Page 2 of Accidental Doctor Daddy

Even ifthiswas a walking, talking, beachside fantasy soaked in my drink and currently watching me with the kind of smirk that could melt glass.

He extended a hand. “I’m Dominic. Or Dom, if you prefer. Most people who douse me in booze earn the privilege.”

Despite the mortification setting up camp in my chest, I found myself laughing. “Ella,” I said, already reaching for the club soda and salt from the bar like I’d done this a hundred times before. “Take off your shirt and I might be able to save it.”

That earned me a wicked grin. “Is that an invitation?”

I rolled my eyes, but my pulse was already misbehaving. “An invitation to save your shirt. Don’t get excited.”

Too late for me. I was already five fantasies deep.

He peeled off the linen button-down like it was no big deal, revealing a white tank stretched across sculpted pecs and strong arms that looked like they spent their free time lifting yachts. My throat went dry.

Definitely too late.

I focused on blotting the fabric. “Almost as good as new,” I muttered. “Though if I were you, I’d let the hotel dry-clean it.”

He held it up, inspecting the damage in the flickering firelight. “You’ve got a knack for managing chaos.”

I shrugged, trying to sound breezy even though my heart was currently doing parkour. “Occupational hazard.”

He leaned his elbow on the bar, watching me. “Lemme guess. Disaster response team?”

“Close.” I gave him a wink. “Chef.”

“Ah,” he said with a smile. “That explains it. You jumped when the fire dancers lit up.”

“I didn’t know they were fire dancers,” I huffed. “I thought they were just…regular dancers. In my world, surprise flames usually mean somebody’s eyebrows are about to go up in smoke.”

“Sounds like trauma,” he said, deadpan, then lifted two fingers to the bartender. “Another Halekulani for the lady. On my tab.”

“You really don’t have to?—”

“I insist,” he said, all velvet and mischief. “Call it hazard pay.”

I glanced around, desperate for something—anything—to ground me. The torches cast dancing shadows across the bar, making everything look dreamlike and far too romantic. I tucked a loose curl behind my ear, willing my pulse to slow. “For the record… I usually drink my cocktails. Not throw them.”

Dom’s mouth curved, but his gaze stayed on the ocean. “Admit it. I make you nervous.”

My breath caught. God, he wasn’t even pretending not to know what he was doing.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t—not with heat climbing up my neck and his voice still curling around me like smoke. Not with the weight of his attention dragging my pulse into dangerous territory.

Thank God for the bartender, who slid a fresh Halekulani in front of me like a lifeline—tall, golden, dangerously pretty. But it smelled like poor decisions and great memories.

Dom raised his glass again, that smirk still tugging at the edge of his mouth. “To happy accidents?”

My fingers curled around the chilled glass. “You really don’t have to?—”

“I know,” he said simply.

I clinked my glass to his. “Then… to happy accidents,” I murmured, and took a sip, letting the burn distract me from the heat simmering in my core.

He watched me like he wanted to peel off more than just the shirt I’d already ruined. Like he was seconds from leaning in and finding out exactly what I tasted like under this dress.

And God, I wanted him to.

I wanted to follow him back to his room, ride that rough New York accent all the way to the headboard, let his big hands remind me what it felt like to be touched like I mattered.

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