Dr. Hot Stuff (Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedies Book 9)

by Tawna Fenske

I swallow hard. “Stay. Please.”

  “What?”

  “For dinner. Please stay for dinner.” I jump off the couch, already kicking myself for my unwillingness to say goodbye to Bradley. I know that’s what’s best, but my foolish heart won’t listen. “Besides, I have dinner for Kevin. I’d like to see if the pig feed I bought is to his liking.”

  Bradley stands, eyeing me oddly. “This is your way of ending the conversation without kicking me out?”

  I consider denying it, but what’s the point? “I’m sorry, but there are some things I can’t share.” I swallow hard, holding his gaze. “But corndogs aren’t one of those things.”

  “Corndogs?” He cocks his head. “Somehow, that’s not what I thought a member of a royal family would make for dinner.”

  “Would you prefer tea and crumpets?” I laugh as I stretch up to grab the cornmeal, then the low-sodium salt I’ve been using. “I’m certain that could be arranged.”

  “No, corndogs sound great.” He follows me into the kitchen with a bemused expression. “Haven’t had a corndog for years.”

  “I assure you I make quite delicious corndogs.”

  “Wait, you mean you’re making these from scratch?” Now he really looks impressed. “Okay, this I’ve gotta see.”

  He slips past me in the kitchen, moving to the sink to wash his hands. I try not to let it affect me, his heated proximity or the sight of those long, sexy fingers moving with graceful efficiency. I know I should force myself not to stare, but there’s this American expression about doctors having a good bedside manner.

  Doc Bradley has good bedside manner in the kitchen. And the living room. And, presumably, the bedroom. Why is it hot in here?

  Tearing my eyes off him, I focus on getting out my mixing bowls and measuring cups. “They’re quite simple to make, though I don’t do it often.”

  He dries his hands on a towel and watches as I dump vegetable oil into my favorite saucepan. “How did I never know you’re a corndog connoisseur?”

  “I didn’t know.” I pull the milk out of the fridge, along with a carton of eggs. “I’d never even heard of corndogs until Jon and Blanka took me to a carnival not long after our surgery.”

  I still recall the thrill of being part of the family, doing normal, American things. “I saw the corndogs and they looked so interesting,” I continue, “but clearly they’re not a good nutritional choice for someone watching sodium and taking anti-rejection medication.”

  “That’s the bummer with a kidney transplant.” He braces both hands on my counter and I get distracted for a moment looking at them. “So many things you have to give up.”

  I swallow hard and tear my gaze off his hands. “Yes, well, not corndogs, apparently. I wanted one so much that Sean worked with a dietician to develop a recipe more suited to my limitations. Once he perfected it, he taught me to make them at home.”

  How easily the word “home” slips out, even though I know I can’t think that way. Also, my face is flaming from staring at Bradley’s hands and pretending I’m not. I turn and reach into the freezer and pull out the container of specially made hot dogs, prying the lid off to make sure I have plenty.

  “Wait—are those homemade, too?” Bradley peers into the container, which thankfully, contains a dozen or more thick wieners that look much nicer than the ones I’ve seen in stores. “Hot dogs from scratch?”

  “Yes, Sean makes them just for me.” A coil of family fondness wraps itself around my heart. How wonderful the Bracelyn family has been from the very moment I arrived. The debt of gratitude I owe them is immense.

  But the other debt, the one to my family in Dovlano—

  “I’m impressed.” Bradley inspects the tidy row of pink hot dogs. “Am I remembering right that Jon’s a corndog junkie, too?”

  “Yes, we’ve remarked on that before. About studies where organ donors have passed along their culinary tastes to transplant recipients. Cases where someone previously detested tomatoes, but craves them after getting bone marrow from someone else who likes them.”

  “That’s fascinating.” Bradley shakes his head. “Not nearly as fascinating as everything that’s gone into creating special Iz-friendly corndogs. How can I help?”

  I point to the bag of kebab skewers I’ve set out on the counter. “You can thread those through the hot dogs. Don’t worry, they’re all-natural, organic beef.” I glance over to where Kevin lies snoozing on the pet bed. “No pork products whatsoever. Not even the casings.”

