Possessive Doctor

by Hamel, B. B.

  Possessive Doctor

  BB Hamel

  Contents

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  1. Amber

  2. Brent

  3. Amber

  4. Brent

  5. Amber

  6. Brent

  7. Amber

  8. Brent

  9. Amber

  10. Brent

  11. Amber

  12. Brent

  13. Amber

  14. Brent

  15. Amber

  16. Brent

  17. Amber

  18. Brent

  19. Amber

  20. Brent

  21. Amber

  22. Brent

  23. Amber

  Also by BB Hamel

  Copyright © 2020 by B. B. Hamel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Coverluv Book Designs

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  1

  Amber

  My leg aches, a bone-deep pain in the middle of my right thigh. I lean on the cane as I limp forward toward the automatic doors. My father leans out the window of his shiny black truck. “See you when it’s done,” he says, and drives off.

  I don’t look back. I can hear his truck as the engine growls away. The only thing he loves more than a big truck with a loud engine is making money.

  The doors glide open. I let out a little breath as the cool air hits me in the face. It’s summer in Texas, which means it’s hotter than balls, and I don’t even have any. The air conditioning is a nice relief as I hobble my way into the waiting room.

  A nice woman behind the desk smiles at me. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Amber Gibbins here to see, uh, Dr. Lofthouse?”

  She nods a little and types on her computer. “Great. You’re all set, just grab a seat and we’ll call you back shortly.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I hobble over to a chair and sit with a sigh. I straighten my right leg and massage the muscle gently, even though that doesn’t do much. Walking with a cane at twenty-four is pretty bad, but it beats being bedridden for weeks with an enormous cast from my ankle to my crotch. The day it came off, I spent like two hours in the bathtub shaving every single inch of my right leg.

  I look around for a magazine or something to read but just settle for my phone instead. I’m scrolling through Facebook, barely paying attention to anything, when I hear my name. I look up, expecting a nice but bland young woman in scrubs, and instead find an insanely attractive man staring back at me with fierce blue eyes.

  He smiles a little bit and walks over as I start to try to get to my feet.

  “Easy,” he says softly, putting his hands on me. I shiver for a second and let him take some of my weight.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Still getting used to it.”

  “No worries. It’s what we do here.” He gets me standing. “Do you need help walking? I can get a chair.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. Just slow.”

  He smiles. “I’ve got all day.”

  I limp after him. I notice the receptionist is giving him this dreamy smile, even though she’s at least fifty years old. He grins at her and waves as we head into the back.

  The building looks like any other doctor’s office at first. The short hallway has a few branching rooms and he takes me into one of them.

  “Hop up there, I’ll do your vitals.”

  I hesitate in front of the table. “Uh,” I say.

  He laughs. “Sorry. Here.” He comes over and helps me up. Again, his strong hands touch my body and it sends a thrill through me. I know I shouldn’t feel like this, I mean, he’s just a physical therapist. It’s his job to touch people.

  And yet he’s so handsome, so damn attractive, that I can’t help myself.

  “So, Amber,” he says once I’m settled. “I’m Dr. Lofthouse. I’ll be your physiatrist.”

  “Physiatrist?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s like a physical therapist, but I went to medical school. So I’m technically a doctor as well.”

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s cool.” And I instantly feel like a total moron.

  He smiles and looks at my chart. “Car accident?” he asks.

  I nod. “Bad one.”

  “Sorry to hear.” He mumbles to himself. I hear a few words I recognize, like compound break and femur but some of it just sounds like made up Latin.

  “Well,” he says finally. “Vitals time.”

  He gets up, takes my blood pressure, listens to my heart and my lungs, takes my temperature. “Don’t nurses usually do this?” I ask.

  “Usually. But we’re a little short staffed today.”

  “Oh. That’s a shame.”

  “Is it? I don’t know. I like to be hands-on. Helps the practice run smoothly if I know what’s happening.”

  “You’re the… head?”

  “Founder and head of the practice, yep.” He makes a few notes on my chart and types it all into the computer. “So, let’s talk pain. How bad?”

  “Bad,” I say.

  “Constant?”

  “Yes, pretty much. Worse in the morning. The worst when I stand.”

  “Right,” he says to himself. “Okay. Taking anything for it?”

  “They gave me a prescription but I’m trying not to take it.”

  “Good for you, but it’s okay if you do. Just don’t start to rely on it.”

  “That’s what I want to avoid.”

  He nods and makes a few more notes. “Okay then. Want to get to work?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He helps me down. “So what do you do?” he asks.

  “Nothing right now,” I say. “I went to school for business management. I’m going to work for my father’s company.”

  “Oh, that’s fun. What does he do?”

  “Owns an oil business. Gibbins Oil.”

  “Straightforward name. I like it.”

