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I don’t need to write this down.
But the actual prescription.
Shit. I tap her commands into the computer.
This is a good job. An incredibly in demand job. Every medical school hopeful wants to work as a scribe. And there’s no one better than Dr. Lee. She’s patient, attentive, detail oriented.
I tell myself I’m lucky to work here.
But I still curse every minute.
I hate this job.
Every day, I try to imagine myself in Dr. Lee’s (stylish yet practical) shoes. I envision myself with a white coat over my A-line dress, my fingers curled into a clipboard, my attention on my patient.
Every day, I see this blah grey blob.
That’s what medicine feels like.
A blah grey blob.
I try to talk to Owen about it, but he assures me it’s temporary boredom. That I’ll fall in love once I’m spending sixty hours a week studying medicine. (Supposedly, true passion will kick in once I’m spending eighty hours a week doing rounds).
My parents—it’s a non-starter with them. If I so much as mention the slightest negative feeling toward medicine, they stare at me like I’ve got horns coming out of my skull.
I think they’d feel better about the horns.
At least that would be something they could study and understand.
Whereas a Thorn who finds doctorhood blah?
That’s beyond comprehension.
I let my thoughts flit to Wes as we move onto the next patient.
There’s something so earnest about his smile. And, God, those gorgeous blue eyes—
He’s sexy as hell in his clothes.
How the hell am I going to survive him naked?
Touching me?
Fucking me?
The thought is enough to make me blush.
I barely make it through my shift. Doctor Lee notices something is off, but she doesn’t call me on it.
She sends me home with her typical great work today, Quinn, now go have fun. You’re too young to study all the time.
Maybe she’s smarter than I am. Or better at retaining information.
When school is in session, I have exactly zero time for fun. It’s all work and studying and enough exercise to kill my lingering anxiety.
Right now…
This is my last month in California.
I’m making the most of it.
I drive home. Shower. Change.
Fix dinner from a recipe.
It’s good—white fish with lemon, salad, and mashed cauliflower—but it’s exactly like the current state of my summer.
The same thing, all the time.
A plan that works well enough but fails to appeal.
Sometimes, I try to listen to my instincts. To create a dish without guidelines. But it goes about as well as any other time I go off plan.
It’s a total disaster.
Better to stick to the unappealing thing that works.
That gives me four weeks.
Four weeks to learn to fuck.
Four weeks with Wes.
Four weeks of freedom.
I’m finished with dinner and halfway through Bringing Up Baby when my phone buzzes.
Wes: I have something for you.
My phone flashes with a picture message.
A photo of an STD test. His STD test.
He’s safe.
Quinn: Oh.
Wes: Oh?
Quinn: It’s good you’re proactive.
Wes: If you’re scared, we can use a condom.
Quinn: No. I want to try it this way.
I try to think of a sexier way to phrase it. Something Wes would say.
Nothing comes.
This…
Well, it gets the point across.
Wes: Do you have something in mind? I’m partial to doggy style, but I’m pretty open.
There’s a link. To a list of sex positions. With photos.
My chest flushes.
He’s so cool and collected about sending me a list of sex positions.
I close my eyes.
Try to imagine it as our bodies instead of random models.
Him on top of me. My legs around his waist. My arms around his chest.
Him on the bed. Me climbing on top of him. Pressing my palms into that spot just below his tattoo.
Him flipping me over onto all fours, peeling my panties to mid-thigh—
I want him so badly.
I can’t see him or hear him and he’s already driving me mad.
How am I supposed to survive touching him?
Quinn: Do I really have to pick one?
Wes: Unless you want to go all day.
Quinn: You can’t do it in one session?
Wes: Are you teasing me?
Quinn: Maybe.
Wes: You should know there’s a penalty for teasing.
Quinn: Yeah?
Wes: I tease back.
My sex clenches.
His confidence is so fucking hot.
I need some of that.
I am teasing him.
A little.
And awkwardly.
But it’s a start.
Quinn: What’s that like?
Wes: I have to be honest with you, Quinn.
Quinn: Yeah?
Wes: You can’t handle those details.
Quinn: Try me.
Wes: I don’t want to scare you.
Quinn: You won’t.
Wes: Can I get that in writing?
Quinn: Sure. I, Quinn Thorn, promise not to call off our arrangement on account of Wes Keating’s mastery of dirty talk.
Wes: You have enough?
Quinn: Enough what?
Wes: Of a plan?
Quinn: Well, actually…
Wes: That’s what I figured.
Quinn: Is there something wrong with planning?
Wes: No, it’s smart. Fuck knows there are a lot of times I could have planned better.
Quinn: I’m sensing a but.
Wes: Sex isn’t like that.
Quinn: How’s that?
Wes: You can’t go in thinking “today I’m going to peel Quinn’s panties to her ankles. Then I’m going to drag my lips up her thighs. Suck on her clit until she’s screaming my name.”
