Not Daddy Material: Billionaire Contract Series

by Violet Paige

  “Maybe it would help if you told me how the injury happened.” I still didn’t have any details after I was whisked from the fourth floor.

  “We were running drills this morning. The boys had a rough night last night, so I was throwing it at them a little hard.” He hung his head. “Anyway, Wes slipped and the line ran right over him. Complete accident, but one of the cleats crunched his hand. Freak thing to happen in practice.”

  “I see.”

  The coach continued. “We knew when Wes stood up holding his wrist that it was serious. We did the x-rays on-site at our facility.”

  That explained why some of the procedures had been completed before I was paged.

  “Well, Coach Howell, I think he’s ready for surgery. I’ll give you an update as soon as we’re finished. Try not to worry. The good news is his life isn’t at stake, and he’s going to make a full recovery.”

  The coach turned toward me. “Football is his life. If that hand isn’t better than it was before, you might as well kill him.” His eyes blazed right through me, and I felt a chill go down my spine.

  “Like I said, I’ll let you know when he’s out.” I hurried out of the waiting room and headed to prep for surgery.

  The nurses stopped whispering when I walked in the door. They were looking through the glass at the huge figure lying on the operating table. This entire scenario was absurd. It was a broken hand, for God’s sake. This wasn’t a triple-valve replacement. I sighed and started scrubbing in for the most important hand repair of my life.

  3

  Wes

  I could hear a beeping sound next to my right ear that was driving me fucking nuts. My eyes opened to a dim hospital room. I tried to sit forward, but nausea slammed into me and I sunk into the pillow. Fuck.

  I looked at my right arm, which was propped up by some sort of contraption. There was a tube running into my veins and a blood pressure cuff on my left arm that kept turning on every fifteen minutes.

  My mouth felt dry and I licked my lips, looking for water.

  It all came back to me. The Dean. The nurse. The bottle of scotch I drank. I closed my eyes.

  I never should have stepped on the practice field still drunk, but it wasn’t like it was the first time I had done it. Half the team was still blitzed after last night.

  I knew the snap was bad the instant I took it. I turned to try to recover it, lost my balance, and landed on my back. We were all so shit-faced no one had any balance. Canon came roaring over the line, and before he could stop, his cleats ran right over my hand. The instant I heard it, I knew what it was. A break.

  The practice field was as quiet as a church. The trainers rushed me into the facility and splayed my hand on a table to x-ray it. As soon as they saw it, I was slung into a car and dropped off in the operating room at San Antonio Mission Hospital, being prepped for emergency surgery. Coach was with me the whole time.

  Of all the fucking accidents to happen, why did it have to be my right hand?

  There was a knock on the door and Coach walked in. He scratched the back of his head with his visor. “How you feelin’, Wes?”

  “Could you hand me that water?”

  The pitcher was on a cart too far for me to reach. He poured a cup full and placed it in my left hand.

  “Thanks.” I took a sip, feeling the nausea subside.

  “Surgery went well.” He rocked back on his heels. “The doc’s coming in to talk to you about the prognosis, and then our trainers will be in to come up with a plan. We’ll figure this out. We’re all behind you.”

  “Good.” I nodded. “I want to get back on the field as soon as I can. I can throw with my left if I need to.” I tried to laugh, but my head was fuzzy, and moving my right shoulder shot pain all the way down to my fingertips.

  “We know you do.” He tapped the footboard on the hospital bed. “Get some rest and we’ll talk strategy tomorrow.”

  I finished off the water and reached for the remote. A broken hand wouldn’t take that long to heal. I knew the drill. I’d take some extra meds. The trainers could pump me up with whatever I needed to make it through the games, we could make it to the Super Bowl, and I’d heal in the off-season. This was a standard injury. Nothing more.

  The immediate gut-wrenching feeling I had when I woke up started to evaporate as I convinced myself this wouldn’t be a setback. I might miss one game. Only one. And then the Wranglers would have me back after the bye week. That gave me two weeks to recover enough to play.

