Page 3 of The Malibu Secret

Good enough. She seems to have a sharp memory, so I don't suspect a concussion. But I go through the rest of the protocol anyway. I check her pupils with my phone flashlight, ask her to follow my finger with her eyes, test her balance by having her stand on one foot, and quiz her about who the president is. She passes everything, rolling her eyes at my ministrations.

She finally grips the edge of the bed, her knuckles paling. "Listen, doc. I need to get out of here." Her jaw tightens slightly. "My tattoo studio on Mateo is in trouble if I don't show up. Maya—she's not the most reliable—called in sick yesterday, or maybe it was today? Is it past midnight or not?” She leans forward, concern in her eyes. "She might not come in again today, and if I'm not there, that's twelve appointments canceled. Twelve. That's rent money I can't afford to lose while I'm stuck here." She gestures toward the clipboard. "Please. Sign the papers."

I grip the side of her hospital bed. "Ms. Steele.”

"Oh please." Her eyes flash, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "You've seen me naked. Tally is just fine."

Yes, I’ve seen her naked and it is a sight to behold. Heat floods my face. "Tally," I say, my voice rougher than intended. I lean closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume beneath the antiseptic. "You cannot leave. Not right now, anyhow. Not when every minute counts after trauma like this. The protocols don't catch everything—I've seen patients walk and talk perfectly, then collapse hours later from a brain bleed no one detected. I won't risk that. Not with you. Celeste would kill me if you died on my watch.”

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms so tightly it's like she's physically holding herself together. "Goddamn it," she hisses through clenched teeth. "But yeah, I've heard of that talk and die thing. Liam Neeson's wife? Hit her head skiing, said she was fine, then—dead. And Jesus—Celeste's father." Her voice cracks. "Laughing with the EMTs one minute after that skier crashed into him. Next day we were picking out his casket because his brain just—" She makes an explosive gesture with her fingers near her temple. "Fuck. You win. Not risking that." Then she shakes her head. “But if Maya wants to call off again for another fucking hangover, I’m firing her ass and getting somebody I can rely on.”

“You do that,” I say with a smile. “Anyhow, need to do my rounds. I’ll be back when I get the results back from your scans.”

She salutes me like she's in the military and I leave her there, my pulse hammering so violently I can feel it in my fingertips. During ER rounds, her scent haunts me—Tom Ford Black Orchid invading my senses, making it impossible to focus. The black truffle, black orchid and black plum notes mixed with that intoxicating patchouli and chocolate—it's not just a perfume, it's her essence distilled. Dark. Dangerous. Utterly consuming. Like her. I want to drown in it.

A few hours later, I return with results that bring visible relief to her face. "The scans came back clean—no internal injuries," I tell her, watching her shoulders relax. "You'll probably need to stay tonight for observation, but you should be free to go home tomorrow morning."

And then I go about the rest of my rounds, the scent of Tom Ford’s Black Orchid following me around like a ghost.

Chapter Three

TALLY

I swear, every time Cameron Kensington walks into a room, the temperature rises ten degrees. The man didn't just win the genetic lottery—his entire family bought out all the tickets. Put any Kensington brother in a suit and watch the photographers at GQ start a bidding war, but Cameron? At 38, he's aged like fine whiskey. When he runs his fingers through those dark waves or flashes those dimples—which he knows damn well what they do to women—I have to remind myself to breathe. Those sapphire eyes could make a nun question her vows.

But now I'm back at my apartment, and unless I wreck another vehicle, I've seen the last of Cameron. My poor Jeep—Jaspress, I called her, because I always loved the name Jasper but it felt too masculine for a car—is completely destroyed. Damn deer came out of nowhere. No work today either. The accident's still got me rattled, even though they discharged me from Cedars around 3 AM, plus, my left hand - the dominant hand, alas - is fucking stiff as hell. Cameron said it’s strained. I can’t grip a tattoo gun right now.

Cameron pushed for them to keep me overnight, but with no beds available except maybe a gurney in some hallway, they sent me home. If my brain had hemorrhaged while I slept, Mom would've hit the lawsuit jackpot—her opioid days finally paying off. But here I am at two in the afternoon, channel-surfing with a perfectly clear head. Guess I survived.

