Doctor Scandalous : A Fake Engagement Romance (Boston's Billionaire Bachelors Book 1)

by J. Saman

  I’ll admit, this confused me because I’m pretty sure Amelia makes a decent living—it’s why she puts up with Dr. Saggingballs—so why are they so broke? Other nurses I’ve gone out with don’t seem to have that issue. I mean, they’re not rolling in it, but they’re able to more than just get by. Hell, even Rina lives mostly off her salary as a nurse and she’s always going out with her friends.

  I’m missing something, a large piece to Amelia’s puzzle, something I know she goes out of her way to hide from me. She brushes me off every time I try to gently or casually broach the subject. It’s a gross reminder that despite my ring being on her hand, we’re not at the point where I can pry like that.

  But because I made her have dinner with me on Monday night, we’ve already broken our rules or boundaries or whatever you want to call them. Amelia balked when I suggested dinner at my place later in the week prior to our first big night out. I explained that we couldn’t go from Monday to Saturday without seeing each other. It would look suspicious.

  That’s how I was able to feed her and Layla a second time.

  Layla then proceeded to kick my ass in Scrabble. I also made the mistake of teaching her how to play poker. Brilliant kid that she is, kicked my ass in that too. I’m thinking I’ll have to bring her around for poker night with my siblings so she can hustle the hell out of them the way she likely hustled me.

  But tonight, is different.

  Tonight, is a date yes, but a staged date. A date out in public at a nice but not over-the-top restaurant. It’s a place I’ve eaten at once before and loved. I’m hoping that despite the fact that I’m pretty positive we’ll be photographed, Amelia enjoys it.

  Pulling up to the curb in front of her house, I check my hair and teeth in the rearview mirror. My hands tingle and I shake them out, wondering what’s wrong with my skin to make it feel like my body is being attacked by fire ants. I suck in a shaky breath, blowing it out slowly.

  “You’re like an intern on your first day of residency,” I tell my reflection. “What the hell, man? Get your shit together.”

  Grabbing the bag from the passenger seat, I hop out of my Porsche, jogging up the steps to her front door, ready to push the buzzer for her place when the door swings open, and someone comes barreling out. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  I wave the woman off and quickly enter the building, heading up to the third floor, my heart rate growing faster with each step I take.

  It isn’t until I reach her door that I realize what this is. I’m nervous.

  It drags the most bemused smile to my face. I’m nervous. Am I nervous about being photographed, about the fact that we’re faking this thing or the fact that it’s Amelia I’m taking out? And legit, when the fuck was the last time I was nervous about anything, let alone taking a woman out to dinner?

  I raise my fist to knock when I hear Amelia on the other side. “The red one? For real?”

  “Yes,” Layla says, almost exasperated. “The red one.”

  “Layla, it’s been in my closet since college. I was nineteen the last time I wore this.” Then she growls. “It’s too tight. He’s going to be here any minute and I still don’t know what to wear.”

  “The. Red. One,” Layla snaps, punctuating each word in a harsh staccato. “I’m telling you, it’s perfect. It’s not too tight.”

  “But my butt—”

  “Looks hot in it.”

  “And my boobs—”

  “I can only pray one day I’ll grow those. Just don’t bend over and you’ll be fine. Or do bend over and maybe you’ll get a free dessert you can bring home to me.”

  “Layla,” Amelia reprimands. In the week or so this thing has been going down, Amelia does that a lot. Just say Layla’s name in that tone. Like a mother would, but not as harsh. Still, I can’t help the huge smile on my face just listening to the two of them.

  “Do I get an opinion on the dress?” I ask through the door and both girls shriek at once.

  “Oliver, haven’t you ever heard of ringing a bell, or knocking even?”

  “I like having the element of surprise. Keep things interesting.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Amelia yells through the door. “It’s how we got here in the first place.”

  “I’m going to open the door.”

  “No! I’m not dressed!” Amelia squeals at Layla.

  “You have like five seconds to get the red one back over your head.”

  “Layla—”

  “Five, four, three…”

  “Ah, you monster.” I hear the locks start to disengage. “No. Stop. It’s not on yet.”