  I flipped through the channels, landing on Sports Now. I read the ticker, expecting to see my name on the scroll as one of the headlines. Maybe since the injury had occurred at practice, the Wranglers had managed to keep it away from the press. None of us wanted this getting out.

  I listened to the talking heads discuss the playoff possibilities. We were one of the teams on the cusp of breaking in. I rolled my eyes at the discussion. The Wranglers were going. I didn’t need to hear these idiots debate how good my team was.

  “Knock, knock. Mr. Blakefield, how are you feeling?”

  I looked over from the TV. Suddenly, I felt a whole let better. There was a gorgeous woman circling the bed, walking toward my injured hand. She had long blond hair pulled back, but tiny wisps floated around her face. Her blue eyes were striking.

  “I’m Dr. Ashworth.” She smiled, showing off luscious pink lips.

  I knew what this was. This was the guys’ way of trying to cheer me up. They knew how much I liked the nurse getup last night. They probably heard it through the suite door. It wasn’t like I held anything back when I fucked a woman. They had sent me an upgraded version to cheer me up after my surgery.

  “Doc, is it?” I teased.

  “Mmmhmm. I performed the surgery on your hand. I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet ahead of time. You were already prepped by the time I got to the OR.”

  Most strippers wore more revealing clothes, but maybe in the hospital, she had to cover up a bit more. Maybe underneath that white coat, she was one gorgeous naked woman. I was limited to what I could do, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do a little something to make me feel better.

  “How’s the pain?” she asked.

  I played along with her charade. “It could be better.”

  She twisted those full lips together. “I can probably help you with that.”

  I smiled. It was exactly what I was thinking. The perfect distraction to get my mind off my damn hand. I could already feel myself getting hard. She was beautiful. High cheekbones and the cutest damn nose I had seen on a woman. My dick stiffened as I pictured her lowering herself on me. I didn’t realize I’d had a fantasy of getting sucked off in a hospital until she walked in.

  “Are you going to lock the door?” I asked.

  “It’s not going to take long. I don’t think anyone will interrupt the exam.”

  “If you say so.” I grinned. God, this was going to be one hell of a story to tell the guys—how I got off right after surgery to a sex kitten in a doctor’s costume.

  She made a note on the clipboard she was carrying, then placed it on the table next to the bed. “I think I’ll take a look.”

  “What if I help you out?” I pulled back the sheet and gown, showing her how hard and ready I was for her mouth.

  She jumped back. “What are you doing?”

  “I know the guys got you for me. And I have to say, they’ve stepped up their game. You’re fucking sexy as hell.”

  She blinked in horror. “You think I’m a hooker?” Her eyes hardened in a straight line, and I thought the cobalt shade might have fired amber a few times.

  “Aren’t you?” I looked her up and down again. She was drop-dead gorgeous, and as hard as my dick was, she must have realized I thought so.

  She glared at me. “No. I’m your surgeon.” Her hands were on her hips.

  “So no blow job?”

  “Oh my God! No, no blow job.”

  I covered myself back up, but my current situation pitched
a tent under the sheet.

  “That’s a shame. Those pretty little lips would—”

  She put her hand up. “Stop. Stop right there. I am your doctor, not a rent-a-whore.”

  I chuckled. “Don’t see why you couldn’t be both.”

  She inhaled slowly, and I could see the color deepen in her cheeks. I had pissed her off royally. “I can put you in the hands of one of our other doctors.” She picked up the clipboard. “I am a trained surgeon. I don’t have to put up with shit like this, even if you do play for some team.” She turned for the door.

  “Some team?”

  “Yeah, apparently, I’m the only one in this hospital who doesn’t know who you are or what it is you do for a living that involves playing with a ball. Although after that stunt, I’m starting to get a better picture of what kind of man you are.”

  This was a first. “You don’t know who I am? You’ve never heard of Wes Blakefield? You expect me to believe that?”

