Illicit acollection, p.113
Illicit: A Contemporary Romance Collection, page 113
The door opens again with a knock, interrupting the medical assistant. “Sorry,” a rich male voice says from behind the assistant. “I saw the flag was up outside the door. I thought that meant you were ready for me.”
Oh. My. God. The world just fucking stopped spinning. I blink. Then blink again, positive that I’m hallucinating. It can’t be.
Jonah. My one-night stand who was just flirt-texting me is standing in front of me.
My eyes bulge out of my head and my jaw drops and my heart takes off into a sprint, trying to run for the door to get me the hell out of here, but my body can’t seem to catch up. I’m rendered completely immobile. He stares me down for a long minute, a world of thoughts and emotions flittering across his handsome face. Surprise. Confusion. Anger. Lust. Frustration. And everything in between. It’s like watching an action film where the scene continuously changes.
Visions of the other night crash into the forefront of my mind. His kisses. His touch. The way his eyes sparkled with dirty mischief as he peered up at me through my spread legs. The way he held my gaze as he slid inside of me. The feel of his body as we moved together as one.
Dear lord, the way he held me after it was all over.
My breath stops.
Time stops.
The air in this tiny room shifts, becoming thicker, more congested. Jonah is wearing a white lab coat over light blue scrubs. His green eyes pierce into mine, looking me over in my barely-there paper attire.
I want to die. My face is a ball of flames. He glances down at the encounter form in his hand, reads my name on it, stares at the phone in his other hand and then returns to me.
“Sorry,” the medical assistant says, completely oblivious to the little stare down I have going on with the doctor. The doctor. As in my doctor. The person about to give me a breast and pelvic exam. A small incredulous giggle escapes before I quickly stifle it. I mean, what the actual fuck? What are the goddamn odds that my regular doctor isn’t here and in her place is my one-night stand? You can’t make this shit up. But that doesn’t make it any better. If anything, it feels worse.
“I’m almost finished, Doctor Hughes. I thought you’d take longer with that other patient. She was a talker, that one.” My eyes widen in astonishment. What a bizarre comment to make in front of another patient. “This one’s just about ready for you, though.”
“I, uh . . .” I trail off, so uneasy that my fingers are knotting in my lap. I don’t know what to say.
My face must betray my level of embarrassment because the medical assistant smiles at me as she releases my arm, ripping off the cuff at a deafening decibel.
“Oh, it’s okay, honey, Doctor Hughes here has the gentlest hands around.” She laughs, actually freaking laughs. “Believe me, we have patients who wait months just to see him.”
Of that, I have no doubt.
The good Doctor Jonah Hughes mercifully looks as mortified as I am, but his gaze locks on mine. “Do you want to reschedule?” His tone is dripping with genuine concern and I think I love that. I think I love that he’s just as thrown off by this situation as I am. If he were all cocky swagger, or, God forbid, excited, I might slap him. “I understand if you feel more comfortable with your regular provider.”
“I can’t,” I puff out, rubbing my damp hands across the thin paper covering my thighs. “I start a new job next week and I won’t be able to take time off.” And I’m here, sitting on this table, already undressed. The idea of getting dressed again and running out of here with my tail between my legs is possibly more unappealing than the exam he’s about to give me. Possibly.
“Would you like Beverly to stay?” he continues, gesturing to the medical assistant. I look over to her. She smiles. I look back at Jonah. He doesn’t. I shake my head, because even though I don’t actually want to be alone with him like this, I really don’t want an audience.
“I don’t mind, honey,” she says, taking my silent turbulence at the predicament I find myself in for discomfort at my provider. “You’ve seen one vagina, you’ve seen them all.”
My eyes widen once again as I try to muffle my laugh. Jonah’s lips twitch as he, too, fights an amused grin. I shake my head at her and clear my throat. “No, thank you. I’m fine with Doctor Hughes. These exams always make me a bit nervous.”
