Make Me Yours (Bayshore Book 3)

by Ember Leigh

  “Do you know how hard it is to walk away from you right now?”

  “It’s just because I’m naked,” I tell him, tipping my head back to drink in those baby blues.

  “Among other things.” He gazes into my eyes for a moment and then presses a spine-tingling kiss to my lips. He grips my chin between his thumb and forefinger before ripping himself away from me. “Zimbo’s later this week?”

  All I can do is grin like an idiot. He winks at me before he lets himself out of my apartment, and I stand in blissed out silence for minutes or maybe an hour. I can’t tell. It’s only the buzzing of my phone that brings me back to Earth. I half-expect it to be Dom, or maybe Hazel, but it’s neither.

  Tara, the woman who cancelled on Dom yesterday, has finally replied to the check-in text I sent her yesterday.

  TARA: Yes, I’d love to set up another date. But I didn’t cancel on him. He texted me to let me know that he couldn’t make it because of work. I was bummed!

  I have to reread the text a few times before the meaning clicks into place.

  And when it does, it lands like a boulder.

  Dom orchestrated last night. As romantic and thoughtful as that is—all the ways it makes me want to swoon right into the wood floor—I need to read it for the sign it is.

  Dom’s chasing the wrong woman.

  And if I know what’s good for me, I won’t let him snag me a second time.

  Chapter 17

  DOM

  I should have known that shutting the door to London’s apartment would mean shutting the door on a chance with her.

  A little voice whispered it to me that Saturday morning as I left, but I figured I was overreacting. She agreed to a second date at Zimbo’s, for God’s sake. That’s practically a notarized letter of deep personal interest.

  But as the days wear on, the evidence piles up around me. She confirms it by ignoring all of my flirty postcoital texts and reaching out—via email, like a true professional—only for agenda-related matters. Avoiding everything that doesn’t directly connect to our formal end goal: me sharing my life with someone who isn’t her.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. I signed up for this shit.

  But what surprises me is how much the personal ghosting hurts.

  I can’t get thoughts of her sun-drenched apartment out of my head. They haunt me every day at work. Through each new date I go on. I just want to be there. Back to the first bit of warmth I’ve felt since…fuck, I don’t even know when. My heart has been a barren wasteland for years, but London has shown me that the soil is still fertile enough to grow something.

  The only question is: what seeds do I plant?

  And what do I do when I want the gardener, but she refuses to tend my plot?

  Life barrels on despite not having answers. Office hours, surgery, ER, sleep, gym, and dates. That’s all I’m doing anymore. Minus the dates, it’s all I’ve ever done. But the whirlwind isn’t half as satisfying as it once was.

  I try to convince myself that this is just post-sex hysteria resulting from too long without getting some. So all week, when she emails me about date follow-ups, I ignore my own urges to remind her how many times she screamed my name last Friday night or to slip into our email a casual, “Fun fact: the memory of eating you out on your dining room table is making me hard right now,” which seems less like an email signature and more like something an online predator would say.

  But once next Friday hits, I need to hear from her. We had a standing date to Zimbo’s, for god’s sake. I’m ready to redo our whole magical, sensual, hilarious evening. But if she won’t agree to that, then I need to at least see what she would be willing to do. Maybe we can work out a compromise—just see each other once a week for the rest of the contract, and then once we’re done…what? Nothing really makes sense, but I can’t stop myself. By the end of the workday, I’m dialing her number without even realizing it.

  She picks up just when I think the phone is going to click over to voicemail. “Hello?” She sounds suspicious.

  All my thoughts dissolve. I can’t remember what my reason for calling is. Other than I need to hear the sound of her voice almost more than I need air.

  “Hey.” I search my desktop for something. A clue. A prepared speech. Anything. The only thing on my mind is: Are you thinking about our night together as much as I am? “Uh…I’m surprised you answered.”

