CHAPTER 3
Daisy
I blame the martinis for what tumbles out of my mouth next. “So, how many bums do you look at per day?”
Even for me, this is breaking new dating ground. But I need something jarring to stop me from spiraling back into that pit of “my ex is newly engaged, and I had a meltdown over a bidet on live TV.”
You don’t just bounce back from that kind of emotional carnage with a cup of tea and a biscuit.
Hot Dr. Spencer doesn’t even flinch. He shifts on his barstool, running a hand through his thick, wavy hair. He’s a gastroenterologist at Waterloo East, and from what I’ve pieced together over the past hour, he’s basically James Bond with an endoscope.
His lips curve into a lazy grin. “Are we talking work-related or . . . recreational activities?”
I nearly choke on my drink. “Professional capacity,” I clarify, though my imagination is now going places involving latex gloves and compromising positions.
He laughs. “I perform about ten colonoscopies a day.”
I blink, letting the sheer volume of it sink in. “Ten bums. Every single day.”
“Is that admiration or horror I’m hearing?”
“Bit of both,” I admit, swirling the remnants of my drink. “Does it, uh, change how you see people? Like, are we all just walking . . . medical cases to you now?”
What I’m really asking is whether he’ll be mentally grading my ass on a clinical scale when my clothes hit the floor later. Because five cocktails deep, with his fingers drawing lazy patterns on my thigh, that’s very much where this night is heading.
“I can switch off doctor mode when I clock out.” He leans in, his broad shoulders cutting into my personal space in a way I absolutely do not mind.
He pauses, the playful glint in his eye sharpening. “Every bum’s like a fingerprint—no two are the same.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “You should get that printed on NHS posters.”
He chuckles, lifting his neon blue cocktail and draining it with alarming ease.
I watch him, half curious, half concerned, wondering if his liver’s made of steel or if tomorrow’s patients should seriously consider rescheduling their intimate examinations.
He’s got this baby-faced charm, the kind that makes me wonder if he still gets IDed buying paracetamol.
Too young to be a doctor, you’d think.
But then he speaks—that crisp, posh Westminster drawl, all clipped vowels and old-money polish—
And it’s like Charlie’s crawled out of my skull to slap me mid-date.
The thought stomps all over my painstakingly crafted buzz.
I blink, snapping back to reality just as Dr. Spencer leans in closer. I’ve completely missed whatever he just said.
“Maybe slow down there, mate,” I say, nodding toward his empty glass as he plonks it back on the bar. “Don’t they need you to do doctor-y things tomorrow morning? Best save some of those hospital beds for actual sick people—not just your inevitable hangover.”
Wouldn’t want you fingering the wrong holes.
He flashes a smile, all confidence and charm. “Aww, worried about me? That’s sweet but trust me—I could do this job in my sleep.”
Before I can fire back with a remark about his alarming level of medical cockiness, the last orders bell rings.
“Right, then,” he purrs. “Shall we?”
I stand, and his hand finds the small of my back as we weave through the crowd.
Outside, the crisp night air hits us, fresh and sobering, but not too sobering, judging by the way Spencer leans closer.
“Fancy a nightcap back at mine?” he murmurs. “I live just off Primrose Hill.”
Primrose Hill? Clearly those junior doctors’ pay protests worked out nicely for him if he can afford London’s version of Beverly Hills. I bet his neighbor is Harry Styles.
“I’m off tomorrow,” I say, trying to sound responsible even as my pulse picks up speed. “So I’m not entirely against the idea. But don’t you have an 8 a.m. start?”
“I do,” he murmurs. “But I’d sleep much better with company.”
I arch a brow. “Oh, so going to yours is basically a public service? For the greater good of the NHS?”
He pretends to nod solemnly. “Exactly. Charitable work, really.”
I wriggle free of his grasp, brandishing my phone like it’s pepper spray. “Hold on, Doctor Feel-Good. I need to see some ID. My friend’s getting your details.”
The age-old ritual of trying not to end up on a true-crime podcast while also trying to get laid begins.
Spencer blinks, as if no one has ever questioned his credentials before. “I can show you my driver’s license?”
Cue the dramatic male pocket-pat-down routine. After a solid minute of searching every possible pocket three times, he produces his license and slides it over with a triumphant little flourish.
“That’ll do,” I mutter, snapping a photo for Lizzie. “Just making sure I’m not following Spencer the Ripper into a dark alley. Too many weirdos on dating apps these days.”
I flash him my sweetest, most innocent smile as I add, “Oh, and by the way, my brother just got out of prison. Like, very recently. Ten years for GBH. He’s super protective. Likes to check up on me with his prison workout buddy, Big Mike. You know, the one who bends iron bars with his teeth. So . . . not that anyone needs to worry or anything.”
Spencer laughs, but I notice the subtle shift in his posture—a cautious inch of distance creeping between us.
Amazing how quickly men sober up when you casually drop a fictional ex-con brother into the conversation.
Grinning, I grab his hand. “After you, Doc.”