Page 14 of Challenge
He growls with a speculative twinkle in his lash-framed eyes. “You thought she was my girlfriend, didn’t you?”
I remain silent. The discomfort I felt in those brief moments at the loss of opportunity a girlfriend would have presented is not something I care to revisit. Him having a girlfriend should have come as a relief to me. Instead, my stupid, tortured soul was more disappointed about the loss of Penis Number One.
“My sister is more like a mum at times,” he adds. “She’s great. You’d like her I’m sure. Everybody does.”
“She’s lovely,” I reply, my chest pounding with anxiety as that heated look in his gaze blossoms. “My shift is about over so I need to be going.”
All cockiness drains from his face. “You’re leaving?”
I shake my head. “Well, not technically. I sleep here. I only get six hours off, so I get more sleep if I stay in the on-call room.” Which is mostly true. He doesn’t need to know I don’t go home because it’s too lonely there.
“So can I have them page you in the middle of the night if I need a sponge bath?” he drawls sexily. The corner of his mouth tilts up with an impish grin.
“No,” I baulk.
“Why ever not?” He actually has the nerve to look offended.
“It doesn’t work like that, Cam—Mr. Harris. The resident on call is whom they’ll page. Plus, sponge baths aren’t resident jobs.” But, come to think of it, if anyone is touching him, I want it to be me.
“I don’t want just any medical person. I want you. They put me in the VIP wing. Don’t I get some say?”
“This isn’t appropriate,” I whisper, but even I can tell my voice sounds weak. I bite my lip and look around nervously, grateful to see his family oblivious to our current exchange.
“I’m not asking for anything major. Just a simple way to get ahold of you if I have questions about the surgery. I don’t do well with this…stuff.” His expression morphs from cocky player to pensive patient. My instinct tells me that it’s not an act, and my professional training wants to put his mind at ease. Not to mention, my heart lurches when someone looks at me the way he is, all wounded and scared, especially when I know I can make him better.
I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do. But a deep, quiet part of my mind says he needs this and this is my chance. This is where I take the plunge. This is where I stop letting my professional life trump my personal life.
I reach into my pocket for my yellow Post-it notes. With shaky hands, I scribble my mobile number down and hand it over to him. His fingertips brush against mine, but he continues to watch my face for the answer to what I’m handing him.
“Don’t make me regret this, Camden Harris.” I take a step back, watching the space between us shimmer with heat transference like the air above a campfire.
“Never.” His tone is dark and promising as he clutches my number in his fist.
Feeling as if my legs might give out as his stormy blue eyes lock onto mine, I break the trance I’m in and turn to shuffle out, grateful that the family is still deep in their own conversation and oblivious to us.
“Oh, and Indie?” he says quietly, forcing me to pause and look over my shoulder.
“Yes?”
“When I have two good knees again, you won’t be able to get away from me so easily.” His eyes spark with heated warning. It’s a warning that says to prepare myself for much more than a stolen kiss.
Feeling more like a woman than a doctor at this moment, I bite my lip and shrug. His gaze drops down to my pink tinted lips, which causes me to smile, spin on my heel, and haul arse out of there before my blush starts me on fire and totally gives me away.
AFTER TOSSING AND TURNING FORover two hours now, I’m no closer to getting any rest than I was the second I started silently listing football stats in my head. As a child, I had the worst case of insomnia, so Vi got me hooked on listing things to help my brain quiet down. So, since ten o’clock, I’ve been listing every goal I’ve scored and I’ve still seen nearly every minute on the bloody clock tick by.
I should be exhausted. It’s almost midnight and it was a rain match today for fuck’s sake. But my mind keeps wandering back to the surgery they want to do on my knee in two days—this supposed career-saving surgery.
When everyone came in with their bright ideas, impressive statistics, and articles about other footballers who have had this brand new surgery, I didn’t react the way I thought I would. I should have been jumping for joy and kissing the good doctor for saving my career.
Instead, a twisting in my gut multiplied. I began to feel weighted down like I do when I run around a muddy pitch wearing ankle weights. Did I lose my shot at a Premier contract? Am I even still a footballer if I can’t play right now? Football is my identity, so what am I without it?
It’s all a bit disconcerting, especially since I’ve been having the season of my life. This Wilson Repair is supposed to get me right back in the game, so why am I so confused about how I feel?
Oh, shut it, Camden. You probably just need to get laid, I think to myself. Instantly, Indie’s angelic face invades my mind.
“Fuck it,” I say while pressing the button on my bed to raise myself up. I can’t keep lying here—not sleeping—and obsessing. My brain needs a break from the stress. In the past, whenever I’ve needed a break, women were usually the perfect release. The perfect distraction to forget and not be needed for something more than just the basic carnal act of sex.
Indie Porter would more than do for me right now. She’s been invading my thoughts since I first laid eyes on her. The tremendous urge I have to know more about her is heady. I think she might be a little nuts and that makes me positively desperate to know more. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had encounters with beautiful women from all over the world. But kissing a doctor in an exam room ranks high on my list of spank-banking material.