“Don’t blame ya one bit. Who knows what he’ll find. Am I right?” I can only stare at her. Yet, her inappropriate comments are somehow slicing some of the edge off this. “Holler if you need me.” And then she walks out, leaving me alone with Jonah. Or should I refer to him as Doctor Hughes?
His eyes flit around the small room for half a second before he steps forward to the side of the table where I’m seated. I’m hit with the scent of his woodsy aftershave. With the warmth of his body. With the delicious memories of the night we spent together. Before I woke up alone.
Right. Need to remember that. Nothing sexual going on here. Nope. Not at all.
“This is not how I pictured seeing you again.”
“What? Naked and covered in medical grade paper?”
He chuckles awkwardly, moving in closer to me and twisting around so that he’s half sitting on the table next to me. His eyes search mine. “Do you want to reschedule? I don’t have to examine you. I realize how bizarre this situation is and honestly, it’s not the most appropriate.”
I sigh. It’s a loud sigh. One that speaks of the mania that is my life. “No. I really don’t. I’m already naked and here, so we might as well get this over with.”
He shakes his head at me, the corner of his mouth bouncing up. “I hate it when a woman says that to me.”
“That happen often to you, doctor?” I quirk an eyebrow and laugh, relaxing a little into him, even if this moment hits the top ten for most ridiculous.
“Only with the really beautiful ones. Seriously, Halle, if you really can’t reschedule, then I’ll examine you. It’s my job and I’ll be one hundred percent professional. But if you’re at all uncomfortable, then I’ll go out there and squeeze you in with the first available provider who is not me and then we’ll leave here, and I’ll buy you dinner.”
“Okay, but it has to be this week. And it has to be a really nice dinner.”
He smirks at me, pushing off the edge of the exam table. “Done and done. I’ll be right back.”
Jonah leaves the room and I blow out the breath I feel I’ve been holding since he stepped foot in here. It is a universally acknowledged truth that if something can go wrong, it does. Murphy’s Law, I believe it’s called. I think I’m going to rename it. Whitcomb’s Law—that’s my last name. Because I can’t even do a one-night stand the right way. It’s called hit-it-and-quit-it for a reason. Evidently, I missed the part where you’re supposed to quit it. aka, never see them again.
Well, that happened. I snicker to myself. The room is bigger without him in it. He seems to suck up all the available oxygen and space wherever he is. I noticed it when he stepped into my apartment. I liked it then, and admittedly, I like it now.
Which is why I force myself to remember that liking anything about Jonah Hughes is not an option. Not now. Not ever.
8
Jonah
I leave Halle’s examination room, shutting the door softly behind me when what I really want to do is slam it. Actually, what I really want to do is slam my bloody head against the wall. Repeatedly. I’m such a goddamn bastard. Instead, I go for storming down into my borrowed office, ripping off my lab coat and chucking it against the wall.
“Shit!” I half-yell, mindful of ears outside the office door. One fist comes down on the hard surface of the desk while my other hand runs roughly through my hair.
I knew I’d have to see her again. I just never imagined it would be like this, naked and on my exam table. Ready for a breast and pelvic exam. I feel like a fucking creep. Like a pervert. Like I’m taking advantage of my position and of her.
I miss my wife. I haven’t been with a woman in two years, and now it’s like I can’t escape. I knew this moment would come. I never figured I’d be celibate forever. But . . .
I’m sick from it. From everything. From sleeping with Halle on the anniversary of Madeline’s funeral. From leaving my cufflinks at Halle’s. From running out on her after our night together. I really am the worst sort of bastard. The worst type of man. I didn’t think my self-loathing could hit a new low, but evidently, I was wrong.
Scrubbing my hands down my face, I growl out just as there is a knock on the door. “Come in,” I clip out, trying to get control of myself—something I haven’t been able to do whenever I’m around Halle.
It’s the inappropriate medical assistant, Beverly. I knew it wasn’t going to be Halle. I asked her to meet me out front. “Sorry to disturb,” Beverly says, her head the only thing visible as the rest of her is tucked behind the door. “Halle Whitcomb is waiting for you at check out.”
