by Amy Daws
He definitely has that perfect tall, dark, and handsome cliché look about him. His daily scruff is an intriguing salt and pepper, which only adds to his distinguished appeal. Compared to Camden, Prichard looks like a proper grown-up. It’s like comparing crème brûlée to ice cream. They are both delicious, but for very different reasons.
“Indie is your first name?” Camden drawls smoothly, eyeing me up and down. “I like it.”
I grimace and glance back at Camden’s girlfriend, who doesn’t appear the least bit taken aback by the way he is acting. Maybe she’s used to him acting this way toward women wherever they go. Maybe this is normal behaviour for him. If so, good luck to them. My Penis List can survive without the likes of Camden Harris.
“Indie, I’d like you to double-check a couple of things,” Dr. Prichard says a bit louder than necessary while he eyes Camden with a contemplative gaze.
He places his hand on the small of my back and ushers me out of the room. I hear a noise and glance back to see Camden shifting uncomfortably in bed and shooting daggers at Prichard’s hand. Is he bothered? How can he be when he has a bombshell standing right next to him? Besides, I wouldn’t think this looks like much. Prichard has always been affectionate in the way he communicates. It’s partially what makes him a great doctor. Sometimes a slight touch on a shoulder can instantly calm an anxious patient’s nerves.
When the door closes behind us, Prichard looks at me seriously through his deep brown eyes and says, “I’m going to have a meeting with the family about a new ACL procedure that cuts the recovery time by half. Due to the timing and the season being almost over, I’m afraid Mr. Harris won’t be able to play the last match. But with this new surgery, he’ll be up and normal in about a week. We’ll have to do a follow-up surgery one month after that. Then he’ll be good as new.”
My brows arch excitedly. “The Wilson Repair,” I state, trying to keep my voice calm and professional. “I’m very familiar. Will I get to scrub in?”
“I’m aware of how familiar you are, Indie. I read your published article.” His eyes crinkle as they drop down to my mouth. “That’s why I don’t want anyone else to assist me.”
I swallow uncomfortably at his peculiar look, but inside I’m soaring because this could be huge for me. He rubs my shoulder excitedly. “Gather the family in his room. We’ll discuss the details in there.”
A bit later, a pungent odour of wet, sweaty men swirls around the small amount of space in Cam’s suite as three Harris brothers and Mr. Harris all file in. They are quite the family—all well over six foot tall, gorgeous, and muscled like you wouldn’t believe. Two of the brothers are still in their fully soaked football gear, similar to what Camden was wearing when I saw him earlier. But now they are joined by a decidedly taller, darker, and more handsome bloke in street clothes who can be none other than Gareth Harris. Nurses keep flocking past the door, fan-girling over the man whose arrival twenty minutes earlier had to involve security. The media were already swarming for Camden, but when Gareth arrived, it became a frenzied mess.
My eyes focus once again on the blonde who is perched on the side of the bed. She’s dutifully holding Cam’s hand while Prichard explains the procedure that’s going to get him back on the field sooner rather than later.
I know more about The Wilson Repair than most because, in med school, I wrote a paper on the materials used for the surgical grafts. I cross-analised them with a newer formula and found potential for quicker recovery times for patients. After a couple of years, my results were published in a medical journal and surgeons began adapting the new material.
Since then, The Wilson Repair has slowly been taking over traditional ACL repairs. A Spanish footballer was the first athlete to have it done last year, and he returned to the season after only five weeks. The uniqueness of this type of repair is that it avoids any bone drilling. The only drawback is that it’s a two-session surgery, but the rapid recovery payoff supersedes that.
To scrub in on a procedure like this after all of my hard work is a huge opportunity. I’m hopeful this will prove to the other residents that I’m not only a skilled researcher; I’m also a skilled practicing surgeon who deserves to be here.
Since there’s only one more game left in the season, Camden is done for the year. Regardless, the fact that he’ll be able to start rehabilitation right away seems to please his family. I fill in all the blanks that Prichard volleys my way. The hospital’s PR person and a member of the press are present so he’s definitely show-boating a bit. But the Harrises are all gobbling it up as they look at us with bated breath every time we speak. Even Camden’s dad, Vaughn Harris, eyes me as if I alone am going to be the one to save his son’s life.
As I’m explaining to Camden that he’ll be up and walking normally in less than a week, another incredibly good-looking male comes strolling in.
“Hi, guys. Sorry it took me so long to get here. There was an accident on the Tube, and it’s a nightmare out front with TV crews.”
The blonde girl leaps off the bed and dives into the bloke’s arms. They embrace in an intimate hug. Her voice trembles against his chest, “It’s fine, Hayden. I’m just so glad you’re here.”
He pulls back, cupping her face and dropping a soft kiss to her lips. “Man, the way you’re acting, I’d swear it was you injured instead of Cam.” Hayden’s voice is laughing as he sweetly strokes her cheeks with his thumbs.
“Our Vi has a flair for the dramatics,” Tanner grumbles in a teasing tone.
“Shut it,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye. “It’s the bloody pregnancy hormones.” She swats Hayden’s chest playfully and adds, “And it’s all your fault.”
It’s then that Camden’s cocky eyes find my shocked ones. A lopsided grin tugs on his lips as he mouths, “Sister.” Then a full-blown, satisfied smile spreads across his face.