  “Impressive.” Bradley picks up the bag of skewers and shakes a few onto the counter. “How many are we making?”

  “I can eat two or three,” I tell him. “I have healthy coleslaw in the fridge to go with them, plus all the usual condiments.”

  Bradley’s frowning down at the hot dogs, an odd look on his face. He’s holding a skewer in one hand and looking just a touch uncomfortable.

  I take a step closer. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry.” He shakes his head. “Just a weird moment of déjà vu.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He grimaces. “I probably shouldn’t say it.”

  “You must.” Not like I have any room to talk when it comes to keeping secrets, but surely this one doesn’t have the same gravity. “Is something wrong?”

  “Uh, well, there’s this procedure called cystoscopy,” he says slowly, still gripping one of the skewers. “It’s an endoscopic procedure where a physician inserts a tube into the urethra through the tip of the penis.”

  “Oh,” I say, recognition dawning. “Oh, my.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I didn’t want to say anything.” He flashes a self-deprecating smile. “You can’t get wigged out too easily when you’re a doctor, but that’s the one procedure that gives me the willies.” He winces. “No pun intended.”

  I laugh, delighted to get the joke. Besides educating me about slang terms for birth control, Lily took it upon herself to regale me over lunch with copious slang for male genitalia. I was especially delighted by the term “willie,” along with “dingholer” and “flesh twinkie” and “meat stick” and—

  “That’s a great smile.” Bradley grins, hot dog still gripped in his hand. “Does that mean I didn’t totally ruin this meal for you?”

  “What? Oh, no—of course not.”

  My mother would be appalled by my mental catalogue of penis euphemisms. The very notion of calling human genitalia by anything other than clinical terms would be gauche, in her eyes. As a child, I understood this was part of being sophisticated. That people like us—refined, cultured people—didn’t use irreverent language for body parts or sex acts.

  As Bradley gets busy skewering hot dogs, I struggle not to let my brain dip down dark corridors. Not to dwell on rules I grew up with, the expectations for me as a young lady of royal birth. Not to think about any of it.

  My brain obliges gleefully by supplying another round of penis terms.

  Pecker.

  Snot sausage.

  Wanker spanker.

  Stop it!

  I pick up the recipe card and stare at the blur of words. Something about dry ingredients and wet ingredients and why the hell was my mother so hung up on illicit sex terminology, anyway?

  Her rules against using that language ran counter to her actions. That’s evidenced by my existence, by the fact that her affair with Cort Bracelyn led to my conception and the Duke raising a daughter who wasn’t his. I’ve spent a lifetime striving to be a good member of the royal family, a perfect lady to make them proud.

  Goo bazooka.

  Yogurt gun.

  Dicksicle.

  Baloney pony.

  Oh, dear.

  Now that it’s been triggered, I can’t switch off the branch of my brain that catalogued all the penis words. Thank God Bradley Parker is a doctor and not a mind reader or I’d be in trouble.

  I fight to paste on my serious expression, to concentrate on sifting and stirring and cracking an egg so hard the yol
k runs down my wrist.

  “Everything okay?” Bradley’s voice is a low rumble, but I can’t look at him. Can’t stop the chipper litany of filthy words running through my brain.

  Crotch cobra.

  Bacon rod.

  Wrinklebeast.

  “Fine!” I practically shout. “Everything’s great. I almost have the batter ready.”

  Dear Lord, make it stop. I glance at Bradley, then wish I hadn’t. He’s gripping a hot dog in one hand, concentrating with medical precision on threading the skewer through the end of the plump pink cylinder.

  I drop my gaze quickly, studying the polished edge of the granite counter. Instantly, I recognize my mistake. The fly of his jeans rests precisely at that level, and now I’m staring right at his—

  Hooded warrior.

  Flesh trumpet.

  Groinstalk.

  “Dear God, stop.”

  Bradley looks up with alarm. “Am I doing it wrong?”

  “What? No.” I can’t believe I said that out loud. “I’m sorry, you’re fine. Please, continue.”

