyebrows or an ability to belch the alphabet backwards or any other number of marketable assets. But my superpower isn’t a genetically perfect forehead-to-chin ratio or even a stunning ability to run long distances (I can barely jog). My superhero toolkit boasts something much simpler: I make people comfortable. I’ve always been able to help people calm down or open up or just feel more relaxed than before. I’m the human equivalent of a lavender-infused eye pillow. I don’t know why, but this is what I’ve got to work with.

  So while I’m populating Dom’s early matches based on business-facing software, the real gems are going to be provided by my connections. The network I’ve built up because I love people, and I love learning about them, paired with my intuitive and uncanny knack for matching them.

  It’s practically guaranteed. But the hunt still makes me giddy.

  Dom can’t see it yet, but I’ve already got his Barbie in the bag.

  And no matter how much my sex drive begs to differ, that Barbie isn’t me.

  Chapter 6

  DOM

  I finally leave the office that evening at seven p.m., which by all accounts is early for me. I organized it this way, because Wednesdays are my no-fail gym days.

  But this Wednesday was the day from hell. Everything ran an hour behind, which is the quickest way to send me to my grave. My obituary will someday read: “An otherwise healthy guy, his early demise was caused by one outrageous traffic jam on I-480, which made him late for the OR. Family requests society review timeliness procedures in lieu of flowers.”

  A major surgery was cancelled last minute due to patient non-compliance, and my one actual on-time catheterization ran an hour over due to an allergic reaction to the dye. Exhaustion haunts every step toward my car, and by the time I reach my doctor-premium spot in the clinic parking lot, I make a decision.

  I’m going to cancel on London.

  It takes me a long time to find my keys, which were just in my hand seconds ago, and by the time I can gather my thoughts long enough to focus, I realize they’ve been clutched in my fist the entire time. Just more proof that I need to cancel on London. I can’t even think straight. I need to go home and sleep for twelve hours, even though it won’t make a dent in my sleep debt.

  My phone dings with a new email as I’m easing into the driver’s seat. Part of me is hesitant to give up an opportunity to see London, but the logical part of me knows this is for the better. I’ll insist we conduct the next stages via email. It’ll help me recharge for tomorrow, and honestly? The less London, the better.

  I swipe to my email client, and the subject line of the new email makes my stomach drop.

  SUBJECT: Final Round Consideration – Please Read

  If they’re imploring me to read, it can only mean something very good or something very bad. I skim the email, breath caught in my throat, until I reach the very end. And somehow, the verdict is both very good and very bad.

  They’re turning up the dial on this selection process, and they’ve set a date for my last interview, which will happen in roughly a month. This is the slowest-moving selection process I’ve ever heard of, only because the entire board is made up of full-time—and often celebrity—physicians. It’s hard to get them in one room at the same time, which is why I’ve still not met the entire lot of them. Each interview so far has dealt with strictly business matters, meaning the enormous lie I put on my initial application that stated “Married, no kids” has still not been addressed.

  There was no option for a bachelor. In fact, the only other options on the application were “Married, with kids” and “Widowed/Divorced.” So it will come up in the last interview—it has to. Of all the bullet points we’ve touched on, one of the few remaining areas is personal life.

  I swear under my breath as I start the car. Guess I can’t cancel on London after all.

  I accelerate out of the parking spot much more quickly than is advisable, white knuckling the steering wheel as I maneuver through the crush of traffic in downtown Cleveland. Dusk is just creeping into sight, the autumn hues leaking across the sky in honey and sangria. I get distracted by the colors, and then London’s face creeps into my mind. That tiny smile she had on the rooftop last week lurking at the edges of my focus. She’d probably have the same smile now if she were looking at this sunset with me.

  A car honks behind me, and I hurry to accelerate. Sitting on a green light in rush hour—bad doctor. This is exactly the type of distraction I can’t afford to have in life. I’ve probably sent some other schedule freak to an early grave as well.

  I arrive at the gym at ten till eight and make quick work of changing my clothes. I’m hungry, but not famished—I’ll reward myself with an enormous meal on the way home. I have one hour for pumping iron, and I’m going to enjoy every last second of it. If I can stop thinking about work or this upcoming interview for even five minutes, I’ll consider it a success.

  I step into mesh workout shorts and free the tie that’s been tight around my neck all day. Shucking the office gear is always a relief, and today more than ever. Even though it means diving headfirst into that uncharted territory of time off, which is more unfamiliar now to me than ever before. London sniffing around my personal life makes me realize just how little there is for her to dig into.

  The line between regular Dom and Dr. Dom has never been thinner. To be honest, I’m not even sure what regular Dom is like anymore. Who he was, before Dr. Dom took over.