Sister.
Pregnant sister.
Not pregnant girlfriend.
And just like that, Penis Number One is back in the game.
A few minutes later, Prichard gets paged and leaves me to continue fielding any other questions they have. We schedule the first surgery for two days from now; however, to prevent any risk of further injuring himself and taking The Wilson Repair off the table, Prichard wants Camden to remain in the hospital. I’m sure the hospital also wants to capitalise on his presence here any way they can. With private ownership, this kind of press can greatly help with investor interest.
“So you’ll actually be in the room when they cut into my knee?” Camden quietly asks me as his family continues filling Hayden in on the other side of the room.
I nod, walking up to his bed and standing closer to him. His voice is low with a seriousness to his tone. Looking at him now, I see that he’s lost that roguish alpha air. Lying before me is a softer and more boyish version of him. Maybe even a little scared.
“I’ll be right beside Dr. Prichard,” I reply, fighting the urge I have to touch his arm in comfort.
Exhaling, he asks, “Will you be doing any of the cutting?” He swallows hard, and I watch his Adam’s apple slide down and back up his thick neck.
I note the pensive look on his face. “It’s a scope, Cam. They’re tiny incisions. You probably have football scars from tackles that are bigger than these will be. Truly, you’ll be up to your old tricks in no time. I promise you.”
A pleased smile spreads across his face.
“What?” I ask, pushing my glasses up and frowning in confusion.
“You just called me Cam.” The twinkle in his eyes leaves me no choice but to smile back.
I laugh softly and punch some pointless buttons on his monitor to distract myself from his face. “Slip of the tongue, Mr. Harris. Don’t get all cocky on me now. You were doing so well.”
“I was thinking I could call you Specs for a nickname instead of baby or Red, but Indie is just too sexy of a name I’m afraid. It’s beaten everything I’ve been workshopping in my head.”
I c
ross my arms over my chest. “You’ve been workshopping pet names for me?” I chuckle, secretly chastising myself for loving the nickname Specs more than I should.
He shrugs and tweaks his eyebrows while eyeing my completely scrub-covered cleavage. Honestly, the way his eyes are staring, you’d think I am wearing a wet T-shirt.
“I’ve had a lot of time on my hands,” he says, his voice deep and husky. “And you’ve sort of been consuming all my thoughts since you buggered off so quickly before.”
I clear my throat nervously. “I had things to do.”
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 FOR over 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.
Furthermore, when I get right down to the brass tacks of it, it wasn’t the location that made it memorable.
It was her.
She is breathtaking. From her face to her hair, to her body, to her glasses…She gave me chills and at that point all she had done was touch my arm. I need to know what it would be like to actually be inside of her.
I turn on the dim nightlight over my bed and snatch my mobile up off the side table. Quickly, I find Indie’s name that I saved in my contacts immediately after she left. She gave me her number, so whether she’s my doctor or not, that act alone told me she is also open to something more than just a doctor/patient relationship. I’m just not sure she’s ready to fully admit it yet.
She’s probably sleeping and won’t answer, but it’s worth a shot. I don’t usually have to chase girls but I’ll gladly make an exception for her.
Tonight is the perfect opportunity. There’s something about the night that makes things look differently, too. For example, when you hear a strange noise in your flat and it’s dark out, you’re instantly on defence, ready for battle. But, in the daytime, if you hear a strange noise, you’re certain it’s just the neighbour’s overweight cat tipping over his litter box again. You don’t even bother closing your book.
Darkness can make you brave. That’s what I want out of Indie. There’s something about her that I want to break through. Maybe if I can get her up to my room now that she’s not officially working, she’ll drop the wall and let me in.
I press DIAL on my mobile and hear the sexiest
sound in the universe. “Mmmm, this is Dr. Porter.”
My groin lurches. “Are you in the middle of something?”
“Mmmm, what’s that? What did you say?” Her voice is moany and scratchy, and all I can think about are the sounds she’d make with me inside of her.
My breath comes out quickly before I resume speaking. “You sound like you were either in the middle of dreaming about me, or you were in the middle of touching yourself while dreaming about me, or you were wide awake and touching yourself while dreaming about me. All of the above is an acceptable answer.”
Silence.
“Don’t go quiet on me now, Indie.” I reach down and shamelessly cup myself, closing my eyes and imagining her all sleep-tousled and adorable in my bed with me.
“Is this Camden?” Her voice is a bit clearer now.
“Miss me?”
I hear ruffling on the other end, and I envision her sitting up in bed and putting her glasses on. Her voice is alert. “I’m just thinking about how full of yourself you are to assume that the only options of what I’m doing right now include thoughts of you.”
“Who else would it be?” I ask and move my hand from my dick as frustrating thoughts of that prat, Dr. Prichard, flash in my mind. She better not be thinking of that wanker. “Did you have another someone else manhandle your lips today?”
She huffs incredulously. “What’s going on? What’s the matter?” she yawns.
“I can’t sleep.”
“Is it pain? Have they done final rounds on you already? You need to tell them your pain number and be honest, Cam. And make sure they don’t forget to give you a new dose if it’s been four hours.”
I grin at her calling me Cam again. It sounds so perfectly casual and utterly sexy coming from her kind voice. “It’s not pain.”
