Touch Me, Doc (Kiss-Met #2)

1. Gemma

Chapter one

Gemma

Rule #8: Keep your clothes on.

I was the world's best matchmaker. Well, for everyone but myself.

As my ex-boyfriend's tongue dove down my throat and his hands coasted toward my ass, that fact had never been clearer to me than in this moment. One would think that a handsy kiss in the middle of a romantic garden cafe would indicate some measure of matchmaking success, but in point of fact, this asshole was trying to break up with me.

Poorly.

Not only that, but I had inadvertently matched him with the woman he was leaving me for. And now, he was forcing a "goodbye kiss" on me that I had neither asked for nor wanted. Francis was the worst kisser I had ever met. I'd put up with it because I'd thought he was reliable and steady, and as an agent of chaos myself, surely that made him my perfect match. To be assaulted by his coffee breath and wandering hands thirty seconds after he'd broken up with me was just adding insult to ignominious injury, but what had I expected? A happily ever after? An advantageous match like I'd given to dozens of couples over the last three years?

Laughable.

I could match two people on opposite sides of the Earth with nothing more than their first and last names and a tweak of gut instinct. I could find someone's soulmate no matter what they did for a living, where they lived, or what bizarre hobby occupied their time. What I could not do was find love for myself.

I pushed Francis away from me, distantly aware that some of the patrons around us had gasped in surprise and there were several pairs of eyes on us. Francis stumbled back, his handsome features bewildered.

"Gem, I'm sorry," he huffed, his pale face pinkening and his eyes too bright. "I'm sorry, I just… I'll miss you." Francis embodied what I thought I was attracted to. Handsome, charming, and energetic, he had been able to keep pace with me during dates to clubs or random festivals. He charmed everyone around him, and I had always found that attractive. Unfortunately, his charm extended to everyone… including the secretary I had found for him.

After all, they were a good match.

I looked into his caramel-brown eyes, and my heart twisted painfully. Even as I folded my arms over my ribbed, long-sleeved shirt and tried to hold in the cascade of hurt, it rushed through me all the same. I wasn't in love with Francis—I wasn't even "in like" with him. But being rejected still hurt. It always had, even with friends, and it seemed like each rejection stabbed a serrated knife a little deeper into my sense of self-worth. I tried to gather my pluck like a mantle. "I'll miss an easy fuck too, but here we are."

The breakfast patrons gasped again, this time louder. A waiter eyed me with an irritated mouth pucker from across the softly lit space. Scrambled and Saucy had a really cute vibe to it with living plants threaded through an overhead terrace and twinkle lights interspersed amongst the greenery. In late September, the air was chilly first thing in the morning, but they had patio heaters set up over each table, and a fire crackled in an open-air hearth behind me. It would have been a perfectly romantic spot for a breakfast date under normal circumstances. Which was just my luck, really.

Francis's features fell with distaste at my crude remark. "Don't be like that, Gemma. You said yourself, Missy is a good match for me."

I had said that. I'd meant it in a work capacity, but apparently, I had outdone myself by accidentally finding him a soulmate when I'd meant to find him a decent employee. "I did say that," I replied tightly, reaching down to snatch up my leather shoulder bag from my chair. "And honestly, I hope her vag is as dry as your elbows." I grabbed my bright yellow peacoat from the wrought iron chair and draped it over my arm. "A word of advice from matchmaker to freeloader client—don't assault women when you're trying to break up with them, asshat."

A ripple of surprised murmurs rolled through the outdoor terrace, but I didn't pay them any mind. I didn't know any of these people, and if thirty people in Eugene, Oregon thought I was a bitch, then so be it. I turned and left Francis standing there dumbfounded and red-faced, and I threaded through the packed breakfast cafe toward the exit. I'd made myself late for work for this shit because Francis had said he had something "serious" to discuss with me. And here, I'd thought he meant he wanted to deepen our relationship in some way.

No, he had just wanted to break up with me in a way that made him look like the good guy because he'd chosen a nice restaurant.

Unfortunately, I still thought, deep down, that Francis was an okay guy. The heart wants what the heart wants, and his heart didn't want me. Francis had fallen for Missy, and I would have been lying if I'd said I hadn't completely seen it coming. The spark between them had been undeniable. Against all logic, I'd hoped that our relationship would matter more, but clearly not. And I couldn't even blame him. I would never advise one of my clients to stay with a girlfriend out of sheer loyalty when their heart was drawn to another.

If that happened after marriage or total commitment, well, that was another matter. But while dating? That was what this process was for. Dating was meant to test relationships, test bonds, and give couples a chance to find who they fit with.

Francis fit with Missy. I fit with no one.

I opened the creaky metal gate on the terrace, and with a little too much force, I slammed it closed behind me. My bra itched under my ribbed top, and I scratched under it absently, hating that I'd wanted to wear an uncomfortable push-up bra that barely fit just so I could impress the a-hole who'd just dumped me. The bra pads in this damn thing were shifting as I walked, and I knew I was going to have a terrible time fighting with it and trying to keep the removable pads from escaping the tight fabric. I did look good, though, whatever that was worth. I had tucked my camel-tan ribbed blouse neatly into my form-fitting plaid skirt, and I'd paired it with dark tights and boots that made me feel sexy and badass at the same time. The tights might have been a bit much this time of year, though.