  “Seeing you on the operating table was the first time I’d laid eyes on you, Mr. Blakefield. And this is the last time.” Her hand was on the door.

  “Wait, Doc. Wait.” I don’t know what made me do it. Hell, I could have let her walk out pissed and fired up. But I didn’t want to. She hadn’t even looked at my hand. And she was the most fucking beautiful woman I’d seen.

  She breathed heavily. “What?”

  “Aren’t you even going to look at my hand before you leave? If you’re the one who performed the surgery, I’d like you to take a look. They told me you were the best.”

  I could see her debating whether it was worth it to give me another chance. She paused in front of the door.

  “I’ll check it this once, and then I’m handing you off to Dr. Evans. And you should know he’s very old and has a really huge mustache,” she huffed.

  I laughed. “That’s fair.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And he has bad breath.” As if that jab would put me in my place.

  I watched as she gently pulled back the bandage and looked at my hand. It was set in a foam mold so that my fingers were aligned an equal distance apart. She tilted her head from side to side, examining each finger. A curl of hair slipped from behind her ear.

  “I think for a post-surgery hand, it looks exactly like it should.” She stood back, holding the clipboard tightly to her chest.

  “That’s good news.”

  “It is. I’ll let Dr. Evans know what to look for during your recovery. And I understand your team trainers want to be involved.”

  “They always are.”

  I didn’t want her to hand me over to some old, decaying bastard. I wanted her to be my doctor. I wanted her leaning over my body. Her inspecting my skin. Her advice on how to recover.

  “Look, Doc, I’m sorry about earlier. That was out of line. I shouldn’t have assumed you were a stripper.”

  Her lips twitched. “It was a first. Most people come out of surgery groggy and just think I’m their mom or something.”

  I shook my head. “Can we chalk it up to me still being under the influence of whatever drugs you gave me?”

  “You seem pretty alert, Mr. Blakefield.”

  “Come on, give me another chance. I’ll be a model patient. I’ll even pretend I didn’t look down your dress.” I flashed a wicked smile.

  She blushed, pulling her white coat closer to her chest, knocking her stethoscope to the side. I liked that I was affecting her somehow. It was a distraction from the beeping and the lines running into my arm. She was the sexiest distraction I could have wished for.

  “I’ll check in on you in the morning.” She walked toward the door, looking over her shoulder. “Have a good night.”

  “Hey, Doc, before you leave…”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have a first name?”

  She paused. “It’s Lennon. But my patients call me Dr. Ashworth.”

  “So does that mean I should call you Dr. Ashworth or Lennon?” I taunted. I liked her name. I’d never heard it before. It seemed to fit her—strong and beautiful. She wore brains and sex appeal well.

  I grinned as I watched her leave. I should have been feeling a whole lot worse than I was, but something about Dr. Ashworth was like a dose of good medicine.

  4

  Lennon

  I held on to the counter at the nurses’ station, knowing my knees were knocking together and my legs were barely holding me up. I was furious. Livid. I’d never been so insulted in my professional life in such a degrading way. What was more messed up was that I was so turned on by that asshole, I could barely hold myself together. He had managed to insult me and flirt with me at the same time. He was infuriating.

  I hadn’t bothered to look at his face during surgery. Most of it had been covered with a cap, and I was so rushed to get in and repair his hand quickly that I never thought to see what he looked like.

  Most of my patients came out of surgery looking pale and listless. They didn’t react well to the anesthesia. Some could barely talk, let alone string together coherent sentences. But not this man.

  Wes Blakefield was the definition of perfection. His jaw was set in straight, solid lines. His skin was tan, and he had the greenest eyes this side of Ireland. Not to mention he was well over six feet tall and had broad shoulders and arms to match. On top of that, he had one hell of a dick. I covered my mouth. I wasn’t supposed to look at him like that. He was a patient. Not a demi-god. Not a male model that could melt the panties off every nurse in this hospital. No, he was a patient. My patient.