  “Well, why wouldn’t I?” Her tone is sugary. The type I heard her use with an annoying guest at the bar last week. “You’re my client.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve just been kind of…unresponsive.” My palms go damp. I should have thought this through more. I feel like she’s caught me with my pants down, even though I’m the one who wandered her way.

  “What do you mean, ‘unresponsive’? We’ve emailed this entire week about your dates.”

  I press a palm to my forehead, willing myself to just say it already. Just slice my chest open and bleed out and be done with it so I can move on and forget that I ever fell headfirst again, despite knowing better. “I mean, you’ve been unresponsive about what we did last Friday.” My tongue finds dry lips. The silence on the other end of the phone is deafening. “You remember, don’t you?”

  “Why do we need to acknowledge it?” she finally asks. “We both know it for what it was: a drunk night that shouldn’t have happened.”

  My thumb and middle finger find the indentations of my temples and dig in. This was a horrible fucking idea. Because not only should that night have happened, it should have happened six times since then.

  “Yeah,” I manage to say. “You’re right.”

  “I know I’m right,” she replies, her tone razor sharp. “And it won’t happen again. It’s just not a good idea for the situation we’re in.”

  So apparently a Zimbo’s repeat is out. I clear my throat, willing myself to ignore the memories bubbling to the surface. All the little signals I got from her that she was just as into it as I was. The sweet smiles and the soft caresses. I need to forget they ever happened. Because this won’t go anywhere.

  London herself won’t allow it, and it’s time for me to get on board.

  “Don’t you think?” she asks, after I’m silent for a while.

  “Yeah,” I say, straightening my back. I take a deep, cleansing breath, trying to reorient myself to the rational world. The world that doesn’t involve sex comas or passionate nights or so much laughter that I feel like my heart had finally been put back together after an intolerably long and dark night of the soul. “I just, uh…” I don’t know how to cover my tracks after this one. How to make myself seem like I’m not limping away. “It had been a while for me, you know. So that’s why it was, you know, noteworthy.”

  “Noteworthy,” she repeats.

  “But don’t worry. You found me some great matches. And the sexual chemistry is there with all of them,” I say, the words just rolling off my tongue. “So it won’t be long before there’s more noteworthy evenings.”

  “Right,” she says.

  “With other women,” I clarify. “Who aren’t you.”

  “Yep. That’s the plan.”

  “So you were sort of the appetizer,” I say. “Better meals ahead.”

  She sighs. “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “Come on, London. You know better than to tell me that.”

  I hang up the phone before I can say anything else ridiculous. I pinch my eyes shut for a moment, and the whole world falls away. My medical degree, my board certification, my application for the foundation, every single prestigious thing about me dissolves, and all I can feel is this prickling hot embarrassment. Humiliation. I should have never called her, but more than that, I should have never allowed myself to get swept up in the fantasy that we’d shared anything more than great sex last week.

  I know better than this.

  And my only recourse is to get lost in work. To bury myself so deep that I have no bandwidth to think about London or her breezy, freckled smiles.


  I go into deep hyper-focus mode, a skill learned in residency. Hours drift by. When I finally pull myself out of it, I find a new email waiting for me from London. She is all business and perky exclamation points outlining the next round of dates for the upcoming week.

  “This is exciting!” she writes in the last line of the email. “You’re getting closer to The One!”

  So why am I not even slightly relieved?

  Chapter 18

  LONDON

  November in Cleveland means two things.

  One, football season is in full swing, which means I avoid First Energy Stadium on game days like the plague—unless I have tickets, of course. Two, the weather has transitioned into full autumnal glory: fluttering golden leaves and chilly winds, which require oversized knit sweaters and unnecessarily long scarves.

  What do both of these things have in common?

  It’s Boyfriend Season. The best time of year to have someone warm to snuggle up with. Nothing combats a perpetually losing football team and crisp breezes like the hulking warmth of a hottie on your arm.