Already, the morning was heating up, drifting from crisp cold to sweltering heat, as was often the case in September here. The trees overhead rustled, and the rising sun glinted through the yellowing leaves in fractures of bright light. I paused just beyond the restaurant, poised between two historical buildings where the hum of the crowd behind me joined with the rush of traffic beyond the sidewalk.

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Shake this off, Gemma. He wasn’t the one for you. Love is random; you just didn’t win that time. Control is calm. Calm is control.

When I opened my eyes, I resolved to leave Francis behind me. I could still salvage this day. I totally had this. I swallowed a ball of tears that had lodged in my throat and walked briskly down the sidewalk toward Kiss-Met Dating Services.

A walk would do me good, and I was grateful I hadn't driven the three blocks to the restaurant after all. It would give me time to compose myself and prepare for the day ahead. I had clients who were looking for love, and even if I couldn't seem to find it myself, I could help them.

Kiss-Met Dating Services occupied the second floor of a historical building turned corporate office space. The turn-of-the-century lobby with its diamond-patterned tiles and brushed metal details hinted at the building's age, but each floor had been updated and adapted to its business. The first floor had four different business suites for an accountant, a therapist, a construction company, and some kind of financial advisor. On the second floor, two doctors—Dr. Rook and Dr. Frost—had private practices there, and on the third, Kiss-Met took up the entirety of the generously sized area.

My head pounded as I hit the "up" button outside the elevator, reminding me that Francis hadn't even had the decency to dump me after I'd had a cup of coffee. "Jerk," I muttered to myself, adjusting the bottom of my bra again. The walk hadn't helped with the strangulating push-up bra disaster. I'd gotten sweaty, the band was itching around my ribs, and the bra pads were half out, sneaking up the deep V of my blouse. The elevator doors hummed open, and with a muttered, "Screw it," I dove my hand down my shirt, grabbed the offending bra pads, and ripped them out.

It was only as I started to enter the elevator that I realized I had an audience.

Dr. Rook from the second-floor OB/GYN practice stood just outside the elevator doors and had apparently been right behind me for several seconds. He had his arctic blue eyes trained on his phone, and his tidy, light blond hair didn't so much as rustle as he lifted his head to enter the elevator and stand next to me.

Had he seen? Did he know I was pulling my bra apart in public? Or had his attention been fixed on his phone screen the whole time? It wasn't that I liked the guy or cared what his opinion of me might be…

Well, alright, I didn't want to care. Dr. Rook and I had interacted before, and not once had I enjoyed being in his presence. He was rude, cold, dismissive, and clearly selfish. Logically, it shouldn't have mattered if he saw me pulling out my bra pads or if I ripped off my clothes and shimmied my tits until they rotated like helicopter blades in his face. I should not care one iota what Dr. Knox Rook thought of me.

If you don't care, then why are you panicking right now? I thought with groaning despair.

Hurriedly, I tried to shove my bra pads into the front pocket of my purse before he could see them. But of course, I fumbled it. Ham-handed and lacking even a modicum of grace, I missed the pocket completely, and both bra pads plunked to the elevator floor at my feet. I stared in horror at the nude-colored foam inserts that had landed just in front of my boots.

Rook slowly rotated a look down, and his eyes landed on the bra pads. When he lifted his eyes, I did the same, catching his smooth, unruffled expression. "You dropped something," he said, completely deadpan.

The elevator doors closed. My insides writhed. "Did I?" I asked innocently.

Rook stared, not even a hint of amusement cracking through his marble exterior. Dr. Rook was possibly the most beautiful man I'd ever seen, with a tall, lean physique, sharp cheekbones, and piercing eyes the color of a mountain spring. He wore the same, nicely pressed, white dress shirt and black dress pants every day, and he combed his light blond hair into a tidy but handsome sweep away from his forehead. Dr. Rook was perfection exemplified. And I had just dropped my bra pads on the floor.

"Second floor," he said.

I slapped the second- and third-floor buttons, my heart racing and my gut boiling with mounting humiliation. Should I reach down to pick them up? Should I pretend they didn't exist? But if I did that, then someone else would find them. Or, wait… Rook wouldn't pick them up, would he? No way. He wouldn't dare. Plus, he had to get off the floor before me. All I had to do was pretend I hadn't seen anything and then retrieve them in shame when he was gone.

While I mentally squirmed in social agony, the elevator bobbed to a gentle stop, dinged, and then opened its doors to let Rook out on the second floor. I blew out a breath of relief when he stepped forward, but then it caught in my lungs as he paused. He leaned over, swiped up my bra pads, and held them at eye level for me. "You shouldn't undress in elevators. It could get embarrassing for you."

Fury scorched through my humiliation in a lava-hot wave. I snatched them from his long fingers with a scowl. "You could have ignored them like a normal person."

