"Dr. Ashworth? Dr. Ashworth?" I jumped, startled to hear my name intrude my lewd thoughts about what Wes wanted me to do with his erection. Was he serious?
I twirled around, blushing. "Yep?"
"Mr. Hamlin's knee is still swollen, and Ms. Parish's elbow is definitely not getting any better," the nurse reported. "They're both asking for you."
"Of course. I'll be right there."
I closed my eyes and took a slight inhale, pushing out the dirty thoughts of Wes Blakefield. It wasn't my fault those thoughts were there, I told myself. He was the one who thought I was a hired whore and flashed me with all his glory. It made me hot again just thinking about it. Hot and mad. I tried to remember how offensive he was. How he thought I was just some cheap piece of ass sent to pleasure him. I was a brilliant surgeon-not a call girl.
I stormed toward Ms. Parish's room. Elbows and knees first. I'd check on my horny patient again later.
I guess I always thought when I moved to San Antonio, I would find a place in the city, close to the hospital, and put down some roots. But as I flung my keys on the kitchen counter in my efficiency apartment, I realized I wasn't anywhere near that step. I hadn't even started looking at houses or apartments. I kept renting the same extended-stay studio, waiting for a sign that San Antonio was the place for me.
The furniture was generic. So were the horrid, pale paintings on the wall of scenes from the Alamo. But for some reason, they reminded me it could all be temporary if I wanted it to be. I could leave. I was on a week-to-week lease with this place. Nothing to move except my clothes. I wore scrubs most of the time, anyway. I hadn't been on a single date since I moved here. There was no reason to pull out that little black dress or put on a strappy pair of fuck-me heels. Life was work. And work was my life.
I heated up a bowl of soup, poured a glass of wine, and sat in front of the TV. Today at the hospital had been nothing but non-stop chaos. It started when everyone flipped out about the Wranglers' quarterback, and ended with the director of orthopedics calling me in his office to talk about our high-security protocols. I swear, everyone had lost their damn minds over this patient. I never discussed my patients' conditions with the press, and I didn't need a lecture reminding me that a high-profile patient had to be able to trust that the hospital would never report his injury.
I finished my soup and reached for my laptop. I typed Wes Blakefield into the search engine. I clicked on the star's website. He had his own page dedicated to his records. I skimmed the stats, but they meant nothing to me. He had won awards I'd never heard of. I didn't care about football. I hit the back button and clicked on an article.
I chewed my bottom lip as I moved from article to article, picture to picture, studying him. Absorbing information about his social life. The man was single and seemed to be at every social event in the city. His killer smile was beyond photogenic. There were women. Lots of women. It seemed he had a new girl on his arm at every restaurant, charity event, or party. I never saw the same one twice.
I slammed the computer shut and headed for the shower. I peeled off my scrubs and stepped into the warm water. If I could wash away everything that happened today, I would. But in less than twelve hours, I would be right back there, starting all over again. I ran the loofah over my body, when an image of Wes flashed in front of me. I scowled at myself. He was the wrong kind of man to start thinking about. He was clearly a womanizer. An egotistical maniac. He may have the rest of the world fooled, but I knew a narcissistic prick when I met one. I should-I had lived with one for a year.
I made the decision right then. I had to give him to Dr. Evans. There was no way I could keep him as a patient. There was something bad about Wes Blakefield. The more I scrubbed the bubbles into my skin, the more I knew I had to stay far away from him. He made me uncomfortable. He made me think things I shouldn't think about. He made me want to wipe that smug playboy look right off his damn perfect face.
I turned off the water and wrapped a towel around my body. I placed my hand against my cheek. Did he actually think I was attractive? When I looked in the mirror, I saw a doctor. A surgeon. A woman who put her patients first. I let my hair tumble from the clip holding it in place.
I quickly twisted it back into a bun. It didn't matter what Wes Blakefield saw. After tomorrow morning, he would no longer be my patient, and I'd never have to see him again.
Five
Wes
I rubbed my eyes, grumbling about the lack of sleep I got last night. Every fifteen minutes, there was a nurse taking my vitals. And they sure as hell didn't look like the hot nurse I fucked the other night. I even offered to pay them to leave me alone, but they only laughed, thinking I was joking.
I let my head sink into the pillow, hoping I could at least catch a nap before the next one came in, poking me with some kind of torture device.
"Good morning, Mr. Blakefield." The door swung open and in walked Dr. Ashworth.
I sat forward, forgetting how exhausted I was. I suddenly had a new burst of energy.
"Hey, Doc."
She walked toward me, and I noticed her hair was down today. It was layered in long strands over her shoulders. She was more beautiful than she was yesterday.
"How's your hand feeling?" She bent to take a look at the incision.
"Hurts like hell." I tried to catch a glimpse of her eyes, but she was studying my fingers.
"Well, it's not swollen much." She twisted her lips together. "But I'm not happy with this finger." She pointed to my index finger.
"What's wrong with it?"
"It's the most swollen." She jotted something on her clipboard before placing it on the table. She retrieved the stethoscope from her neck and adjusted the ends in her ears. "Let me take a listen."
I had had more physicals than I could count. The trainers for the Wranglers were constantly checking my heart rate. Checking for hydration and iron count. Physical therapists examined every muscle on my body. But I'd never in all those exams reacted like this. My heart started to pound as she leaned over and placed the cold disc on my chest. She moved it down my rib cage, and I could feel the heat of her fingers. I wanted to grab her and pull her on top of me-she smelled like sweet shampoo and vanilla. But I only had one good hand, and she'd already made it clear what she'd do if I tried anything again.
She moved the stethoscope to my right shoulder and slid it along my bicep. I could hear my veins hammer from my pulse as her fingertips explored my skin. She traced over the tattoo covering my right arm.
She stepped back, wrapping the stethoscope around her neck again. "Your circulation is fine. And you have a strong heartbeat. I'm not worried about blood flow."
"Oh, you never have to worry about that." I waggled my eyebrows.
"I'm talking about your broken hand." She glared at me.
"Come on, Doc. Just a little joke. Thought I'd break the tension from yesterday."
"Mmmhmm." She scribbled more notes. "As far as I'm concerned, yesterday never happened."
"It was funny. Don't you laugh?"
Her eyes hardened. "I'm a surgeon. Your surgeon. And if you want to get back to football, then I suggest you take this more seriously and stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?" I couldn't take my eyes off her. I'd never wanted to fuck a woman so badly. I didn't know if it was her attitude or her body, but I had a primal need for her I'd never felt before.
I wanted to kiss her smartass lips until they were red and swollen. I wanted to rip that doctor's coat off and bend her over this bed. I knew I could have her screaming my name. She'd already seen my dick, and the way she reacted to it, I knew she was impressed. All women were.
"Mr. Blakefield?"
I looked into her eyes, dragging my stare from her tits. "What?"
"Do you agree with the pain management plan?"
"What?" She must have been talking while I was planning how to get her uptight ass into my bed.
"Do you have someone you want to bring in for this? Someone who is going to help you at home?"
I laughed. "I don't need any help at home, Doc."
"Aren't you right-handed?"
"Yeah," I scoffed.
"Then you haven't really thought through what it's going to be like not being able to use your hand for eight weeks."
"Eight weeks!" I almost jumped out of the bed.
"You have a fracture and I had to surgically realign two of your bones. This is easily an eight-week recovery."
I shook my head, feeling the fire behind my eyes. Now she'd pissed me off. "That's not happening. The playoffs will be over."
She closed her eyes. "Playoffs, games, that's all anyone talks about since you were wheeled into my OR." She pursed her lips. "This is your hand we're talking about. If you reinjure it, you could do permanent damage."