  I turn away, determined to focus on preparing the meal. I stir the flour and cornmeal, adding a little low-sodium salt. My big purple whisk makes sloppy, slurpy sounds as I whip it through the mix of egg and milk and—

  “So what happens next?” Bradley’s voice snaps my attention back to him. He’s holding up one skewered hot dog, and suddenly, my palms go clammy. “We stick these in the batter and then the oil?”

  I swallow back my own mortification. Can he tell I’ve morphed into a filthy-minded vixen who can’t stop thinking about penises?

  Of course not. Surely three decades of practice allows me to hide my innermost thoughts behind a mask of royal propriety.

  But seriously, how did I never notice the entire process of making corndogs is wrought with sexual symbolism? The flex of Bradley’s biceps isn’t helping, and neither is the muscular plane of his chest.

  “Um, first we rub each hot dog with cornstarch so the batter adheres properly.” I pluck the skewered frankfurter from his hand and force myself to demonstrate. “Like this, so all the flesh gets covered.”

  Flesh? Is that even the right word? I can’t think straight as I stand here stroking the hot dog with a fistful of cornstarch while the hottest man I know watches. I dare a glance at Bradley’s face and wish I hadn’t. He’s staring at me with his mouth agape, eyes darting back and forth as I slide the hot dog through the tunnel of my curled fingers.

  “That’s, uh—pretty thorough.”

  “What? Oh, yes.” I gulp. “That’s enough of that.”

  Cheeks blazing, I reach for the batter bowl and promptly pour the wet ingredients into the dry. I’m mixing and beating and doing my best to get my brain back on track. To focus on the recipe, on the culinary craft of—

  Love lollipop.

  Uncle spunky.

  Bonercoaster.

  “Okay!” I practically shout it like a maniac as I set the mixing bowl on the counter. “Now we pour the batter into a tall drinking glass.” My voice sounds high and shaky and I’m certain Bradley can hear my raunchy inner thoughts. That he knows, deep down, I’m not a duchess but a twelve-year-old boy.

  “A drinking glass?” He watches as I carefully pour the batter. “What’s that for?”

  “It’s the perfect shape to ensure even coverage and the least amount of batter waste.”

  “Makes sense.” He picks up a cornstarch-dusted hot dog and holds it above the glass. “Like this?”

  I open my mouth to reply as he plunges it in, dunking the dog deeply into the milky liquid. I nod because I can’t find any words. None that aren’t penis euphemisms, anyway. For goodness sake, how many times is he planning to thrust that hot dog into the glass?

  “Um, that should be good.” I clear my throat, pretty sure I’ve forgotten a step somewhere.

  “The oil!” I spin around and stalk to the stove. Flicking on the burner, I set the temperature to medium-high. “This can get a bit messy,” I continue as I bend down to find the mesh splatter screen Sean gave me. I know it’s in here somewhere. Maybe behind the cookie sheet or wedged between two cutting boards. “If you’re not careful, the hot oil spurts all over the place and—ah-ha!”

  I stand up triumphantly, splatter screen in one hand. Bradley blinks, gaze snapping to mine about a half-second too late. That’s when I realize he was checking out my ass.

  Or maybe he’s staring because of what I said about spurting and splattering and—

  “Dear God.” I set the mesh screen down on the counter and close my eyes, defeated. “Please tell me I’m not the only one having terrible thoughts.”

  “Terrible?” The sexy rumble of Bradley’s voice has me opening my eyes again. That’s when I see he’s taken a step closer, that there’s a heat in his eyes I’m sure wasn’t there before.

  Or maybe it was. Maybe I failed to notice.

  “Terrible,” I repeat, no longer convinced that’s the right word. “Between you putting penis thoughts in my head and—”

  “I put penis thoughts in your head?” Bradley quirks an eyebrow. “This from the woman who just gave a handy to a frankfurter?”

  “A hand—oh, a hand job?”

  He blinks, then smiles. “So I wasn’t imagining it?”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.” I smack my palm on the counter, frustrated by my own lack of self-control. “All I wanted was a simple meal with a nice, upstanding gentleman, but I can’t stop thinking about sex!”

  I shout that last word a whole lot louder than I meant to. I’m braced for Bradley to laugh, or maybe suggest we switch to some other entrée. There’s nothing dirty about tacos, right?