  I laugh a little. “Yeah, well, my father’s really into family.”

  “I can very much relate to that,” he says with a little smile.

  We walk slowly down the hall, past the few rooms, and through another set of double doors into what looks like a big gym. The floor is covered in a slightly springy blue mat from wall to wall and there are big blue exercise balls, parallel bars, massage tables, and a bunch of equipment I don’t recognize.

  There’s an old woman walking between the bars, a young guy missing a leg lying on a table, and a woman with a walker next to her doing some exercises. They’re all working under the watchful gaze of a person in scrubs with a little nametag dangling over their chest.

  Dr. Lofthouse leads me over to one of the tables and helps me up. “Okay, lie back,” he says.

  “Dr. Lofthouse, what exactly will all this be like?” I ask.

  “Call me Brent. And it’ll be pretty basic. You had a really nasty complex break of a large bone. It takes a while for a bone like that to heal. We need to help speed up that healing process, but we also need to make sure that the bone gets strengthened and the muscles around the bone don’t atrophy.”

  “Sounds intense.”

  “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next couple months.” Her smiles at me, cocks his head slightly. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “I think, uh, it’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” He leans me back and lays me down. I’m wearing
tight black yoga pants and gray long-sleeve shirt. “Do you mind?”

  He puts his hands on my leg and I shake my head. He rubs the muscle around my broken femur, the biggest bone in the leg. I wince a little bit but he’s gentle, massaging the muscles gently.

  “Good,” he says. “You’re in good shape. I’m guessing you were active before this?”

  I nod. “Ran every day.”

  “Good for you. I forget sometimes. I get lazy and I’m a doctor.”

  I laugh a little. “You don’t look like you forget to work out.”

  His eyes meet mine and I blush a little bit, feeling like a total moron for saying that. But his gaze takes me in like he’s seeing me for the first time. He stays like that for a long moment, looking at me, before he lets his eyes roam down my body.

  He’s not hiding it. He looks at me, every inch of me, not just my leg. “You don’t either, you know.”

  “Thanks.” I can’t help but blush.

  He smiles again and puts his hands back on my leg. This time, he puts them higher up, close to the ache between my legs. “Okay. I want you to push up against my hands. Like you’re trying to lift them.”

  I nod a little and raise my leg. He doesn’t push back too hard but it’s still difficult. I stop and groan a little bit.

  “Hurts?” he asks.

  I nod. “A little.”

  “Okay. Let’s try again.” He moves his hands down lower. “Go ahead and push.”

  We repeat that until his hands reach my knee. When he’s done, he helps me down off the table.

  “Let’s do some stretches, some really easy stuff, then we’ll do a little workout. And that’s it for today.”

  “Great, sounds good.”

  “I’m going to have to touch you some more for this. Is that okay?”

  “That’d be great.”

  He grins. “Good. I’m glad you feel that way.”

  I blush again, feeling so stupid. I don’t know why I said that. He’s a doctor, he touches people all the time, this isn’t a thing at all. I shouldn’t be trying to flirt with this guy.

  He moves me over to an open space on the floor and we do some stretches. Really simple stuff, hands to my knees, leg up in the air, stuff like that. I don’t have much range of motion but his hands are all over me at least. He’s not touching me inappropriately or weird at all; in fact, he’s doing the same stuff the others PTs are doing.

  But for some reason, it makes my heart race. Maybe because he’s so handsome or because I haven’t been touched like this in a very, very long time. Either way, he keeps sneaking glances at me, and I swear he’s checking out my lips and breasts. By the time we’re done, my heart’s racing.

  “On to the exercises,” he says. “You won’t like this part as much.”

  “Who says I liked the last part?”

  He smirks and shrugs. “Just a guess.”

  “Well, okay, whatever. It felt good. I haven’t been stretched like that in a long time.”

  “Glad I can be of service.” He motions for me and I follow him over to the parallel bars which are now empty. He has me walk over there and do some simple lifts and bends, really simple and basic exercises that would’ve been so easy before the accident, but are painful and exhausting now.

  “Great,” he says when I’m done. I’m sweating a little bit and I feel stupid.

  “That shouldn’t have been so hard,” I say.

  “Honestly, I’m surprised you can do as much as you can,” he says, handing me the cane and helping me away from the bars. “People that have a break like you did aren’t typically very mobile for a while.”

  “Really?”

  “Seriously. I’m impressed. But don’t push yourself too hard. The more you work, the faster your recovery will be, but you can go too far.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good.” He leads me away from the exercise gym and waves at a couple of coworkers. “Come on. I’ll give you some exercises to do at home and we’ll talk about your recovery some more.”

  We head back to that room and he leaves me alone for a few minutes. He comes back with some printed pages of simple exercises just like the ones we did back in the gym area.