  I thought I’d be happier about this shift. That was the goal, after all. But now I’m just caught in a freefall. Unsure which cord to pull to release my parachute.

  Time melts away in the clanking, bleach-infused workout haven. I’ve just broken a sweat on the bicep curls when the big double doors slide open.

  And then there she is. One of the few women in the weight room, but the only one who turns every single head in the place. She walks in like she owns the place, but not in an arrogant way. She has a subtle grace about her, confidence mixed with something else. Curiosity, maybe. Like she’s sure of herself and taking it all in.

  When her gaze lands on me, electricity sizzles through me. Bad sign. I reach fo
r a sweat towel and swipe at my face, and when I look up she’s not in front of me as I expected, but chatting with some shirtless guy with a neck the size of a tree trunk who’s already way sweatier than I am.

  My gaze is stuck on them. They’re far enough away that I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I remind myself not to care, and launch back into my reps. Still, my gaze slides back to her. She’s a magnet and I’m the feeble ferrite, victim to her pull. She’s all smiles as he talks, and then their laughter drifts my way.

  Great. They probably met in the lobby and are planning their first date before the leg machine. Do I care? Absolutely not.

  I grip the handle so hard, my hand spasms. It’s clear men just flock to her wherever she goes. She even made me flock myself, which is the best double entendre I’ll never share with her. But that’s one reason among many why I should steer clear of her. If I could isolate the synapse in my brain that is allowing me to feel attraction to her, I would burn it to a crisp. Life would be easier without this annoying pull toward her.

  But I can’t isolate it, so my gut turns into a pretzel as the guy reaches out and squeezes just above her elbow before they part. London breezes toward me, a silly smile on her face. It falls slightly once she reaches me.

  “Hello, Dominic,” she says, throatier than normal. This close, it’s impossible to ignore what she’s wearing. Not like I could from across the room, either. She’s got on hot pink leggings that cut off right above the ankle, plastered to long curves which make my fingers twitch. She’s wearing a sleeveless black crop top, which allows painful glimpses of both her teal sports bra and her tanned belly. I reach for the sweat towel again, hoping that this time I can just remove my eyeballs.

  “London. You found me.”

  “You didn’t make it easy. Next time, send me a detailed map.”

  “Have you never been to a gym before?”

  She leans against the unused machine next to me, smirking. “This is not a regular gym. This is a luxury labyrinth that happens to have a weight room in it.”

  I fight the laughter heading toward my lips. “Come on. With all this matchmaker money you’re raking in, you should be able to afford a luxury labyrinth.”

  “I spend my money on other things, thank you very much. Is this your usual gym?”

  “Yeah. It’s the closest to my house.”

  “Of course. Let me guess.” She sends me a sly grin, cocking a hip. My cock twitches inside my shorts. If only she could look at me like that all the time. “You live downtown right above the clinic.”

  The laugh finally escapes. “Not above it.”

  “So you just live in your office? Admit it—you have a cot beneath your desk.”

  “Not that either.” A grunt escapes on the tail end of my words as I bring my arms toward my body in the final rep. I release the arms of the machine and reach for the sweat towel again. “I have a penthouse on West Lakeside.”

  That brow arches higher. “Ah. A penthouse. Now it all makes sense.”

  “What?” I push to standing, towering over her. She tips her head back to look at me, and a hot wave ripples through me, fingertips burning with the urge to bring her against me, press my mouth to hers and see what happens.

  “Penthouse-living doctor. Ritzy downtown gym.” She shrugs.

  “This isn’t ritzy.”

  “They barely let me in!” She throws her arms out to her sides. “I had to provide my tax returns just to get through the door.”

  “Oh, is that right?”

  “When they saw I made under a hundred thou a year, they turned me away. But I weaseled my way in. Even though I had to come in through the heating duct.”

  I fight the smile tugging at my lips. “So you just regularly carry your W-2 with you?”

  She snorts, flipping her long ponytail over her shoulder. “That’s the only outrageous detail you picked up on from what I just said?”

  “You look like someone who would sneak in through a heating duct. So yes. Having your tax returns constantly on-hand strikes me as odd.”

  She’s eyeing me, tongue in cheek. “How do you manage to both insult and compliment someone at the same time?”

  “I don’t plan on sharing my hard-won secrets.” Truth is, we could stand here joking about the heating ducts for another hour. I fight to focus on anything other than her, because she is far too easy to get lost in. No wonder she and Tree Trunk probably would have been planning their wedding by the time they reached the ellipticals. I’m about ready to plan a spur-of-the-moment proposal by the dumbbell rack. I jerk my chin toward the bench press. “Can you spot me?”