"You could have kept them in your bra like a normal person," he replied coolly.

"You know what, I have a better place for them," I retorted, my anger bubbling like an unwatched pot of spaghetti. "How about you take them both, fold them neatly like so—" I folded them into a bunch, but he was already exiting the elevator, "—and shove them way up your—"

Rook turned suddenly, crowding me with his height so fast, that I barely managed to stumble into the elevator panel. I called myself five-foot-one on a good day, and I knew for sure that Rook had to be over six feet. So, when he brought his body over mine suddenly, blocking out the light from the elevator and bringing with him the smell of masculine cologne and fresh bar soap, I clammed up fast. My teeth clacked shut, and I plastered my back against the elevator panel as a pair of sharp cerulean eyes angled down to me.

"What was that?"

How could this guy be so hot and so fucking terrifying at the same time? My throat bobbed as I swallowed, tilting my head back to hold his gaze. "I'll shove them up your… nostril."

"Juvenile and predictable," he muttered, his eyes roving from my startled gaze down to my pressed lips. "I suggest you put your bra pads where they belong, Ms. Daise." He stepped away, allowing me to suck in a breath of fresh oxygen that had weirdly eluded me with him so close. "I can only hope you manage to be more professional during the rest of your day."

"Professional?" I asked in outrage.

But he was already gone, striding calmly to his practice entrance and reaching out to grasp the door handle. The elevator doors closed, and I released a bubble of incredulous laughter. Who did that self-righteous twat think he was? I turned around and pointlessly jabbed at the number three button on the elevator panel repeatedly, puffing out an enraged breath through my nose.

That did it. I had never liked Rook—he'd always been an arrogant self-righteous prick from my few interactions with him—and this only solidified it. He was officially on my shit list.

I swept out of the elevator in a huff of irritation, striding past the water feature wall that trickled calmly around Kiss-Met's modern logo, and I went straight for the coffee bar. Olivia, our receptionist, waved cheerfully from her semi-circle desk to my left, and I gave her a megawatt smile, hoping my run of bad luck wouldn't be evident in my features. "Morning!"

The smile on her round cheeks dimmed a touch. "Oh, good morning."

Yeah, I looked crazed. Perfect.

"It's fine," I muttered to myself. "This is fine. I can salvage this." I pulled a Styrofoam cup off the stack on the coffee bar, glancing around the open lobby of our floor. The coffee bar had been placed near a collection of cozy, black leather sofas, which had been arranged in front of a gas-lit fireplace with a rug and a coffee table. It was meant to invoke a feeling of home and belonging, which more or less worked out for us. People seemed to like Kiss-Met's "vibe," from the matchmakers who welcomed them, to the owner and her mysterious, fortune-teller appearance.

And truth be told, I loved my job. I loved taking the time to get to know new people. I loved using my intuition every day and pairing it with my growing experience in the field. I loved love . There was a satisfying kind of second-hand glow that I soaked up when I successfully matched a couple. Nothing was cozier for the soul than true love. I just couldn't seem to make that happen in my personal life.

Depressing.

"No," I chastised out loud, pouring bold roast into my cup. "You can do this, Gem. Control is calm. Calm is control. You're fine. Everything is fine."

My phone rang, vibrating my waist as it buzzed in my purse. I fitted a lid to my coffee cup and fished out my phone, already getting myself in the zone and prepping myself mentally for a fantastic, productive, absolutely winning day. So what if I'd been dumped? He wasn't the one. Moving on. And so what if I'd embarrassed myself in front of the devastatingly handsome doctor on the floor below us? Screw that guy. I could turn this around.

I hit the call accept button and put it to my ear. It was probably another satisfied client calling to thank me for my work. Nothing brightened my day more than praise. "Hello, this is Gemma."

"Hello, is this Gemma Daise? Tenant for unit three at Mountainside Condominiums?"

"Yes," I said, my voice already a touch wary. I picked up my coffee cup, turning to gaze out at the elegant, clean lines and modern interior of Kiss-Met's offices.

"This is Hank Herriman from Private Property Management Solutions and Efficiency Strategies."

"That is a very long name," I said candidly, sipping the bitter coffee.

The man stumbled, apparently caught off-guard. "Well… yes, it kind of is."

"Not very efficient."

Hank cleared his throat. "Ms. Daise, I am calling because my client has sent several letters in the mail over the last two and a half months."

"Okay," I said slowly. Burning dread built in my chest like holding my hand over a flame. The singe was coming. I could feel it.

"We have not heard from you since sending an advance notice, but your landlord has sold your condominium unit. At this time, you have two weeks to vacate the premises."

I could practically hear my psyche sizzling like bacon in a pan. "Did you say… vacate?"

"Yes, Ms. Daise. We've been informed that several of the tenants thought the notices were community newsletters because of the yellow paper color—"

"You sent them on yellow paper?" I screeched into the phone. "Of course, I didn't open them! No one reads the newsletters!" My whole body hurt. My head buzzed, and my sense of reality had taken a psychedelic turn for the worse. "You can't be serious."

"I am, Ms. Daise. You have two weeks until eviction."