  “Do these every day,” he says. “Ten reps each, nothing too strenuous. If it starts to hurt, I mean really hurt, stop. Don’t go too far. Stop and call me. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  He nods and types a bit on his computer then turns back to me. “We’re all done then. Any questions for me?”

  “Not really. Well, just one. Any guess on my timeline?”

  He shrugs. “Hard to predict. You could recover in a month or it could take a year or more. You’re young and in good shape, so I suspect you’ll be on the faster side, but it’s different for everyone.”

  “Thanks. I figured you’d say that.”

  He laughs a little. “Sorry. It’s doctor speak.”

  “Can you give me the no-BS version?”

  “I can. Promise not to sue me if I’m wrong?”

  “I promise.”

  He leans back and crosses his arms. “Well, you have a tough break. But like I said, you’re in good shape. My bet is six months. You won’t be 100 percent yet, but you’ll be pretty close.”

  “That’s not bad at all.”

  “No, I think you’ll be good. This is assuming you work as hard every day at home as you did today.”

  “Can’t promise that.”

  He grins at me. “Let’s make that eight months then.”

  I laugh at him. “Ouch.”

  “Just saying.”

  “Fine. I’ll do the work.”

  “Good.”

  “I appreciate you giving me the hands-on treatment today.”

  He gives me that look again. I stare right back, feeling bold and embarrassed and stupid, all at the same time. He shrugs a little bit and stands. “I’ll help you out.”

  “Thanks.”

  I let him lower me down off the table. His hands linger on my hips and I don’t mind one bit. I get my cane and limp out of the room with him by my side. He guides me out front and he smiles one last time.

  “Call if you need anything,” he says. “Rachel, make an appointment for her for next week with me, okay?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  He waves and heads into the back.

  “Okay sweetie,” Rachel says. “You’re a lucky one. Dr. Lofthouse was only filling in today. He doesn’t normally take on patients.”

  “Yeah, I am lucky. He seems good.”

  “One of the best in the whole state, honestly.” She types then looks at me. “Same time?”

  “That works.”

  “See you next week.”

  I smile and wave then limp out of the building, back into the sweltering heat. I can practically feel the sweat rolling down my back.

  I stand there for a second, looking around the parking lot. I don’t see my dad anywhere. I check my phone and sure enough, there’s a text saying that he’ll be late. I curse and think about going back inside, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I hide in the shade of the overhang and lean against the wall, rubbing my leg.

  I keep thinking about Brent’s hands on my body and those looks he was giving me. He couldn’t have been flirting with me, but then again, maybe he was. I mean, it’s possible, that sort of thing does happen.

  Still, he’s a doctor. He’s supposed to touch me. I’m just not sure he’s supposed to look at me like he wants to undress me.

  Not that I mind, really. It’s nice to have someone look at me like that. I feel like I haven’t been wanted in a long time. Maybe never, if I’m honest with myself.

  My dad finally pulls up. I hear him before I see him, like always. He doesn’t get out to help and looks annoyed when I take a while to climb inside.

  “Shut the door. You’re letting the damn AC out,” he snaps.

  “Sorry.” I close the door once I get my cane inside. “Hard to climb in. Broke
n leg and all.”

  He gives me a look but doesn’t say anything. He starts driving back home. We don’t speak for a bit and I let that last comment hang in the air between us.

  “I have another appointment,” I say. “Same place, same time next week.”

  “I’ll have my driver take you next time.”

  “Fine by me.”

  He doesn’t even look in my direction.

  I know what he’s thinking. He’s remembering the accident and he’s feeling guilty, and I’m not about to make him feel better. I want him to feel guilty. It’s his fault that I’m like this, and the real issue isn’t about to change anytime soon.

  We reach our house and take the long driveway up to the main entrance. We live on five acres of land outside of Austin in a little town that my father practically owns. The house is enormous, more like a mansion than a ranch, although he pretends it’s his rugged hideaway.

  My father is the richest man in Texas, which is saying a lot. He got lucky ten years ago and founded one of the last new producing oil wells in the state. His fortune was built on oil, and he’ll do anything to make sure that fortune continues to grow.

  Before the oil, he sold shoes. I remember him before he became rich, before my mother died. He was softer, smiled more often.

  Now, he’d rather tell me to go fuck myself than say hello in the morning. Not that we see each other in the morning. I stay out of his way and he stays out of mine.

  “Need help?” he asks after he shuts off the engine and climbs out.

  “No, thanks.”

  He shrugs and walks off without another word.

  “Asshole,” I mumble to myself.

  This is my world. I live in a mansion in the middle of the Texas wilderness with my rich asshole oil baron father. I limp around this place feeling sorry for myself, wishing I were anywhere else doing anything else.