Page 9 of The Love Operation

Now I feel his wintergreen-laced breath against my face, and I remember my doctors’ lounge salad. Did that vinaigrette contain garlic? Damn.

“I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of my issue with an exam. What position do you want me in?”

My jaw drops, even as a flare of heat moves over me again. Everything he says has a double meaning, but at face value, he’s said nothing untoward. Clever bastard.

But two can play.

I let a small moaning sound escape my lips, one that could be concern or something else. “Well, one of the first things I do in cases that are as serious as yours is check rectal tone. I don’t want to miss anything. I’m thorough. That’s what makes me the best. So, go ahead and drop your undies and bend over. I’ll get a glove.”

I can’t believe I’ve just said this. What if I’ve misconstrued the whole thing? What if I want him so much that his legitimate back pain only sounds sexual? What if he reports me to . . . himself? Oh goodness, he could fire me, or at least strongly influence the team who could.

But then he blanches. “You’re not . . . serious?” he asks, concern screwing up his gorgeous features. And his momentary lack of nonchalance is beautiful. It gives me the upper hand again.

“I’m serious if you seriously have back pain.”

Still inches apart, we lock eyes, each daring the other to break this charade. My chest is heaving. If someone walked in right now—a very real possibility—they’d see one of those forbidden Bridgerton moments: two people caught alone, breathing heavy, one heartbeat away from scandal.

And honestly? It could go either way. That’s the problem.

He’s not technically my boss, but he’s a part of the hospital’s backbone, no pun intended. And while he doesn’t oversee me directly, and no one’s technically breaking any rules here, it sure as hell looks like it. And looking guilty is just as damning.

Walk out of here, Cord. My brain is screaming it, but there are other parts of me, parts that are now aching, that feel like they are in charge. And they don’t think this is such a bad idea.

“I wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t serious,” he breathes, and then I feel the pressure of his hand on my lab coat pocket. He’s not touching me, only a slim bit of fabric connected to me, but the way my body reacts, you’d think he just shoved his face into my chest and started ripping the buttons off my lab coat with his teeth.

He pulls me gently toward him. The pressure’s so slight I can’t be sure whether it’s him pulling or me leaning in.

“I can’t fix your problem.” This comes from my last working brain cell.

“Why?” The word is breathy, fluttering against my mouth.

“You know why.”

His shoulders sag, just slightly, enough for me to know that he’s struggling with this too. Maybe not as much as I am, but he knows this is wrong. He knows we can’t do this. Yet neither of us pulls away.

“I know.” It’s not what I expect him to say.

“Why did you come here?” I manage.

I’ve worked too hard to be taken seriously, to be seen as more than a pretty face in a lab coat. One rumor, and I’m the cautionary tale—the woman who slept her way to the top. Even if I didn’t.

“I’ve made it worse, haven’t I?” His whole demeanor has changed. He’s not confident anymore. He seems like he’s really in pain, but it’s not physical pain, it’s the kind of pain that comes from knowing you can’t have what you want. This is especially hard for people who always get what they want. I know. I’m one of them.

And this is excruciating.

He sighs. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” Apparently, he still doesn’t because his hand remains on my lab coat. We are still way too close. I can’t have sex with this man in a patient room. The walls are thin. People will hear me scream. I’m a screamer.

“I don’t either,” I say.

His gaze falls to my lips, and the look of hunger that flashes in his eyes undoes me, loosening the last thread of my inhibitions. I lean in, needing his lips on mine, to fan the fire inside me and then put it out.

Tap-tap.

If every nerve ending in my body hadn’t been on high alert, I might not have heard the soft knock on the door. But they were, and I do, so I yank away from him so hard that I bang the back of my head on the cabinets against the opposite wall.

He lunges forward, apparently concerned for my head, but I swat him away and firmly point to the exam table.

And then—I impress myself with this one—I say “Come in!” like I wasn’t just about to mount my patient.