Page 33 of Dr. Bad Boy

Chocolates and comfortable conversation over takeout Italian food.

Thinking about the woman when I’m not with her.

Going out of my way to meet up with her again—although that could be stalking.

I may not have a lot of experience in this area, but I’m not an idiot.

Violet may not want to date me, but it’s already happening.

This is probably the longest relationship I’ve ever had. She’s not going to be amused by that fact, either.

Probably on her top-ten list of things she looks for in guys to date, right belownot her clientsanddefinitely not guys who mistake her for a call girlwould besomeone who’s demonstrated an ability to handle a relationship like a grown up.

My ability to handle anything is aggressively weighted toward my medical career. That’s part reality of the choices I’ve made, and part consequence of the decisions others made before I had a choice.

But I can show her how to peel a pomegranate, and make her a sandwich.

We’ll start small.

When I walk her to her car, she hesitates.

“I’m going to invite myself back to your place,” I say. “Because that way you don’t have to decide if it’s a good idea or not.”

“It’s not.” But her lips curve into a smile, and her eyes are bright.

“I’ll be a gentleman.”

“That sounds unlikely. Do you need my address, or have you figured that out on your own?”

I did think about having a PI get me that information. Then I thought better of investigating my attorney—another argument against me as a potential boyfriend, that it was our professional relationship and not our personal one that gave me pause on the invasion of privacy. “I need it.”

She gives it to me and I type it into my phone next to her work number. I don’t push for her cell number.

Baby steps.

In theory, Violet lives in a nice neighbourhood, not all that far from Gavin’s official residence.

In reality, when she pulls up in front of a shitty walk-up that reminds me of university, I have a jolt of alarm before I can repress it.

She’s not mine to protect. She’s barely even mine to feed for an afternoon.

But as I slide into the parking spot behind her car and hop out, striding quickly toward her lest she try to pick up the shopping basket before I get there, I’m already making a list of things I want to check out.

The front door is adequate. It’s glass, which I don’t love, but it requires a passcode to get in, and it automatically locks behind us.

The stairs are in reasonable condition, although the bannister seems wobbly.

“Are you inspecting my home?” she asks as I stop to check a carbon monoxide detector halfway up the central staircase.

“Of course not.” I press the test button and it chirps. Good.

“That’s super weird.”

“Super weird is that you live like a college student.”

“I’m only two years out of university and I have a hefty chunk of student loans to pay back. What were you expecting?”

I don’t answer that. I’m aware that I’m a snob. I usually hide it better than this. But when was the last time I went to a lover’s home?

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