  And I swear, this is the only thing I’m telling myself I see in Dom as I trudge through the days after our accidental—er, intentional—hook up. I’m repeating this shit like a mantra: It’s just science. Basic math. Cold weather plus slight frame equals an unnatural obsession with the nearest available warm man in your vicinity. That’s it.

  Because I can’t have a crush on Dom, even though I most definitely, scientifically, verifiably do. If I can just convince myself that my attraction has everything to do with his proximity, then distancing ourselves post-fuck-fest will cure the problem. And trust me, I’m doing everything I can to keep myself on track.

  Up to and including slamming the door shut in Dom’s face when I know he’s willing to go for round two of our inappropriate yet dually confirmed sexual chemistry.

  I need to stay away for more reasons than just client-provider boundaries. If I ruin this man’s shot at finding his convenient wife, then I have blown my first profitable gig in my new territory. Furthermore, I don’t want that stain on my conscience or my track record, even if it’s only between us. That’s not how you karmically start out a new chapter in your life. Even if I’ve already gone and gotten chocolate all over the opening pages.

  I still have a chance to minimize the damage and keep this to a one-off, totally understandable, it-happens-to-everyone slipup.

  Besides, there’s no way in hell I could truly fall for a man who is so unromantic that he honestly thinks he’d be happy with a stage wife. Or a man who has no interest in mending fences with his alive and healthy family. He’s got the world at his fingertips, and he barely notices it.

  Willow’s death taught me a lot, first and foremost that I’m never going to ignore the wild, vibrant world in front of me.

  It’s why I’ve amped up the volume on my Cleveland immersion plan. In the past two Dom-avoiding weeks, I’ve accomplished the following: joined the Rotary club, sampled four new yoga studios, volunteered at a soup kitchen, volunteered at a winter clothing drive, signed up for a spring 5k that I am already resigned to walking the entirety of, and made a list of sip-and-paints that Hazel and I want to drunkenly attend. I am living the bachelorette dream life.

  But there is a boyfriend-sized hole in my Cleveland life, made slightly larger by the fact that it’s Boyfriend Season. This hole reaches car-swallowing depths because dammit, I’m ready to find my happily-ever-after. Despite this bizarre sinkhole of desire, one truth remains.

  I can never be someone’s stage wife. No matter how hot and fun and occasionally assholish he is.

  Furthermore, no amount of losing football teams or chilly, autumnal winds would ever drive me back into the arms of my smarmy, misogynistic ex. The man who believed a client—and prioritized the account—over me. It’s been two weeks since I’ve gotten his sorry phone call, which has now been followed by several emails—which I absolutely did not respond to—and I’m still just as baffled and outraged by it.

  If anything, it serves as a yellow flag. A bucket of ice water on top of my roiling, unchecked desire for Dom.

  And God help me, I’m going to survive this ice bucket challenge. Even if I have to get crafty. Which is why I’ve scheduled my please-God-let-this-be-the-last meeting with Dom on his turf. No more rooftop restaurants (too cold), gym-time meetups (too sexy), or fancy after-work dinners (too easy to be seduced again). I’m going straight to Dom’s office, where Nancy will be sitting six feet away, and I’m going to do it in the middle of the day.

  No chance of “staying late.” No accidental hooking up on his desk. Not unless we want to scar Nancy for life, which is not something I want on my conscience or resumé.

  When Nancy calls me at noon, just as I’m preparing to head out of the office for a quick lunch down the street, I’m equal parts hopeful Dom cancelled and scared that my plan is already unraveling.

  “London,” she says, in that familiar warm, excited way. “I have some bad news, but it’s not terrible. Dr. Dom was called to the ER this morning—”

  My breath catches in my throat, wondering if our appointment is a thing of memory now.

  “—and we had to jam an emergency surgery into his office hours in the afternoon.”

  She goes on to explain the details of this situation, and the more she talks, the clearer it becomes. Dr. Dom wants to meet, but he can’t until around four. I swear under my breath. That is pushing us perilously close to “let’s just go grab dinner together” territory after our meeting, but I’ll have to make it work. After all, Dom didn’t orchestrate this emergency.

