Chapter 3
Chapter Three
TALLY
Cameron pushed for them to keep me overnight, but with no beds available except maybe a gurney in some hallway, they sent me home.
If my brain had hemorrhaged while I slept, Mom would've hit the lawsuit jackpot—her opioid days finally paying off.
But here I am at two in the afternoon, channel-surfing with a perfectly clear head. Guess I survived.
I am having a slight problem getting around, though, as my body is stiff from whiplash.
Guess it’s whiplash, because my scans showed nothing broken and whiplash is more of a muscle thing.
Shit, I’ll probably have to get some kind of neck brace.
That’ll be lovely at work. My regulars won’t stop giving me shit about something like that.
A thunderous knock rattles my door. I lurch forward to answer it, but white-hot pain sears through my lower back, dropping me back onto the couch with a gasp.
My muscles seize into concrete, each spasm a lightning strike up my spine.
"COME IN!" I scream, desperation clawing at my throat.
God, I don't even care who's there anymore—the devil himself could be on the other side of that door, but if he can drag me to the bathroom before my bladder explodes, I'll gladly follow him to hell.
Cameron steps through the door and my breath catches.
Last night's green scrubs were one thing, but now—blue t-shirt stretched across shoulders that could carry the weight of the world, jeans hugging thighs that have clearly seen their share of training miles.
His dark waves fall just past where they should, begging for fingers to brush them back.
When he shoves his hands in his pockets, the motion pulls the fabric tighter across his chest and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
That jawline could slice through diamond. Damn.
“Just checking on you,” Cameron says gently.
I nod. "Hello there, Yalie boy," I say, my voice suddenly husky.
“Sorry. Meant Johns Hopkins boy. Still playing doctor, I see.
Anyhow, I really gotta use the little girls' room and—" My back spasms again and I cry out, the pain searing through me like a hot knife.
He's at my side in an instant, his cologne hitting me before his hands do.
“I’d really like some help," I whisper, hating how vulnerable I sound.
When his fingers grip my waist, it's like being branded.
Every nerve ending screams to life. Sure, I'd seen him at both of Max and Celeste's weddings—the first one that was as real as a Prada purse being sold from back of a Cabo van and the real tear-jerker one in England —but I'd dismissed him as just another perfect-faced Kensington with their obscene wealth and country club smiles.
So he saves lives in Africa and has dimples that could make a nun question her vows. Big deal.
But holy hell, I wasn't prepared for this—this molten heat flooding my body as he practically carries me toward the bathroom.
His breath fans against my neck, and I swear I can feel each individual exhale like a promise against my skin.
My heart hammers so hard I'm certain he can hear it.
God help me, I can barely remember my own name.
After finishing in the bathroom, I hobble into the living room where Cameron waits, armed with a warm towel and cold compress.
"Lie down," he says, gesturing to the couch. I stretch out on my stomach as he places the icy compress against my lower back. I flinch but bite my lip. The dragon tattoo that curls across that same spot took four hours and I barely winced—I can handle this.
"That's quite a bruise," he observes. "Black now, but it'll cycle through green, yellow, and finally a yellowish-brown before it's gone. Usually takes two weeks, though this one might need longer."
I manage a nod as he removes the compress.
His fingertips begin working the tissue around the injury, sending little sparks racing up my spine.
My breath catches. My muscles clench involuntarily beneath his touch.
I close my eyes, suddenly aware of how long it's been since anyone has touched me like this—clinical as it may be.
His hands are here to heal, not to explore, though my body doesn't seem to understand the difference.
Wasn't there some study about endorphins from orgasms being natural painkillers?
Maybe I'm just self-medicating in my mind.
His fingers work the skin around my bruise with practiced precision. "Increasing circulation," he explains. "Helps the blood flow, speeds healing. I promise I'm not being fresh.”