“Can you have someone schedule her in this week with another women’s health provider?”
“Oh.” Her eyebrows hit her hairline, but she regains her composure quickly when she realizes I’m not going to give her the answers she’s after. “Of course.”
“And please let her know I’ll be right there.”
For once, Beverly keeps her mouth shut. She closes the door behind her, probably sensing the shift in my mood. I grab a small sheet of paper and scribble instructions on it, then fold it up and tuck it into my palm. Then I walk out the door and down the long corridor, past patient rooms and offices toward the front. Halle has her back to me, her body wrapped in a pink sundress with delicate spaghetti straps hugging her narrow shoulders. Her long copper hair is down, flowing in unruly waves to her mid-back.
She’s lovely. Every perfect inch of her.
I can’t remember the last time I was this drawn to a woman. Madeline was different. I had known her for what felt like ages before we became more than friends. It’s difficult to feel that sort of pull with someone you already know so well.
“Miss Whitcomb?” She twirls around, her expression guarded as if she’s not sure what I’m about to do. I peek down at her dress and smile. It has a heart-shaped neckline. It’s sweet. Demure. Pretty. “I didn’t think redheads wore pink,” I comment before I can stop my musing.
She glances down at her dress before looking back up at me with a small smirk playing on her equally pink lips. “It’s too pretty a color not to wear.”
“I completely agree,” I murmur, not wanting others to overhear even though we’re in a private patient area. “Were they able to reschedule you?”
“Yes. I’m all set. Thank you.”
We stare at each other for a quiet moment. And I feel it. That same warmth when I first gazed into her eyes that night at the bar. She’s unwittingly awaken something inside me. Something I’m not sure if I want resurrected or not.
“Well then, Doctor Hughes. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
I reach out my hand for her to shake, and when her small, warm hand is engulfed by my much larger one, I slip her the piece of paper. “Same to you, Miss Whitcomb. Best of luck at your new job next week.”
Her eyes widen when she feels the paper transfer to her hand, but she doesn’t say anything. I leave her standing there, forcing myself not to peek back to see if she’s read the note, even though I’m dying to catch her reaction. She was my last patient, and except for some administrative business, I’m done for the day. The door shuts behind me and I drop into the oversized chair, spinning around and staring out the window that directly faces another building.
I don’t know what I’m doing with her. I tell myself I’m just meeting her to get my cufflinks back, but I know better, because just the thought of seeing her again in less than an hour shoots a thrill through me. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Halle and how responsive she was to my touch. How her touch made me feel like I was alive, burning with a long-forgotten fire. The way she looked beneath me, above me. The way she smelled and tasted. Fuck, I couldn’t get enough of her.
I hated leaving her the way I did. And now? Now I have no clue what I’m after with her. I feel sick all over again, but for entirely different reasons. I’m a mess of a man. Hung up on a woman who is gone forever. I’m riddled with guilt because it’s all my fault. And I hate myself because I wasn’t there when it really counted. I have nothing to offer a woman like Halle. Nothing of worth anyway.
I dictate Halle’s chart as well as two others, and in under half an hour, I’m out the door. The clinic closes at nine every night, but after five thirty it’s solely urgent care. Thankfully, I’m not filling in for that tonight. Especially when I wasn’t even supposed to be here today. I took this week off, thinking I’d need it.
Madeline died two years ago, and this time of year is hard on me. I can barely remember what I’d done this time last year. I didn’t want to work this week. The thought of getting into my routine, knowing I could no longer ring her, or go home and see her, is still too much to bear. Knowing she’s no longer part of my world, no longer where I need her to be, is the worst sort of pain. But knowing I’m at fault? I have no words for that.
But when the clinic called me this morning in a panic, I couldn’t say no. Women’s health has never been my favorite part of my career, but I was getting through the day without a hitch. Halle texted me about the cufflinks and it was like air finally managed to find its way into my lungs. I could take a breath that didn’t feel like it was lined in lead and soaked in bleach. Then I walked into that exam room and caught sight of that wild hair and those pretty blue eyes. My heart stopped. But not in the way you’d think. Yes, I was surprised to see her there, but that’s not where the sensation came from.