  “Dr. Ashworth? Dr. Ashworth?” I jumped, startled to hear my name intrude my lewd thoughts about what Wes wanted me to do with his erection. Was he serious?

  I twirled around, blushing. “Yep?”

  “Mr. Hamlin’s knee is still swollen, and Ms. Parish’s elbow is definitely not getting any better,” the nurse reported. “They’re both asking for you.”

  “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

  I closed my eyes and took a slight inhale, pushing out the dirty thoughts of Wes Blakefield. It wasn’t my fault those thoughts were there, I told myself. He was the one who thought I was a hired whore and flashed me with all his glory. It made me hot again just thinking about it. Hot and mad. I tried to remember how offensive he was. How he thought I was just some cheap piece of ass sent to pleasure him. I was a brilliant surgeon—not a call girl.

  I stormed toward Ms. Parish’s room. Elbows and knees first. I’d check on my horny patient again later.

  I guess I always thought when I moved to San Antonio, I would find a place in the city, close to the hospital, and put down some roots. But as I flung my keys on the kitchen counter in my efficiency apartment, I realized I wasn’t anywhere near that step. I hadn’t even started looking at houses or apartments. I kept renting the same extended-stay studio, waiting for a sign that San Antonio was the place for me.

  The furniture was generic. So were the horrid, pale paintings on the wall of scenes from the Alamo. But for some reason, they reminded me it could all be temporary if I wanted it to be. I could leave. I was on a week-to-week lease with this place. Nothing to move except my clothes. I wore scrubs most of the time, anyway. I hadn’t been on a single date since I moved here. There was no reason to pull out that little black dress or put on a strappy pair of fuck-me heels. Life was work. And work was my life.

  I heated up a bowl of soup, poured a glass of wine, and sat in front of the TV. Today at the hospital had been nothing but non-stop chaos. It started when everyone flipped out about the Wranglers’ quarterback, and ended with the director of orthopedics calling me in his office to talk about our high-security protocols. I swear, everyone had lost their damn minds over this patient. I never discussed my patients’ conditions with the press, and I didn’t need a lecture reminding me that a high-profile patient had to be able to trust that the hospital would never report his injury.

  I finished my soup and reached for my laptop. I typed Wes Blakefield into the search e
ngine. I clicked on the star’s website. He had his own page dedicated to his records. I skimmed the stats, but they meant nothing to me. He had won awards I’d never heard of. I didn’t care about football. I hit the back button and clicked on an article.

  I chewed my bottom lip as I moved from article to article, picture to picture, studying him. Absorbing information about his social life. The man was single and seemed to be at every social event in the city. His killer smile was beyond photogenic. There were women. Lots of women. It seemed he had a new girl on his arm at every restaurant, charity event, or party. I never saw the same one twice.

  I slammed the computer shut and headed for the shower. I peeled off my scrubs and stepped into the warm water. If I could wash away everything that happened today, I would. But in less than twelve hours, I would be right back there, starting all over again. I ran the loofah over my body, when an image of Wes flashed in front of me. I scowled at myself. He was the wrong kind of man to start thinking about. He was clearly a womanizer. An egotistical maniac. He may have the rest of the world fooled, but I knew a narcissistic prick when I met one. I should—I had lived with one for a year.

  I made the decision right then. I had to give him to Dr. Evans. There was no way I could keep him as a patient. There was something bad about Wes Blakefield. The more I scrubbed the bubbles into my skin, the more I knew I had to stay far away from him. He made me uncomfortable. He made me think things I shouldn’t think about. He made me want to wipe that smug playboy look right off his damn perfect face.

  I turned off the water and wrapped a towel around my body. I placed my hand against my cheek. Did he actually think I was attractive? When I looked in the mirror, I saw a doctor. A surgeon. A woman who put her patients first. I let my hair tumble from the clip holding it in place.

  I quickly twisted it back into a bun. It didn’t matter what Wes Blakefield saw. After tomorrow morning, he would no longer be my patient, and I’d never have to see him again.