Page 38 of Dr. Intern

A reality world.

In what world is he also the perfect roommate and insanely thoughtful?

A fictional world.

I keep waiting for some reason to hate this arrangement, but I don’t. The condo has never looked better, not even during my brother’s reign as king of the penthouse. I’d be lying if I said I was the tidiest person, usually content with leaving coats strewn over chairs and dishes in the sink. But now, I wake up in the morning and everything is where it should be, like a magical fairy came through overnight and righted my chaos.

Beau even had a grocery order of Lunchables and Diet Coke delivered for me this morning with a note that said:

One day we’ll talk about what a nutritious meal includes. Thanks for letting me crash here.

I want to tell him that I’m perfectly capable of buying my food, and to save his money for the other women in his life, but I can’t. Despite my best efforts to harbor an inkling of irritation for him, I just don’t have it in me. He’s so stupidly likable.

Which is why I’m currently heading up the set of iron stairs to his loft so that I can make my mother proud, and thank him for his generosity. If I had his phone number, I would have just sent him a casual thank you text, but I don’t, and I’m certainly not going to be the one to ask for it.

I haven’t been up to the loft since he moved in, trying my hardest to refrain from snooping despite the excess of time I have on my hands. Have I wanted to search for skeletons in his closet to give me a reason to dislike him?

Absolutely.

But even I have boundaries.

The impeccable state of Beau’s loft catches me off guard, though it really shouldn’t, given the way he treats the rest of our living space. The bed, with its black metal canopy, is neatly made, pillows fluffed perfectly as if awaiting a professional photoshoot. Two dark wood nightstands outline the bed, with nothing left out on them except two matching modern lamps. His desk is covered in a pile of neatly stacked books that look like they’ve been organized in alphabetical order, and his shoes sit lined up along the wall like stinky soldiers preparing for battle. The organization is impressive, and so very on-brand for him.

Glancing around, I don’t see Beau anywhere, which is strange because I swear I heard him come back from the hospital. He’s been gone all day, and while I won’t admit that I miss him, it is admittedly nice to have another person around.

After Mom’s death, I relished in the solitude of living alone. The silence was healing, and the thought of having Beau ruin my peace was irritating. But now, as I’m starting to feel more and more like myself, it’s like my viewpoint has turned upside down. Rather than retreating into the quiet that I once loved, I find myself waiting up for him to return from the hospital, desperate for his company.

I try to reassure myself that it’s just because he’s accessible. My desire to spend time with him has nothing to do with the fact that he’s friendly, super hot, or interesting. It would be this way with any roommate. And that’s all he is—my roommate.

Just as I’m about to turn around, I notice a stream of fluorescent light coming out of the slightly cracked bathroom door.

A normal person would leave their roommate to their shower and speak with them when they were finished. I was taught to have boundaries for personal space, especially when it comes to privacy, which is why I have no logical explanation for the reason my feet start moving toward the occupied bathroom instead of down the stairs.

The bathroom attached to the loft is the smallest in the condo, with barely enough space to house a stand-up shower, toilet, and sink. Warm steam trickles out of the cracked door and hits me in the face as I push it open to peer inside.

As my eyes adjust to the haze, I spot Beau’s back facing the glass door, droplets of water from the rain shower head cascading down his broad shoulders. One of his arms is pressed against the gray tiled wall in front of him, almost like it’s holding him upright while he washes himself clean.

Or at least that’s what I assume he’s doing.

A white, finger-sized device sits on the back of his bulging tricep muscle, something I never noticed before. It must be the diabetic monitor he was explaining to me, though in real life it looks more like a tracking device than an instrument to check blood glucose. I make a mental note to ask him more about it when he’s not butt-ass naked in the shower.

Speaking of butts . . . his looks like it belongs in a museum. It’s sculpted and firm with two dimples that sit at the base of his hips. I imagine digging my heels into them as he thrusts inside me, and the picture makes my blood stir in a way that I wish it didn’t.

I should look away, but I can’t—especially not when I notice him clench his knuckles against the wall, almost like he’s in pain.

Only the sound that escapes his mouth doesn’t sound like he’s in pain . . .

My eyes widen, and I have to slap my hand over my mouth to stop myself from gasping when the realization of what he’s doing hits me.

I’ve never watched porn, but the image of Dr. Beau Buffington getting himself off is surely something that women would pay for. His bare naked body is drool-worthy alone, but when you add in the sounds coming out of his mouth, anyone would have a lady boner.

“Fuck yeah,” he groans, his tricep flexing as he slowly pumps himself. “That’s it, pretty girl. Take it for me.”

His voice is low and gravelly, like he’s barely able to form words but needs to let them loose. He used that tone with me the night of our date, and my core clenches at the memory. So damn panty melting.

My mind drifts to who he’s picturing as he strokes himself. Probably some perfect blonde with a big chest and a fat ass. He has that All-American look about him—the guy who was captain of the football team and ends up with the head cheerleader.

Which is why it makes sense that he didn’t want me.

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