  Doubt clouds her face. “How much weight are you going to put on?”

  I shrug. “Two twenty.”

  Her eyes go wide. “Are you kidding me? That’s almost double my weight! I can’t catch that if you drop it.”

  Her reaction is deeply pleasing; I can feel my cells smiling. “Fine. Then just stand there and look pretty.” Because it won’t be hard. I bite my tongue before I can say the words I absolutely know I shouldn’t say.

  She crosses her arms, gaze bouncing around the weight room. Something unspoken remains between us, but I suspect it’s just the weight of how badly I want to wrap my arms around her and lift her off the ground.

  “So,” she says, once I’ve loaded up the bar and lie back on the bench, “now that you’re supine and vulnerable, tell me more about your work life.”

  I catch her gaze as she hovers above the bar, hands out like she plans to be the spotter.

  “I think you know all there is to know about it,” I say, wrapping my hands around the cool metal. “Are you really going to spot me?”

  “I’m just acting like I know what I’m doing,” she says, a conspiratorial sparkle glinting in her eyes. “If I don’t, they’ll kick me out, right? Am I doing a good job?”

  Another laugh escapes me. “You don’t have the biceps for this bar, so I’m afraid everyone in here knows you’re pretending.”

  “You can’t even humor me?”

  I wet my bottom lip, forgetting what I’m supposed to be doing. Looking up at her from this strange angle makes her even more fascinating, more gut-punchingly beautiful. “You’re a great spotter. Probably the best I’ve ever had.”

  A genuine smile fills her face. “I sincerely did not expect you to humor me with a compliment.”

  She has no idea how many other compliments I have tucked away, reserved only for her, that will never see the light of day. “If I don’t humor my spotter before my workout, it could prove fatal.”

  A sly grin covers her face. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you die. I need your money.”

  This time, I fail to squash my laughter. I launch into my reps, the weight in my grip a welcome relief. My thoughts shrink to nothingness, for a blessed few moments. But my body doesn’t forget she’s here, not by a long shot. London buzzes at the periphery of the silence in my head, reminding me of things I’d long forced myself to forget about. It’s been too long since I’ve had to keep my cool around a woman, and even longer since that woman was someone of London’s level.

  But what’s the most striking about today is that I’ve already reached my goal—stop thinking about work and the future for at least five minutes. Usually when I’m here, I’m lucky to get a few minutes lost in the buzz of distraction and weightlifting. But London wipes away my stress with just once glance.

  When my reps are done, I replace the bar and expel one last whoosh of air. Sweat pools at my temples, and I sit up, reaching for my towel. London claps her hands forcefully. “Come on. Next round.”

  “You’re a brutal trainer,” I crack, twisting to look at her.

  “Just keeping that heart healthy. Which reminds me,” she says while her gaze drifts off across the weight room. “Why did you get into cardiology?”

  I toss the sweat towel and lay back on the bench. “I liked it the most during my residency.”

  “Did you ever consider being a different type
of doctor?”

  Her questions are so honest, so pure. It’s like she really wants to know, but logically they have to be because of this insane task I’ve given her. That constant balancing act—of feeling like we’re getting to know each other like two regular adults, and then remembering that I’ve paid her to do as much—is nauseating.

  Mostly because I want to be getting to know her, beyond the scope of this task.

  “My top three choices were pediatrics, obstetrics, and neurosurgery. But once I got to residency, none of those seemed right. One of my advisors suggested cardiology, and the rest is history.”

  “Oh, wow. You were almost delivering babies for a living! I can’t imagine it.”

  “Way too much fluid for me.”

  “There’s something powerful about saving a person’s heart, right?” She cocks her head, and the air goes out of me.

  “It’s satisfying,” I say, trying to feel as clinical as possible while her green gaze dances across my face. I’m seeing her as a patient. Not as a freckled, blonde beauty whose pink leggings are whispering at me to peel them off her. “Fulfilling.”

  “You know, we’re both in the same field,” she says, propping her hands on her hips.

  “Oh? I missed the MD behind your name in your emails.”

  She smirks. “I’ve saved a lot of hearts with my services. I’ll save yours, too.”

  “Mine doesn’t need saving,” I remind her, reaching for the bar. “Mine is perfectly fine.”

  Her jaunty comment, however well-intentioned, sends anxiety spiraling through me. Like maybe she can see beyond the carefully constructed façade I’ve erected. I didn’t spend years building up these walls only to have everything crumble in front of a woman whose closest relative appears to be the sun itself. I’m stronger than this. I don’t care about London.

  But my words echo inside my head and all through the cavity of my chest, which, once upon a time, felt more in the span of a few years than I’ll ever allow again.