Page 12 of Wild For You

“Absolutely not.” Her eyes narrow and a glint of anger flashes in them. “It’s Erin.”

“You don’t look like an Erin.”

“No? What do I look like?”

She has a short fuse. I can’t help but wonder whether she’s as fiery in bed as she is outside of it.

The thought sends a rush of blood to my dick. My jeans tighten visibly. But even if I wanted to hide the bulge, the cast around my leg makes it impossible to shift position.

“Birdy.” I press my mouth into a tight line to suppress a grin.

“Don’t call me that.” Her voice is sharp, on edge. Flashes of anger flicker in her eyes. She looks as though she’s about to snap my head off, which turns me on even more.

“Why not? Don’t you like the word, the implication of it, or is it reserved for someone else?”

“I—” Her gaze darts around the kitchen as she struggles for words. Her expression is cagey, but her emotions are written all over her face. “Because it used to be my nickname.”

“Birdy?”

“Yeah, I don’t want you to call me that. Ever. It’s Erin. Please.”

Her blue eyes fill with moisture. She turns her head away, but not in time to hide the pain that pours from her.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to start our first session. I’ll prepare the guestroom,” she mumbles.

“I like the sound of that. You’ll find fresh linens in the cupboard in the hall.”

“You may call that flirting; I call it sexual harassment. Now, drink up your coffee. We’re beginning in ten.”

“Ten what?”

“Minutes, Mr. Boyd.” She exhales a long, exasperated breath that makes her chest heave. I smile, unable to help myself.

“What if I’m not ready by then?”

“Then we’ll be having a problem,” Erin says. “Your father—”

“—is paying you. Got it the first couple of times you mentioned it. He’s paying you to put up with my shit.”

“Good. Now that that’s sorted out, let’s begin.” She’s not even trying to pretend otherwise. Turning sharply on her heels, she heads for the door, calling over her shoulder, “We’ll do it in the living room, then.”

“You realize the words ‘We’ll do it’ are sending mixed messages, right? You may think I’m flirting, but I call it working with what you’re giving me. I would be careful how you talk to your patients. Or else—”

She spins back to me, her eyes two fiery pits. “Or else?”

I open my mouth to proclaim that I don’t mind the living room because I have a very comfortable sofa that’s suitable for any position she might desire. But something stops me. Clearly, she’s not the flirty kind. Or she’s not over the breakup of her last relationship. Whatever it is, there’s something about her that suddenly kills my mood to further wind her up.

“Or nothing.” I push the remnants of my sandwich into my mouth and chew slowly, wondering why the fuck I even care about her feelings.

What the hell?

She might not be the type I usually go for, but no woman is ever off-limits… considering the circumstances. The circumstances being the three, five-hour surgeries I had to endure, followed by the steel implant in my bone, then the cast on my foot rendering me glued to this house for months.

Her glance remains fixed on me for a second too long. Without another word, she turns around and leaves.

But I caught the fleeting glance.

I know that sparkle in her eyes.

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