  “One.” The door flies open and there is Layla in her Harry Potter pajamas, staring at me with wide blue eyes and a huge shit-eating grin. “Good evening, Dr. Fritz. You may enter.”

  “Thanks, Sprite. I…” I get a flash of Amelia tugging a skintight red dress down her thighs, adjusting it this way and that. It hugs her body like a second skin, and I seriously hope Layla doesn’t look down right now because she’ll spot the wood I just sprung for her sister. “Holy damn.”

  Amelia spins around and now my eyes shoot out of my head. Cleavage. So much cleavage. So much beautiful cleavage. Amelia’s eyes snap down to what I’m unable to look away from despite my best efforts.

  “Crap.” She tugs the dress up, twisting to the side as she adjusts her girls, and I think I just drooled a river on her floor. “Pretend you didn’t see that.”

  “Impossible. Layla, cover your ears, I have to tell your sister something.” Layla cocks an eyebrow at me. “Come on. Earmuffs. I want to tell your sister exactly what I think of her in that dress.”

  Layla giggles and Amelia just rolls her eyes at me.

  “Too much? It’s too much, right?”

  I shake my head, my eyes trailing down every inch of her with painstaking slowness, capturing every detail and committing it to memory. That dress with those heels on my shoulders will star in my fantasies every damn night this week.

  “No. Too much is definitely not what I was thinking. You’re… exquisite.” And so sexy it’s taking everything in me not to walk across this room and devour you.

  And if I thought I was sweating before, this weird pounding in my heart is doubling down on that. It’s like someone doused my body in gasoline and set fire to it.

  “See,” Layla says, doing a little dance that has her shaking her hips and swinging her arms at the same time. “Told you. She looks hot, right? Red hair, red dress, red lips.”

  “Uh-huh.” I can’t stop staring. My dick is actively trying to undo my zipper from the inside of my pants. Are her panties red too?

  Amelia saunters over to me, patting my cheek and closes my apparently gaping jaw. “You’re cute when you drool. Should I get the mop and bucket?”

  “Ha.” That’s all I’ve got. Because I’m still drooling. And up close, she smells damn good.

  “Let’s go before Layla gets more ideas about my wardrobe.” Amelia points to the door directly behind me. “Layla, I won’t be out late, but only one scoop of kernels for popcorn and please, for me, try not to burn down the house this time. If you do set fire to the kitchen, run outside and then dial 911.”

  Layla rolls her eyes. “Like duh. And last time wasn’t my fault. The pot got too hot.” She snickers. “I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it. But remember how cute that fireman was? The one who kept checking for fire hazards to make sure the house was safe?”

  “Fireman?” That brought me back.

  Now it’s Amelia’s turn to roll her eyes at me. “Yup. A whole truck full of them. Don’t ask.” She gives me a tug, looking back over her shoulder to Layla. “Love you. Lock up behind me. Text or call if you need anything. It’s just dinner, but—”

  “Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. I know. I’m fourteen, not four. Have fun. Wave hi to the paps for me. Can’t wait to see and read all about your date tomorrow on the internet—”

  “Oh, wait,” I say, cutting her off. “Sorry. I nearly forgot. I brought you a
sub and some candy.” I hand the large brown bag to Layla who takes it, staring down at it in awe.

  “You brought me dinner and dessert?”

  “Yes?” I say it as a question, the look both women are giving me is a touch intense. “Bad idea?”

  “Can we keep him?” Layla turns and asks Amelia. “He brought the good stuff. We’re talking king-size Twix and Twizzlers. There’s a party in my tummy, so yummy, so yummy,” Layla sings, doing that dance thing again.

  “Thank you,” Amelia says to me. “That was insanely generous and thoughtful. Twix and Twizzlers are her favorite.”

  “I know. Like how I know your favorite cookie. I do my research.”

  Amelia swallows hard, something I can’t read passing over her features.

  “No, really,” Layla says. “I want to keep him. Like a puppy, but bigger and less messy. Likely housebroken too. Thank you, Oliver. You’re my new favorite fake almost brother-in-law.”