  Even though he did orchestrate that cancelled date two weeks ago. Heat flushes through me, reminding me of just how not calm and detached I am after our two weeks apart. I’m more jittery than a piano player on recital day. This is going to be the performance of my life. Acting purely professional and meaning it in front of him, after mind-blowing sex that I still fantasize about on a daily basis.

  Ugh, that’s the sort of thing I don’t want to admit. Because it would be one thing if I hooked up with my client and it sucked or I never thought about it again. But it’s entirely different when he becomes the new standard for masturbatory fantasies forevermore.

  I grab lunch and reorganize my afternoon to accommodate Dom’s emergency surgery. When I’m heading downtown at a quarter till four, I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel, and my legs are clamped together. I should have worn a chastity belt, for God’s sake. Not to protect myself from Dom—to protect him from me.

  I park my car, float into the clinic, and when I get up to Dom’s floor, my body is on high alert. I look for him everywhere. Trying to spot him before he sees me. Remembering how he scooped me up into his arms and carried me across my apartment, the hot steel of his cock buried deep within me.

  “Is it too hot in here?” Nancy sounds genuinely concerned as I roll up to her desk.

  “No, I…sorry, what?”

  “You’re all pink.”

  I shouldn’t tell her it’s just me blushing all the way down to my liver from memories of fucking her boss. “No, I’m fine. It’s this jacket.” I slip off my vintage tweed bolero jacket, laying it over my arm. “The seventies was an era of warm fashion. Thanks for checking, though. Is Dom ready for me?”

  “No, honey, he’s not out of surgery yet.” Nancy offers a pained grimace. “But do you want to go see him in action?”

  That sounds a lot like watching Dr. Hottie in the middle of Hottie Surgery, and every inch of me wants to gracefully bow out. But before I can say a word, Nancy adds, “The OR is right down the hall, and we don’t even have to scrub in. It’s so interesting, I promise.”

  I smile politely in return, dropping my jacket over the armrest of a nearby chair. I’ll need as few layers as possible for this. I should probably just strip down to my panties now. “I’d love to.”

  Nancy encourages me to leave my things at her desk, and then ushers me down the part
of the hallway that I never venture down. I follow her sure strides, my forearms prickling with anticipation. I feel like I’m surprising my boyfriend at work, which is absurd, because I have firsthand evidence of how many women consider Dom their boyfriend right now. And I am not one of them.

  He is closer than ever to selecting his wife, having his final interview with the foundation, and living unhappily-ever-after. It’s high time I start letting my heart know the decisions my brain is making.

  “You know, Dr. Dom has been uncharacteristically happy since you came into the picture,” Nancy says as she leads me through bright white hallways. “It makes me happy to see him so happy, you know?”

  “Well, he’s closer than ever to finding the woman of his dreams.”

  “I think he found her,” Nancy says.

  “Oh?” I can’t ignore the pang of disappointment that shudders through me. The distant heartbreak. The infuriating jealousy. “Did he share with you which one is the winner?”

  “No, we don’t talk that intimately,” Nancy dismisses me with a wave of her hand, “but I can just tell. Someone has changed him. I started noticing it about two weeks ago.”

  Hmm. My own basic math skills tell me that my own psychosis started about two weeks ago as well. But why listen to facts when I can create a perfectly fabricated reality instead? I focus on the symmetrical patterns of the hospital tiles. “He’s been seeing a lot of women. He’s probably having a great time out there, figuring out which one is Ms. Right.”

  Nancy laughs, pushing through swinging doors into a narrow hallway that doubles as an observation room into the OR. And suddenly, we have front row seats to the Dr. Dom Show.

  My throat seizes as I take him in. He’s in light blue scrubs—covering his body, his hair, and most of his face—and flanked by colleagues. I can’t hear what’s happening, since the hospital had the huge oversight of not installing Dolby surround sound speakers for this little observation area, but I get the sense that it’s really serious.