Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
mia
My phone’s having a seizure next to my pillow. It keeps vibrating with the arrival of multiple messages, putting an end to my power nap.
Would you look at that—April started a group chat with Calista and me, and it’s already at over a hundred unread texts. Some other messages from Liam pop up, and I’m conditioned to prioritize those.
Oh, great. We’re all having dinner together tonight.
Why does it feel weird that I’m not the one who booked the restaurant? I really need to shake off the personal assistant persona.
A fresh round of vibrations jolts me—except this time, it’s not my phone. The door rattles hard, about to come off its hinges.
Heart kicking up, I zip my pants back up, scramble out of bed and cross the room in quick strides. Yanking the door open, my voice echoes in my head when I ask, “Yes?” and I realize I have my earplugs in.
Dr. Preston Jett is in my doorway, a forearm braced against the frame, a fist still half-raised.
The man doesn’t even have to reach that high—his arm just lands there, effortlessly—the doorframe existing for his personal convenience.
His bicep flexes, taunting me, testing the elasticity of his gym shirt and my self-control. Why does he have to look so damn good?
I’ve seen hot men before. I’ve even worked for a few.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for the man in front of me.
Dr. Preston is disturbingly gorgeous. No man should be allowed a chest that broad, green eyes that look that deep, and a scowl that begs for me to tease him, all in the same body.
His muscles are carved like something out of damn Greek mythology. Unreal. His jaw could give paper cuts. I’d be willing to bleed, run my hand over it, to try that theory out.
It’s… rude. That’s what it is. It’s rude to look as good as him.
His hair’s pushed back again, and now I take more notice of it. Short on the sides, thick on top, flecked with just enough gray to make my ovaries pop. His face belongs on a magazine cover and the MI6 wanted list. The beard’s trimmed close and doing things to my better judgment.
Everything about him says control. Order. Power. A man who probably schedules his emotional breakdowns between surgeries and conference calls.
Ha! What am I thinking? A man like him doesn’t have emotional breakdowns.
It’s fine. He’s my boss. A grumpy American who clearly didn’t expect someone like me. Whoever ‘like me’ is in his mind. Judging by his current expression, I’m a surprise. Maybe a problem. I have a nagging feeling I’m not welcome here. It’s more like I’m under house arrest.
I blink myself back to reality—and he’s still there. Looking more annoyed, whispering curses. His chest rises with frustration. His wet shirt clings to his torso, begging for mercy.
“That’s why,” he says, gesturing to my earplugs. “I was knocking for so long, I thought you’d died in your sleep.”
“Well, doctor,” I begin, “your bathroom refurbishing efforts weren’t exactly quiet,” I say, awkward but honest, “so I had to resort to these.” I take them out and raise my hands in surrender, showing off my faithful squires and praying to God they’re earwax-free.
“I wasn’t dead… but I did consider pulling a hammer on you if these didn’t work. ” I plaster on a smile.
“Oh.” He pauses, looking a bit embarrassed, but half smiling.
“Right. Sorry.” He scratches the back of his head, flexing his biceps.
He’s got to stop doing that. His whole body is highly disturbing; it blocks the doorway and all my common sense.
“I didn’t consider that. Got too used to being alone in the house these past weeks, I guess. My apologies.”
I still sound rough from sleep, but I force myself to speak, anything to keep from ogling him. “Er… can I help you with something?”
“Gunn’s insisting we go out for dinner,” he grunts, arms crossing in front of his chest.
Sweet Jesus. My brain blue-screens. The entire English language flatlines at the sight of his rippling forearm muscles—and veins—on display. Yep, it’s the veins. The veins render me mute.
I look down. Not at his legs. Or are those tree trunks? Stop, you’re being too obvious. Eyes up, woman. Be cool. Be professional. Think about spreadsheets or… porridge. Yeah. Porridge, save me.
“Okaaay…” It’s the best I can come up with, not entirely sure of what I’m agreeing to anymore.
I think I’m only fit for this job if he’s not around.
I can only be responsible for the well-being of a child if I’m distraction-free, which means Dr. Preston Jett needs to stay at least fifty feet away from me at all times.
And dry. Arms always relaxed, hanging at his sides.
A restraining order might be in the cards.
Mutual, probably, although for different reasons.
When he talks again, my chin is down, and I’m checking out his quads. My head jerks up, and I wipe the edge of my mouth, praying I didn’t drool. I just woke up. It could be from my sleep. “I’m sorry, what?” I blink shamelessly, finally managing eye contact again.
“I said, I’m not done in the gym, so I thought you’d like to shower first. There’s only one bathroom, so we need to take turns.”
Do we, doctor? Do we?
I shake my head, willing the horniness to fall out of my ears. I need to get a grip, real fast, or I’ll have to quit before I even meet Lily—or New York, for that matter. I’ll have April send me postcards from the places I never got to see.