  Amelia groans, but we somehow manage to make it out and into my car, driving back toward the city. I reach out and take her hand, something I seem to do when we drive together. Okay, that’s a lie. I hold her hand a lot. It’s small and always warm and fits perfectly in mine.

  I like the way it feels, the way she feels, far too much for anyone’s health.

  “I wasn’t kidding about how you look,” I tell her. “I’m a very lucky man to have you as my date tonight. Thank you again for agreeing to this.”

  “A night out at a restaurant with a gorgeous guy is not exactly what I’d call a hardship. Even if that guy is you.” She bats her eyelashes teasingly.

  “All I heard is that you think I’m gorgeous.”

  She scoffs, shifting in her seat in the small interior of my vintage Porsche, taking my hand with her. It ends up on her lap and I’m not complaining. Not at all.

  “Is that all I am to you? Arm candy? What about my stellar personality?”

  “You have your moments,” she comments dryly.

  “Moments?” I’d clutch my chest in agony if I wasn’t driving and she wasn’t holding my other hand.

  “Are we going to pretend you don’t know you’re gorgeous and can basically get any woman you look at with a snap of your fingers?”

  “But what if I only want one?” And why the fuck did I just say that? I don’t even know where it came from. That can’t be true, can it?

  “Until the next one comes along.”

  I have nothing for that so I fall silent. I can’t even deny it. It’s absolutely true. At least that’s how I’ve operated since my life became a sad country song titled, “Nora Did Me Wrong.”

  I’m a player. Nothing to be proud of there, I know. It’s certainly not a badge of honor or a moral code. It absolutely disgusts the hell out of my mother and my sister.

  But until this very moment, the title never bothered me. It was just how things were. A necessary evil. A safety net against the maelstrom of interested women, women who never knew me or cared to, only hungry for my name as bragging rights and money in the form of what will I buy them before I move on.

  Hell, half the time, it’s them who use me and not the other way around.

  But for some reason, hearing that from Amelia, it sits differently on my chest.

  I don’t want her to see me that way.

  I want her respect. I want her to see me. The man beneath the headlines. Not as Oliver Fritz, billionaire playboy doctor, but as Oliver Fritz, her guy. Someone she can talk to and depend on. Someone she can trust. I want her to look at me and know that I’m not just feeding her a line or trying to be smooth so I can end the night in her panties.

  She is beautiful. She is smart and deadpan funny and a little awkward and occasionally unsure but yet so goddamn strong. The strongest person I know.

  And since I set eyes on her a week ago, I do only seem to want her.

  There, I said it. I admitted it.

  I want Amelia to like me because I’m unfortunately starting to like her.

  We’re doing this thing together and none of it is real. I don’t even know what she genuinely thinks of me. If she enjoys spending time with me the way I enjoy spending time with her or if she’s merely tolerating me because of the deal we made. And not knowing the answer to that is killing me.

  13

  OLIVER

  “I’m sorry, Oliver,” Amelia says, breaking the silence, her voice low as she holds my hand tighter in hers. “I didn’t mean that. You’ve been nothing short of wonderful this week. I’m just out of sorts, nervous about what all of this will bring for me. That’s all that was. I had no right to comment on your dating life when we’re not actually engaged or even dating.”

  That catches my attention. Was she… was she jealous? Was that what all that was about? God, I hope so. I like the idea of Amelia being jealous. Of her wanting me back enough to be jealous. I let it drop though.

  Nothing good can come from asking her that.

  The restaurant is in Kendall Square, Cambridge, just over the Longfellow Bridge and has beautiful views of the Charles River and the city on the other side. The sun is just now starting to set in the west, casting the most gorgeous splashes of gold, pink, and purple across the sky as if the color is jumping from puffy cloud to puffy cloud.

  “Wow,” Amelia breathes as she takes her seat, the host holding her chair for her. “This is gorgeous. I can forgive you for taking me out on a Sox-Yankees night.”

  I grin at that. The Sox are a half-game down on the Yankees so tonight is a big night. “I requested this table specifically.”

