Page 66 of The Love Operation

“Of course,” I say smoothly, matching his tone and professionalism. “I have time now.”

He nods, and we walk out together. As we step into the hallway, he brushes against me.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

My pulse stutters. My skin burns where we connect, even though there are layers of fabric between us.

“That was a productive meeting,” I say, trying not to sound like a sex addict.

“It was.” His response is neutral as we pass Dr. Lambert and his horrible PA, Katie.

Lambert’s a hand surgeon in my practice—mediocre, but handsome enough to get away with it. Katie’s always with him. Normally, I root for women in elevated roles, but Katie’s a chronic pot stirrer. The opposite of a team player. Still, she’s good at her job and has Lambert wrapped around her French-manicured finger. He’d never let her go, probably because they’re having an affair. Or so everyone in the office suspects.

Dr. Lambert nods as we pass. Katie flashes a syrupy smile. It takes everything in me not to gag. I don’t smile back because I don’t pretend to like her. She’d throw me under a bus in a heartbeat, and I don’t play that game.

“You handled Shephard well,” Isaac says once we’re past them, his voice laced with pride. He barely even registered Lambert and Katie.

I beam, like the sun peeking through the clouds, but definitely not strong enough to give anyone sunburn. “That wasn’t handling,” I say. “That was just me being right.”

“And so modest too.”

I shake my head but don’t deny it.

His office looms ahead. His secretary is gone, a small relief, even though I have every reason to be here.

“Come in,” he says, gesturing inside and making me pass by him.

I step in. The door clicks shut behind me.

For a few beats, I don’t turn around. I keep my back to him and take in his office. His scent is concentrated here—clean, with the faintest trace of warmth, sandalwood, and dark amber. It’s the scent that clings to his skin, the one that lingers in my sheets.

The room is immaculate and restrained, a perfect reflection of the man. The leather chair behind the desk is worn just enough, the only sign that this space is actually used. No clutter. No loose papers. A purpose-driven space.

A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows lets in the muted gray of the afternoon sky. The clouds are low, like they might knock on the window at any minute and request entrance.

He moves around me, behind his desk, and unbuttons his suit jacket before lowering into his chair.

He watches me. And now, he’s not concealing his desire.

“Have a seat,” he says.

Three innocent words, but I hear them like he’s just said Remove your clothes.

I perch onto the chair across from him, crossing my legs deliberately.

Professional.

And yet—my body is still recovering from that one fleeting touch in the hallway. Recovering is a subjective term, and . . . incorrect. Because my body is doing the opposite of recovering.

Isaac leans back. “I wanted to touch base on the town hall format,” he says.

I arch a brow. “Is that what you wanted to touch?”

His mouth twitches.

Tension coils in the air, thick with stored potential energy. The AC is blasting, but prickles of heat sizzle under my skin. I go hotter when his gaze drops to my mouth.