“Yeah, of course,” I say instead, shoving my hormones back in their cage. “He messaged me too. Remind me again what time the reservation is?”
I leave him and his answer at the door, turning around to rummage through my bags. Makeup, toiletries… Hmm, where’s my exfoliating cream? Maybe I can scrub away these pervy thoughts.
It might be my imagination—or wishful thinking—but I feel his eyes on me.
Maybe that’s why I’m suddenly self-conscious about my ass being up in the air when he startles me, saying, “You don’t need to haul an entire suitcase to the bathroom.
I’ve got you everything you need there. April supervised my visit to the store, so I’m sure you’ll be pleased. ”
I lift an eyebrow. “Did she now?” I smile. That’s sweet and unexpected. “Were there any breakdowns in the skincare aisle?”
He snorts. “More than I care to admit. But I survived, and now you have a toner. Not that I know what it does.”
I glance at the bags in my hands, then back at him. “That was very thoughtful of you. Thanks.”
“You’ll be living here for the next few months, Mia. The least I can do is make you comfortable.” His eyes capture mine and hold me there. I haven’t decided if the speckles in his green irises are blue or gold. I don’t think it’s safe to stare too long to figure it out.
My instincts urge me to fight his hold on me, so after a torturous second or two, I blink the spell away and focus on something else.
I pull a few outfits out of my case to straighten a bit on hangers and set their matching shoes by the bed. “Again, that’s very kind of you. You didn’t need to bother with all that.”
“Not a problem. Anyway.” His voice cuts through my hazy brain.
Dr. Preston drops his arms from the doorframe, and that deflates me a little.
It was as if he was trapping us both in here, and I liked that more than I care to admit.
“Everything you need is in there. And more, probably,” he reiterates.
“Thanks.” I gather my essentials: toothbrush, golden under-eye patches for the jet-lag puff, favorite body oil, and the shampoo I’d die before switching brands. I stop when my hands shake so bad, I’m one slip away from a toiletries avalanche.
“I’ll be done in thirty minutes. Just need to finish my run.”
“Is that how long I have to shower?” I ask, skeptical.
“Why? Do you need more?”
In his defense, he sounds sincere, totally unaware I need at least double that. While he waits for an answer, the doctor grabs the edge of his shirt to dry the sweat from his forehead—I know I should look away, but I don't. Instead, I get a full view of his abs’ abs.
That’s right. His six-pack has six-packs. And I do mean approximately. Although I try to get to the actual number, my brain short-circuits somewhere between ‘obliques’ and ‘holy hell’.
By the time he pulls the T-shirt down, I feel like I’ve been microwaved on full power.
I’m sizzling, still spinning, one beep away from exploding.
My skin feels so hot, it might as well be melting off my bones, and I’m half expecting the smoke alarm to blast off.
At the very least, I’m going to need burn cream not to be left with permanent scars.
“No, that’s fine. I’ll manage,” I lie through my teeth and hope for the best. I just really need him gone. And I need that shower too. More than ever.
“Okay, then, I’ll leave you to it and go hit the treadmill.” He taps once on the doorframe, and I hear him sprinting down the stairs. Maybe that’s to keep his heart rate up.
* * *
My pulse races too. Difference is, I’m standing still, rooted to the floor where he left me.
I shower the flight off my body and slide the fogged glass open, reaching for a towel—except there is none.
What. The. Hell.
I twist my hair, squeezing out as much water as possible, then run my hands briskly over my arms and legs, sweeping away the lingering droplets.
I’m trapped in a tempered glass cage of wet humiliation.
Do I air-dry like a heathen? I step out onto the bathmat and walk while dragging my feet over it in an attempt to not leave a wet trail behind me.
I curse under my breath as I check the cupboards.
Nothing. Not a single towel in sight.
“All the stuff I need?” I all but yelp as I fling open a cabinet again, as if a towel will magically appear just to save me from this indignity. “All the stuff I need?” In what universe does that not include a towel?
I crack the bathroom door open and yell, “Dr. Preston?” Nothing. Just my voice bouncing back at me. Great, now the house is mocking me too. Fantastic.
I glance at the toilet paper roll. One. Single. Roll. Not nearly enough to cosplay as a mummy on my way back to my room.
All right. Time for a strategic retreat. Or, as I’ll call it later, The Great Naked Escape.
Odds are, if he didn’t hear me scream his name, he won’t catch my naked wet butt making a run for it.
I grab the smallest hand towel in world history—praying to every higher power that it’s a freshly changed one—and dry whatever I can.
Then I press it to my chest, as my chosen private part to hide, and gather my things like my life depends on them.
Unfortunately, wet skin coated in body oil equals immediate betrayal.
On my third step into the corridor, my shampoo slips from my hold.
Mia, this is how you die. Of a fall, or shame, still to be determined.