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“And I think I’m a fan of the personal approach, Dr. Lauren,” my far-too-attractive patient comments, pulling my focus back to, you know, my job. “So, I think I’ll just keep calling you that. It’s friendly. I like it.”
A tiny grunt gives way as I attempt to speak, still sucked in tight to my poem-like ode to phallic members, so I clear my throat and try my best to don a professional smile. “You can call me whatever you’d like, Mr. Alexander.” Yet, the words that come out of my mouth are the complete opposite of my face.
Call me whatever you’d like? I repeat the words in my head. Sweet mother of mercy.
My stupid mind has turned treasonous, and the pervy bitch is trying to take me down with her.
“Garrett,” he corrects, and all I can do is nod.
At least, I try to. What I actually do is pop a glove while I’m trying to put it on and hit myself square in the forehead.
Ow.
Thankfully, a man of some tact, evidently, Garrett ignores my mismovement.
Unfortunately, I, on the other hand, continue to mentally berate myself.
What the hell is your problem? You’re never clumsy and awkward or inappropriate during patient care. Ever. Now you’re snapping yourself in the face with gloves like a jizz-shot-taking porn star?
Then again, I’ve spent most of my time as a physician interacting with children. A certain amount of drama and flair make those visits work. Maybe all that time pretending to be a clown or a circus ringmaster or one of the Three Stooges while trying to ease my young patients’ nerves just masked the fact that I didn’t need to pretend at all.
Whatever.
The sooner I get on with this exam, the sooner I get Garrett out of here. Then I can stop acting like a spaz and move on to my sixth encounter with cojones like none of this ever happened.
“So, Garrett,” I emphasize while trying to convince myself I can play it cool, and he smiles, hitching up one corner of his mouth in a way that would instantly make other females think of wild, sweaty, hot sex with him.
Not me, though. No way. I’m not thinking about that at all. And the only reason I look away from him and toward the wall is to…make sure the wall looks…sturdy. Sturdy walls are very important.
Uh-huh. Sure they are…
I clear my throat and try to trudge on, right into the opening of my annual physical spiel. “How are you doing? Any concerns or problems you’re having? Something we need to be aware of? I know you’re here for your yearly checkup, but really search your mind. Is there anything that hasn’t been feeling right?”
“Nope. I feel great, actually. Best I have in years.”
“That’s terrific.”
“I think so,” he says cheekily, and once again, I have to look away. But I can’t deny the reality—Garrett Alexander is a stone-cold fox, and I haven’t developed the proper coping mechanisms to deal with it. His looks are so freakishly good, it’s like they’re magnetic, and my eyes might as well be two ginormous hunks of metal.
“Well, let’s get on with the exam, then,” I say quickly. “Then you can get back to your day.” And I can go back to being a normal human person.
“What if I told you I’m going to go have six pounds of artery-clogging bacon when you’re done?” A little smirk forms at the corners of his mouth. “Would you still want to let me get back to my day?”
“Bacon is delicious,” I counter, even though I desperately want to tell him that no human should ever consume six pounds of any food in one sitting. I feel like he’s trying to peg me as the health-toting, rule-following doctor, and I don’t want to be peggable. I am a mystery, dammit.
“I think your eye is twitching,” he remarks, still needling me.
“No, it’s not.”
“Sure, it is. It makes the blue seem kind of like it’s flickering.”
“Stop,” I say with a laugh. “Have the bacon. See if I care.”
“Now you’re just going against your oath as a doctor.”
“Because I told you you can have bacon?” I toss back. He chuckles.
“Okay, okay.” He raises two hands in the air. “I’ll stick to one piece of bacon. Just a little taste.”
“If your numbers are good, what you do in your personal life is your choice.”
“And if my numbers are bad?”
I don’t want to smile, but I do. Dammit, I do. “Well, then I guess I’ll have to call you and tell you to lay off the bacon.”
“Why am I suddenly hoping my numbers are bad?” he questions, and a weird, fluttering sensation takes hold of my belly.
Holy hell, is he flirting with me?
If he is, you probably shouldn’t be enjoying it this much.
I shake my head and try to divert whatever is happening right now. “Don’t be silly. You and I both know a career in firefighting is kind of dependent on your health. Unless you’re hoping for a career change, I’m guessing you don’t really want bad numbers.”