  Instead, he steps closer. “Isabella?”

  With another deep breath, I force myself to look up at him. “Yes?”

  “I’m not such a nice, upstanding gentleman.”

  “Oh?” I’m not positive what he means by that, but there’s an odd, hopeful note in the syllable that just escaped my lips.

  Bradley steps closer again. “If it makes you feel better, my mind’s in the same place.” His voice is low, suggestive, and I feel it in the pulse between my legs. “Right there in the gutter with yours.”

  “Um, okay.” Since my brain is filled with thoughts of penises, I doubt that’s entirely true.

  “This process is turning out to be entirely too phallic,” he murmurs as his palm cups my elbow and he draws me up against his chest. “Maybe we could tilt the scales toward a more feminine variation?”

  I’m not certain what he means, but I feel myself nodding, going up on tiptoe to brush my lips against his. “Kiss me,” I whisper, though I’m already making it happen.

  My fingers slip around the back of his neck, pulling him down to me as I press against the hardness of his body. Bradley kisses me back, and this time, there’s a familiarity to it. A hot, hungry possession that wasn’t there before.

  Maybe that’s what makes me bold. Letting go of him, I reach over and flick off the burner. Then I turn and boost myself up on the counter. I hesitate, heart thudding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. With a deep breath, I reach down and grab the hem of the sexy red sweater Lily urged me to buy.

  That’s it, blame the sweater.

  This absurd thought flits through my brain as I peel the soft cashmere over my head and toss it aside, leaving me perched on my kitchen counter in my new red brassiere.

  “Holy Christ.” He blinks, and the reverence in his voice, in his eyes, is enough to send ripples of lust wiggling through me. “Izzy, you’re stunning.”

  I haven’t felt stunning with my top off since the day doctors carved me up to stick an unfamiliar organ in my body. My scars, the toll taken on my body by the procedure, the weight gain from steroids I’ll need to take for the rest of my life—none of it’s pretty.

  But the way Bradley’s looking at me now, I almost believe him. The bra is La Perla, satiny and sheer with just a hint of lace. I don’t think it’s the garment
capturing his attention. As he steps between my thighs, he draws both big hands up to cup the contents of my bra. “You’re so soft.” His mouth finds my neck and I shiver, twining my fingers behind his neck again. “So fucking perfect.”

  It’s the expletive that gets me, even more than his touch. Have I ever been the source of such desire? The kind of woman who drives a man to profanity, to groping her between a pot of oil and a tepid glass of corndog batter?

  I know it’s wrong to want this. That I can’t have more than just a few stolen moments, but maybe it’s enough. He knows I’m leaving, so perhaps we’re on the same page. This doesn’t have to mean something.

  Closing my eyes, I lean into the sensation of his hands on my breasts, the woodsy smell of his jawline as it scrapes the soft hollow beneath my chin. I’ve never felt so desired, so utterly ravished by a man. Especially not a man like Bradley, hardened with muscle from the military, or maybe lifting weights at the gym. I draw my hands down the rigid lines of his back, savoring every coiled flex, every heated ripple of flesh.

  His tongue flicks the soft spot behind my ear, and I moan, wrapping my thighs around him. I know there’s some reason I shouldn’t be doing this, but is it so wrong to want to seize some small slice of pleasure before…before…

  “Izzy?” Bradley draws back to look at me. His eyes are hooded but also wary. “You okay?”

  “Of course.” I blink up at him, conscious of the liquid heat between my thighs, the hardness between his.

  “You tensed up all of a sudden.”

  “I did?” Dammit. I lick my lips and drag my hands down his chest. “I don’t know why.”

  Lie. That’s a great big lie, and I feel so awful about it that I grip the front of his shirt and pull him down for another kiss.

  He kisses back, but it’s slower this time. More tentative. When he draws back, there’s a question in his eyes. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to—”

  “Okay.” My heart’s pounding in my chest, and I recognize it’s more than lust. I don’t know what he’s going to ask, but there’s a good chance I can’t answer. Shouldn’t answer.

  You shouldn’t do any of this, but here you are.

  Bradley lifts one hand and brushes the hair back from my face. “Izzy, are you—have you been intimate with someone before?”