Page 10 of Psychotic Obsession
I take a deep breath and look away from our assistants. “Did you invite them when I said not to?”
Her eyes widen. “God, no. I wouldn’t do that to you!”
My gaze narrows as I search her face. “I believe you.”
“How did they know we were here, though?” Gabriella asks. “Ohhhh, what if he’s secretly a party boy and gets drunk off his ass while screwing everyone in sight?”
I shake my head but don’t look back at them. “It’s the closest club. They probably always come here.” Then I laugh. “I honestly can’t imagine Tobias being like that. He seems too serious.”
“You could totally test him.”
Frowning, I stare at my best friend. “Meaning?”
She winks and finishes her glass, smiling over at the pair and getting their attention. I want to tell her to stop, that wedon’t need their company, but she’s already waving at them and muttering into my ear that she’s going for another drink.
I know she’s going straight to Justin, though, and I tut to myself, pulling my phone out to check the time.
I’m being a total grump and I know it. Gabriella knows it. The assistants know it, and the couple getting handy in the corner booth know it.
I'm sure he's fingering her while she tugs his zipper down and grabs his?—
"Stop staring," Tobias whispers in my ear before he takes the seat beside me in the booth. Now that he’s so close, I can see him clearly. He’s dressed in pants and a shirt that hugs every single muscle, and he smells nice–leather, I think, and a hint of something minty. I get a closer look at his bands–some for charities, two for mental health in teens, and one for a girl called Lucy.
If my memory serves me right, we have a patient on the ward with that name, and she’s currently fighting an aggressive form of cancer. Tobias spends a lot of time in her room–either reading a book to her, watching some kiddie TV show, or he’s helping her parents take fingerprints and hand casts. It was her birthday last month, and there are polaroids on her wall with him in a few.
"I'm sorry about today," Tobias says, leaning into me so I can hear him over the thundering bass. "My mother is in town and staying at my place, and she wouldn't leave me alone all day." His warm breath tickles my neck as his hand rests on the back of the booth, his fingers gently touching my shoulder. A shiver runs down my spine; it’s such a traitorous feeling, but I don’t try to pull away from his touch. It’s kind of nice.
I’m certain the music gets even louder, the bass harder, and my heart is racing so fast, I feel like I might go into cardiac arrest.
His thigh is pressed up against mine, his legs parted, one hand resting on the table, his finger tapping the wood.
I should shift to the side. I should push him away from me. But I’m not–my assistant’s body is touching mine, and I’m not revolted.
I’m most likely looking too much into this. He’s just a large man in a small booth, and I need to get a grip on my life.
"I'll make it up to you," he continues, his tone deep and…
God, his tone actually seems a bit teasing, almost flirtatious. Or is it the alcohol? Is he drunk? Why do I want to flirt back?
Screw it.
"You better," I say with narrowed eyes before smiling up at him. "Because if not, I'll find someone else."
I poke at his chest, and he snatches my wrist. Electricity rushes up my arm, heating my cheeks at the intense look in his eyes and the touch of his skin against my own.
"Is that right?" he asks, making my heart skip so fast, I stop breathing at his closeness. "Doctor Miller, don't underestimate me. I'll be the best assistant you've ever had."
"So far, I'm not impressed," I joke, raising a brow as I move back a little.
His fingers tighten around my wrist, and he pulls me closer to him. "I'll impress you. Don't worry. You tell me what it is you want, and I’ll give it to you."
Shakily, I reply, “Are you still talking about work?”
His shoulder raises in a shrug.
“You can’t flirt with me,” I say, hating my words. “It’s unprofessional and goes against the hospital’s policy.”
“Hmm,” he hums, trying to stop his smirk and failing as he releases my wrist.
