Tossing my clothes off, I inwardly curse this day.
Great, just great, the day from hell will end with me bare-assed in front of a gorgeous man with a shitty bedside manner. Kind of like my seven-year marriage, except my ex, in my eyes, is no longer even the slightest bit attractive. Oh, how one night with your best friend can make the prettiest of men ugly. But, I digress. There are more pressing issues, like the fact that I have on granny panties.
Oh. My. God. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?!
A knock on the door forces me from the train of thought, or train wreck of thought.
“Ms. Bloom.”
I quickly pull the robe on and turn to face him.
The look of bemusement passes quickly over his face then snaps like the big, fat elastic band to my granny panties right back to broody.
“The back, Ms. Bloom.”
Immediately, I feel my cheeks flush. “Right.”
I turn around and quickly right the positioning of the robe, thankful that my bra, a nice demi cup push-up, matches at least the black god-awful cotton briefs. Once situated, I turn back around, straighten my shoulders, and look up, thinking but not saying, Ta-da!
I clearly hit my head pretty damn hard.
He nods toward the exam table. “Have a seat.”
Placing my hands behind me on the exam table, I push myself up and cringe when my very sore bum hits the table.
“Feel free to roll to yer side or stomach.”
Stomach it is.
“I’m just going to take a look, Ms. Bloom.”
Taking this endeavor to be a stronger woman, not a doormat, a bit too seriously, aren’t you? Chill out, I tell myself.
“That’s what I’m here for,” I say a bit too enthusiastically.
“Cold hands,” he says less than a second before I feel him push my granny panties down slightly and die a little inside.
Nothing like being at the hands of a Scottish god, clad in awful undies, to make your inner insecurities shine, huh, Lizzie?
“I think it’s more the right cheek,” I tell him.
“It’s not a cheek, Ms. Bloom; it’s yer entire backside,” he informs.
He presses on my tailbone, and I cringe.
He huffs, “How were ye able to sit today with a bruise this … large?”
Just like the flow of this conversation —mostly to myself— and a man referring to my ass as large, I reply truthfully, “Not comfortably; that’s for sure.”
“I’d say bed rest for—”
“No time for that.”
“You can’t stand all day, especially with a fractured ankle.”
Looking back, I see his eyes snap up from my large ass to meet mine.
“Had ye stayed put earlier, I could have seen ye immediately and given ye some suggestions to stop the spread of the bruising, and yer backside wouldn’t look or feel so bad.”
I look over my shoulder and ask, “Is it that bad?”
“It looks like ye’ve been spanked by …” He pauses and swallows back the rest of his inappropriate yet sexy word choice, then turns around, giving me his back. “Alternate cold and heat compresses for the next couple days. Ye can use a topical ointment— aloe vera, vitamin K, vitamin C, or comfrey, to name a few.” He turns back toward me. “Typically, I’d suggest elevating the area, but that may not be possible without bearing weight on the fractured fibula.”
“Fractured fibula?”
He steps closer and takes my foot, applying a small amount of pressure to the area below my ankle, and I wince. “The long outside bone of yer lower leg.”
God, why couldn’t I have gotten an ugly doctor, preferably one that didn’t have the accent that makes my already wobbly knees weak?
“The fibula is considered a non-weight-bearing bone— seventeen percent of yer body weight is all it absorbs. I’d like ye to continue using the crutches for a couple days, and then come back in and we’ll get a boot for ye. It will immobilize yer leg and protect yer bone.” He stares at my leg for a couple seconds more before setting it back down. “The walking motion will reduce muscle atrophy and will make yer physical therapy easier.”
“Physical therapy?” I gasp while calculating the costs that keep increasing in my head.
A knock on the door causes him to look back.
The receptionist steps in, holding a boot. “Dr. Stewart, we have—”
“Not the correct size,” he cuts her off.
“I can—”
“Ye’re free to leave. No need for two of us to have to change our plans.”
“Would you like me to pick up—”
“I’m all set,” he cuts her off again.
“Thank you, Dr. Stewart.”
Once she’s out the door, he looks back, and I shake my head at him.
“What?”
“For a doctor, I’d have to say, your bedside manner is lacking.”
I swear I see just a brief bit of amusement glimmer in his eyes.
“I’m a surgeon, a bone man, Ms. Bloom. If I can’t fix it, I nail it or screw it.”
Lord, take me now, I silently plea.
I can’t say if I’m even fifty percent sure of what Dr. Stewart said after nail it or screw it, but … tingles, and a return appointment for the damn boot.
“Four fifteen on Wednesday work, Ms. Bloom?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“Do you think ye can manage to be on time?”
I roll my eyes as I grab my crutches and hurry past him.
Men. Broody, cocky, arrogant men … my weakness. Add an accent and, apparently, it’s my kryptonite. I should seek counseling for that. I’m going to. Should have started after my breakup, or at very least after my online dating catastrophes.
He steps in front of me, filling the doorway.
“Excuse me.”
When he doesn’t move, I look up from his huge leather shoes and watch his eyebrow perch high as he looks down at me.
“Clothes, Ms. Bloom.”
Oh. My. God.
4:40 PM
Haphazardly dressed and on crutches, I hurry out the door and toward my car, trying to out-crutch the contradictory feelings that seem to be plaguing me.
While fumbling through my purse for my keys, my phone begins to ring.
I hit “decline,” grab my keys, unlock the door, and then slide in my seat, forgetting how sore my ass was until that moment.
“Shit,” I grumble as I adjust my body weight and grab my phone to see four missed calls.
“Really, weirdo?” I huff. “Take a freaking hint.”
The phone rings again, same damn number, and I have had enough. I hit “accept.”
“Before you say a damn word, you pervert, I’m obviously not interested. I fell down the stairs, you sicko; that’s the only reason you got a glimpse of the goods, you depraved, dick-pic peddler. And just so you know, no one needs to see that thing, so stick it in your ass, you freaky cyber flasher. And stop calling my phone or I’ll report you!”
I hit “end call,” then “delete,” “delete,” “delete,” and toss my phone on the passenger seat. When I push the key into the ignition and look up, I see him with his phone to his ear as a smirk spreads across his far too-handsome face.