  Amelia’s eyes fly up in my direction, a bemused smirk on her lips as the host goes about setting her napkin in her lap and handing her a menu. The moment he’s out of earshot, she leans in toward me. “Did you really?”

  I nod. “I wanted you to have the best view.”

  Her eyebrows bounce. “Well, I’m impressed. Thank you. You certainly put in the effort to wine and dine.”

  “Not really,” I admit, glancing over the menu without really looking at it. “At least not usually.”

  Her mouth tilts down into a confused frown. “What do you mean?”

  Her comment in the car has been grating on me. Her comment just now too. Because I have been putting in effort with Amelia when I shouldn’t be. The more time I spend with her, the more I have to convince myself that she’s here with me to get Layla into school and I’m here with her to keep my mom happy and save face publicly.

  “I don’t make reservations at restaurants and I sure as hell don’t pick out specific tables,” I growl the words, angry. “Usually I pick my dates up, allow them to choose the place since they typically have one in mind they’d like me to take them to, and that’s that.” I set my menu down, scooting closer to her chair and staring into her wary eyes. “I don’t put in effort, Amelia. Most times, dinner is just pretenses to dessert for me, and yes, I mean that in the crudest way possible. But the women I tend to sleep with want to be seen with me, want their faces in online rags, and want a free dinner somewhere stupidly expensive. I haven’t cared enough about anyone since Nora to bother with anything extra. You said until the next one comes along—”

  “Oliver, I shouldn’t have—”

  I cut her off with a shake of my head, reaching out and taking her hand. “No, you were right. That is how it’s been, and I’ve been fine with that. More than fine. I haven’t wanted to put myself out there again. That’s what that’s about.” I don’t know why I’m explaining this to her if for no other reason than I can’t stand the thought of her thinking less of me. “I don’t view women as disposable or think of them as if there’s a million fish in the sea and I want to taste them all. It’s just easier to have fun than it is to risk getting hurt again. At the time, Nora’s betrayal cost me everything and I’ve resented both her—and myself if I’m being honest—for it ever since.”

  And wow, I just said a whole lot of personal shit. A whole lot of personal shit I’m not even sure I’ve admitted to myself.
Not that directly anyway.

  Amelia’s eyes sparkle, the colors of the sky reflecting off her soft, muted gray making them look like a watercolor painting. She is fire in red, but her eyes have a softness to them as she gazes at me like I’ve never experienced before. It suffuses my veins with something intoxicating. Like she sees something inside me no one else believes is actually there.

  “I understand that, you know.”

  “You do?”

  “I was in love with a guy,” she says it so low I have to lean in closer to hear her, placing my hands on the table between us. “I met him in my very first class freshman year. He came and sat down beside me, introduced himself, and immediately asked me out for coffee after class. He was my first boyfriend. My first love. My first… everything. High school was a nightmare for me, and college was the fresh start I so desperately needed. No one liked me in high school. No one thought I was pretty or worth talking to.”

  “I did,” I interrupt. “I thought you were pretty. I noticed you when I was twelve and trust me when I tell you, I liked you.”

  She smiles at that, but it’s sad, her eyes glassy. “Then you were the only one and obviously that didn’t get us very far with each other. So when this guy came around, when he liked me, pursued me, I was helpless to resist him. I fell fast, and I fell hard. So hard. And for over a year, our relationship was incredible.”

  Her words die out as our waiter fills our water glasses, asking if we need more time to decide. I tell him we do, and he scrams. But my heart is in my throat. My stomach in knots. I don’t like the direction this story is headed. With Amelia getting hurt. Even if she is opening up to me for the first time.

  “Then what?” I ask after she takes a sip of water, placing the glass back on the table.

  Her eyes meet mine, holding on, though they’re fuzzy, lost in her memories. “We moved in together our sophomore year. Neither of us cared that we were too young. It felt right and we rolled with it. We talked about forever. We talked about marriage and what our kids were going to look like. He had it all mapped out. I would go to medical school, and he could work from anywhere because that’s what computer programmers can do. Then my parents died.”