My body begs to differ. I bite my lip to keep from saying so, amused by his quaint phrasing - “fresh.” Cameron with his old-timey expressions, probably the kind of guy who says "swell" unironically. I never thought I'd be attracted to someone like him—this doctor who supposedly, according to Celeste, makes five-star meals on weekends and keeps a song-writing journal. Something about that combination makes my pulse quicken under his touch. Last boyfriend couldn't even microwave without setting off the smoke alarm because the dumb shit put a metal bowl into that microwave and set the damn thing on fire. I mean, who doesn’t know by now that you can’t put metal in a microwave? Kent Rogers, my idiot ex, that’s who.
I’ve heard Cameron plays piano too, just like his brothers—especially Kalen and Ansel. A doctor with artist's hands. No wonder I can barely breathe when he's this close.
His voice drops to a rasp. "I need you to unzip your jeans. Just enough for me to see the bruising."
My fingers tremble at the zipper. The metal teeth part with a sound that echoes in my ears like thunder. I ease the denim down, revealing the thin strip of my thong and the curve of flesh beneath. The cool air kisses my exposed skin.
"It's spread lower," he murmurs, his breath warm against my back. Ice touches my skin—a shock that melts instantly into heat as his fingertips trace the edges of the bruises. His touch is clinical, but my body doesn't know the difference. Every nerve ending ignites.
Two decades of dawn runs and punishing squats have sculpted me here. I know what I am. And I know what his quickening breath means as his hands work over me.
He applies heated towels, but they're nothing compared to the inferno building between my legs. I bite my lip to keep from arching back against him, from begging his fingers to slip beneath the thin fabric, to feel his mouth replace the ice. I want to burn. I want to shatter.
Dammit. I'm burning alive. Every nerve ending screams, my skin electric under his touch, my core clenching with a need so fierce I can barely breathe. I have to do something before I combust.
I flip onto my back, the sudden movement making him jerk backward.
His eyes—those impossible eyes that shift between oceanic blue and forest green depending on how the light catches them—lock with mine, pupils dilating instantly.
He swallows hard, that perfect throat working as he tries to drag his gaze away from my exposed skin.
I grab the hem of my shirt and yank it up, revealing the purple-blue stain across my abdomen.
"This needs your attention too," I whisper, my voice husky, unrecognizable.
His hands hover, trembling slightly, before pressing the ice against my skin.
I gasp at the shock of cold against heat.
His fingers work the tender flesh, and I arch involuntarily into his touch.
He's looking everywhere but at my face, while I'm desperate to capture those kaleidoscope eyes, to make him see exactly what he's doing to me.
“Doc,” I begin.
“Don’t call me doc, please. I’m not your doctor right now, god forbid. After you were discharged from the ER, I ceased being your doctor.”
“You’re so sensitive about that.”
“I need to be. Because doctors can’t do things like this with their patients.”
“Things like what ?” I ask innocently. I slip open the first button of my blouse, then the next. The bruises from the Jeep accident map across my skin in purple-green constellations. Cameron's eyes widen as I reach behind to unhook my bra.
I slip open the first button of my blouse, then the next. The bruises from the Jeep accident map across my skin in purple-green constellations. Cameron's eyes widen as I reach behind to unhook my bra. This is reckless.
Celeste would never forgive me. Her golden rule: friends don't hook up with friends' relatives.
Especially not her husband's brother. The Kensington family gatherings would become unbearable—and I've already missed their famous annual gala last year with the living art installation. Art is my weakness; I never miss the Pageant of the Masters in Laguna if I can help it, and from what I hear, Asher did something similar as that Laguna festival at last year’s Kensington gala.
I want to attend this year's gala where Asher's planning something spectacular again, and it’ll be…
uncomfortable…if Cameron and I hook up and I have to run into him there.
If Cameron and I crash and burn like all my relationships... but God, the heat spreading through me demands satisfaction in a way logic can't touch.
He's shy. I've watched him shrink into corners at both weddings, his eyes darting away whenever a woman approaches.
Even with that jawline—the kind that could cut glass—and those broad shoulders straining against his tailored suit, he'd rather study the pattern in the carpet than meet a woman's gaze.
I've seen them circle him like sharks, touching his arm, laughing too loudly at his mumbled jokes.
Each time, he'd flush crimson and find an excuse to escape.
If I want him, I'll need to be the predator here.