I am having a slight problem getting around, though, as my body is stiff from whiplash. Guess it’s whiplash, because my scans showed nothing broken and whiplash is more of a muscle thing. Shit, I’ll probably have to get some kind of neck brace. That’ll be lovely at work. My regulars won’t stop giving me shit about something like that.

A thunderous knock rattles my door. I lurch forward to answer it, but white-hot pain sears through my lower back, dropping me back onto the couch with a gasp. My muscles seize into concrete, each spasm a lightning strike up my spine. "COME IN!" I scream, desperation clawing at my throat. God, I don't even care who's there anymore—the devil himself could be on the other side of that door, but if he can drag me to the bathroom before my bladder explodes, I'll gladly follow him to hell.

Cameron steps through the door and my breath catches. Last night's green scrubs were one thing, but now—blue t-shirt stretched across shoulders that could carry the weight of the world, jeans hugging thighs that have clearly seen their share of training miles. His dark waves fall just past where they should, begging for fingers to brush them back. When he shoves his hands in his pockets, the motion pulls the fabric tighter across his chest and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. That jawline could slice through diamond. Damn.

“Just checking on you,” Cameron says gently.

I nod. "Hello there, Yalie boy," I say, my voice suddenly husky. “Sorry. Meant Johns Hopkins boy. Still playing doctor, I see. Anyhow, I really gotta use the little girls' room and—" My back spasms again and I cry out, the pain searing through me like a hot knife. He's at my side in an instant, his cologne hitting me before his hands do.

“I’d really like some help," I whisper, hating how vulnerable I sound.

When his fingers grip my waist, it's like being branded. Every nerve ending screams to life. Sure, I'd seen him at both of Max and Celeste's weddings—the first one that was as real as a Prada purse being sold from back of a Cabo van and the real tear-jerker one in England —but I'd dismissed him as just another perfect-faced Kensington with their obscene wealth and country club smiles. So he saves lives in Africa and has dimples that could make a nun question her vows. Big deal.

But holy hell, I wasn't prepared for this—this molten heat flooding my body as he practically carries me toward the bathroom. His breath fans against my neck, and I swear I can feel each individual exhale like a promise against my skin. My heart hammers so hard I'm certain he can hear it. God help me, I can barely remember my own name.

After finishing in the bathroom, I hobble into the living room where Cameron waits, armed with a warm towel and cold compress.

"Lie down," he says, gesturing to the couch. I stretch out on my stomach as he places the icy compress against my lower back. I flinch but bite my lip. The dragon tattoo that curls across that same spot took four hours and I barely winced—I can handle this.

"That's quite a bruise," he observes. "Black now, but it'll cycle through green, yellow, and finally a yellowish-brown before it's gone. Usually takes two weeks, though this one might need longer."

I manage a nod as he removes the compress. His fingertips begin working the tissue around the injury, sending little sparks racing up my spine. My breath catches. My muscles clench involuntarily beneath his touch. I close my eyes, suddenly aware of how long it's been since anyone has touched me like this—clinical as it may be. His hands are here to heal, not to explore, though my body doesn't seem to understand the difference. Wasn't there some study about endorphins from orgasms being natural painkillers? Maybe I'm just self-medicating in my mind.

His fingers work the skin around my bruise with practiced precision. "Increasing circulation," he explains. "Helps the blood flow, speeds healing. I promise I'm not being fresh.”

My body begs to differ. I bite my lip to keep from saying so, amused by his quaint phrasing - “fresh.” Cameron with his old-timey expressions, probably the kind of guy who says "swell" unironically. I never thought I'd be attracted to someone like him—this doctor who supposedly, according to Celeste, makes five-star meals on weekends and keeps a song-writing journal. Something about that combination makes my pulse quicken under his touch. Last boyfriend couldn't even microwave without setting off the smoke alarm because the dumb shit put a metal bowl into that microwave and set the damn thing on fire. I mean, who doesn’t know by now that you can’t put metal in a microwave? Kent Rogers, my idiot ex, that’s who.

I’ve heard Cameron plays piano too, just like his brothers—especially Kalen and Ansel. A doctor with artist's hands. No wonder I can barely breathe when he's this close.