And hell, I have to admit…kinda hot! My Womanizer Pro40 got some good use out of those eye-fucking sessions.
Angry hot-scrubs lowers his giant frame onto the seat across from me, all the while scowling at the food on his tray. A sad sub sandwich wrapped tightly in plastic props up a bruised apple. Even his water bottle lacks condensation…must be warm.
Poor dickish yet delicious doctor with sad food.
With a huff, he tears off the wrapping and rips open a packet of Miracle Whip.
My nose wrinkles.
What kind of animal prefers Miracle Whip over mayonnaise?
I hesitantly let go of where my fork sticks erect from my pie and rub my sweaty palms over my denim-clad thighs as he artfully spreads Miracle Whip over his sub and then slathers on mustard. I can’t pull my gaze from the spectacle because first of all, he’s two feet from me, and secondly, this is the first time I’ve been this close to him, and I need to take in the view.
His demeanor is more intimidating at this proximity for sure. He almost vibrates agitation. I wonder if the faint lines around his eyes mean he’s older than me? Makes sense, if he’s a doctor. I’m twenty-seven, so he’s maybe pushing thirty-five, which makes him all the hotter because I’ve always had a thing for older men.
However, based on his body language, I probably shouldn’t get my hopes up that this is some sort of adorable hospital cafeteria meet cute. He wears the expression of a shark who smells blood.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. What would Kate do in this situation? Maybe bait the shark?
“Hello there.” My stupid voice cracks like a thirteen-year-old boy. I clear my throat and try again. “I mean, hi.”
A grunt vibrates from the doc’s chest as he brings his sandwich to his mouth and takes an aggressive bite before finally lifting his attention to me.
His gaze connects with mine, and his smoldering deep greenish-brown eyes overwhelm me. Framed by long, dark lashes, they seem at odds with his creamy skin and sandy brown hair. His square jawline is peppered with light brown whiskers, and his lips are full but not big. Just…perfect—even if they’re stuck in a surly scowl.
Breathe normally. Just take in a slow breath and let it out at half speed.
Frankly, his whole presence overpowers me. It’s like sitting front row at an action movie and not being able to take in the entire cinematic glory because it all hits you too fast.
The hot doctor stares at me as he chews his food, and it’s…really weird. I avert my gaze to my pie and yank up the fork only to drag the prongs through the whipped topping. I need something to focus on besides watching him chew.
“How’s your day going?” I try again, my nerves skittering sideways.
His eyes have moved from me to my pie.
He takes another bite and grunts again.
Is he mute? Or is he just so polite that he refuses to talk with food in his mouth?
I lick the whipped cream off my fork and prop my elbows on the table with a bit more determination this time. “My name is Lynsey…what’s yours?”
I plaster on a super-fake smile as he tilts his head and takes another bite, eyeing me as though I’ve just murdered his entire village. My gaze casually drops to his hands.
No ring.
What the hell is going on with this guy? He’s single. He’s a doctor. He’s hot. What’s he got to be so sour about?
“You’re a doctor here, right?” I try to fill the silence. My eyes flick to the name badge hanging on a clip from the breast pocket of his scrub top. It reads “Dr. Richardson” with a whole battery of letters after his name. I don’t have a clue what any of them mean, but they’re probably important.
He continues to stare at me the same as always, though it’s more uncomfortable now because he’s so damn close.
Definitely not foreplay.
I shift in my seat. After months of sitting on these chairs, the plastic has become uncomfortably hard only this very second. I may be chafing.
Can a hard glare from a hot guy cause chafing?
What is this guy’s deal? I’m a nice person, not that he’d know. He’s never even given me a chance to show it. The way he’s looking at me reminds me of all the boyfriends my sister would sneak into our house when she was supposed to be babysitting me. They looked at my presence as though I was ruining their whole damn day.
A wave of warmth floods my body. It’s as though I’m in an interrogation room being questioned with a hot light above me that’s making me sweat. Except no one’s asking me questions.
Why is he still not talking? This is weird! And rude. Yes. Very, very rude. And hell, I was sitting here first. If a person decides to invade another person’s space, the least said person can do is speak.
My patience snaps, and my tone is a lot less friendly. “I just thought since you decided to sit at my table without asking, you’d be polite enough to introduce yourself.”
“Your table?” he grunts. His baritone voice sends a shiver through my body as he finally breaks his silence.
He drops his sandwich and reaches for his water bottle. I can’t help but stare at his Adam’s apple as the water slides down his thick neck with each long drink. He catches me gawking, so I quickly fork a bite of pie into my mouth.
“I was here first,” I mumble around the silky pie and gesture with my fork to my schoolwork strewn all over the table as proof.
“You’re always here from what I can tell,” he huffs, setting his water bottle down and grabbing his apple. He sits back in his chair and rubs it on his chest before taking a bite. “Always here and always eating pie.”
“I am not always eating pie!” I exclaim defensively around another forkful of pie. Jesus…when did that get in my mouth?
The doctor laughs, but it doesn’t reach his granite facial features. His mouth doesn’t even curve up around the edges…As a matter of fact, it wasn’t even really a laugh. It was another grunt.
“Umm, okay,” I reply dumbly, wiping the crumbs from my lips. What else can I do at this point? “I’m sorry, but did I do something to offend you?”
His eyes cut to my slice of pie. “You could say that.”
I look at my half-eaten dessert. What about it could have this guy so riled up that he’s confronting me in the middle of a hospital cafeteria? Glancing around the room conspiratorially, I lean across the table and lower my voice to ask, “Do you want my pie or something?”
Throwing his head back, he releases a genuine laugh—a deep, full-bodied sound that vibrates the area between my legs at a really inopportune time. Then he stops abruptly and pins me with a serious look. “No, I do not want your pie, Lynsey.”
I sit back and roll my eyes. “Okay, I get it…that was a dumb response. My mind is a bit absorbed with what I was working on, so maybe you could cut me some slack and save your riotous laughter for another table companion.”
It’s impossible to hide my agitated tone. This guy is unapologetically harshing my happy, thesis-completed vibe and taking me to a place I don’t appreciate.
Why is he so grumpy anyway? We live in Boulder! People here are always happy. Legalized marijuana has basically guaranteed that.
All humor drains from his face as he narrows his stormy eyes. “What were you working on exactly?”