Right now, I’m jogging up the steps at the T-station, sweating and regretting not taking an Uber to the restaurant. Rush hour in Boston is a nightmare. I take a minute to cool myself down as I run a hand through my now-damp hair. I don’t know if she’s here yet or not. I don’t know what this dinner will lead to—if it will lead to anything at all. More importantly, I’m tragically torn.
I want to see Halle again. I don’t want to see Halle again.
I want to spend the night with her. I don’t want to spend the night with her.
It’s the best and worst sort of push and pull.
As I yank open the tall glass door of the restaurant I picked, I’m instantly enveloped in a welcome blast of cold air-conditioning. I glance to the right where the main bar is located, but I don’t find Halle’s bright hair or pink dress amongst the after-work fray. Soft, hypnotic jazz hums through the background, kissed with the din of patrons laughing and talking and blowing off a day of heat and stress.
The last time I came to this restaurant was two months before Madeline died. I watched her smoke a joint to alleviate the pain and ease her stomach, so she could actually eat something, and then we came here. I held her hand all night, because in my gut, I knew it might be the last time we’d be able to go out to eat together. So why am I torturing myself now by coming back here to meet Halle?
To keep myself focused.
To remind myself where my head and my heart lie instead of my dick.
But as I catch sight of Halle sitting in the far corner booth, her angelic, porcelain face upturned as she smiles and talks with the waitress, I realize it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a restaurant to keep me focused.
I want this woman. Again. That unwanted thought has me frozen in place, staring at her, knowing just how dangerous this game could get.
The brain and the heart rarely agree on anything. Especially when you desperately want them to. When you truly need them to absolve you, to make you whole instead of divided. Madeline has held my heart in one capacity or another for over a decade. Which is why, when I woke on Sunday morning, guilt consumed me and nearly crushed me alive when Madeline’s baby sister Erica rang me.
I’d left the after-cemetery party without saying goodbye or checking that Erica was all right. She wasn’t. Erica was plastered beyond reason, sobbing uncontrollably into the phone. I left Halle’s to get her. What else could I do? But I didn’t wake Halle up. I left her a rubbish note and my number. A number I very nearly didn’t write down. A number I talked myself in and out of giving a dozen times over.
And just as I think that, my phone vibrates in my pocket and my heart inflates in my chest for half a beat before it shrivels back up into nothing. It’s not Madeline—naturally—but it is Erica.
Thank you again for saving my sorry ass the other morning. Dinner this week? With Mom? She’s really struggling.
Thick grief clogs my throat and I swallow so hard I can barely take a breath. I glance over at Halle again and seriously consider turning around and walking out. Why did I suggest dinner? Why didn’t I just ask to meet her outside her flat to get my cufflinks back?
You know why.
I do, and I hate myself more and more for it. I text Erica back, telling her to pick the day and place and I’ll be there. Then I refocus on the woman I lost myself in. Even if it was just one night.
I step into the dining area, bypassing the hostess who attempts to stop me by asking if I have a reservation. I walk directly over to Halle’s table, watching her before she spots me. I pull out the chair across from her, admiring the way her baby blues flash over to me. She doesn’t smile. She’s all caution. And now I want to laugh at myself. Halle doesn’t want anything with me. I’m not hurting her. She was quite clear about her desires and intentions. I’m such a daft, arrogant fool.
“I have your cufflinks with me,” she says by way of a greeting, her eyes struggling to hold my steady gaze. “In case that’s what you were expecting by asking me to dinner. I mean, you didn’t have to go through all this just to get them back.”
I stare at her, blinking rapidly as I try and process what she’s actually trying to say to me. She thinks I’m feeling obligated to her. That I only asked her to dinner, so I wouldn’t come off like an asshole when I asked for my cufflinks back. Shit. I hate that her mind went there.
