Page 7 of The Love Operation

“You are fierce,” Delenn says. “I’d never be that bold.”

“It’s Chris Mylan. He’s been yapping relentlessly about his back pain every time I see him. I told him to make an appointment.”

And then my body flushes. What if it’s one of those unscheduled clinic observations?

“Oh no. In the email I got earlier about the chief finalists, they said they’d be doing scheduled and unscheduled clinic visits.”

“Yeah, but that’s for observation. Anna said it was a patient, didn’t she? Would a committee member be seeing you as a patient?”

I fold my lips into my mouth. “You’re right. It’s just Chris.”

We shovel down our salads, and I decide not to push Delenn about the study yet. I need to sharpen my argument.

At 1:02 p.m. I knock on my new patient’s door. Just to irritate Chris, I don’t even look at the copious amounts of paperwork I’ve asked him to fill out, like I normally would. This irrationally pleases me.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Wr—” I stop because my brain is not prepared for who my eyes land on, and neither is my body, which instantly reacts (inappropriately) without my permission.

Because it’s not Chris.

Sitting on the exam table in a paper gown is my new patient, Isaac Thompson. The hospital’s COO.

The eye-sex guy.

Chapter 2

Eye Sex Is a Thing

The incredibly sexy, off-limits eye-sex guy: Isaac Thompson. Thirty-something chief operating officer at Lockewood University Medical Center.

Chief identifying characteristics: Confidence that comes from holding power and knowing it, a reputation for getting what he wants, and a lingering gaze so intense it should be classified as a controlled substance. Known for turning failing hospitals into gold mines, which makes him both admired and feared.

Physical exam: Annoyingly tall White male. Sharp suits. Crisp white shirts. Ties loosened just enough to look effortless. Obvious that he takes care of himself, like, really takes care of himself. Brown eyes that linger for many seconds too long. Immaculately coiffed dark hair. A smirk that suggests he already knows how this ends.

Impression: The guy all other guys want to be. Composed, confident, irritatingly at home in his skin. When he says jump, people fly. Has the audacity to look at me like he wants to take me in this exam room. Completely off-limits. Completely.

I attempt to get hold of myself. Outwardly, I mean. Inside, I’m having trouble remembering my name.

“Dr. Cordelia Wren,” Isaac says. Even his voice is sexy, deep, and sensual, like there’s an undertone to everything he says. He could say pickles, and I’d be scandalized.

Bad example. Pickles are already scandalous since they’re shaped—well, you get the idea.

Thank God he’s reminded me that I’m the doctor here, though, so I stop imagining myself pushing him back against the crinkly medical paper and giving him a thorough physical exam.

How am I going to examine this man?

“Everyone calls me Cord,” I say, perching on the rolling stool. But then he’s above me, making me feel like I absolutely don’t have the upper hand, so I stand and casually lean my hip against the counter opposite him.

“I’m surprised you allow that.”

This makes me smirk. He’s right. I debated at first. Dr. Cordelia Wren is much more professional, but it’s soft, feminine. Cord is iconic, like one syllable is all I really need. And, come on, Spinal Cord? It’s like I own the whole profession.

I ignore his attempt to pretend he knows me. “So you’re having back pain.”

He adjusts slightly. The paper under him crackles like lit firewood. “Right. That’s why I’m here. Excruciating pain. I can barely do my job it’s so distracting.”

I swallow. “Well, let’s get you fixed up. Can you tell me when it started? What you were doing?”

“It wasn’t long after I started here. Not long after you and I met. I was just walking down the hall, minding my own business. Then bam. I didn’t know what hit me.”