Drawn to Him: A Romance Collection

by Willow Winters

  “Stationery,” I say, wanting to get it over with. Rhys Matthews is lovely to look at, but he makes me feel like shit. I don’t want to spend more time than necessary with the so-called Dr. Dreamy.

  He leans against his desk and stares at me, and for a second, for a reason beyond logic, it feels like he is undressing me with his eyes.

  Slowly. Seductively. Sensually, even.

  The way his blues skim over my colorful vintage dress, unbuttoning it with precise, expert imaginary fingers. I watch as his jaw tightens, his throat bobs and a curve of a smirk finds one side of his lips. And maybe I am losing my mind, but I don’t care. It makes my lower stomach clench deliciously.

  “Did you get rid of that freaky dildo?”

  “The motivational hand? No.”

  “The mug?”

  “Nope.”

  “The pen?”

  I raise my hand and wave the pink syringe around, almost triumphantly. He nearly smirks. Nearly.

  “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?” His tone smooths every apprehension I’d had when I walked in that door. It’s probably a good time to remind myself that his ex threatened to decapitate me mere hours ago if I even looked at him the wrong way.

  “Alright,” I hesitate, my back still glued to one of his walls. “I’m all for positive vibes.”

  “Clearly,” he arches an eyebrow, like it’s a bad thing.

  He saunters over, and I want to let my eyes roll back in their sockets and give in to his incredible scent. Fortunately, I don’t. He is my boss, he is an asshole, and he is going through a very messy divorce with my other boss. If that’s not enough reason not to let Dr. Matthews toy with my head, feelings, and heart, then let’s not forget he has a minimum of twelve years over me, if not more. I’m only twenty-two.

  “My name is Rhys Matthews,” he yanks one hand out of his pocket and reaches for mine. I place my small palm in his huge one. As we touch, something sizzles between us. Like a lit bomb wire, promising to explode. The air becomes thick and charged. The breath stuck in my throat is of desert wind.

  Rhys Matthews has a stern handshake. His skin is rough, his hands big, his fingers square and clean. I gulp air. God knows I need some oxygen in my brain to function.

  “I’m Savannah Martin,” I offer back.

  “Savannah Martin,” he tries my name on his lips. I like it. I hope he does, too. “How old are you, Miss Martin?”

  “Twenty-two.” And you? I ask him through the power of telepathy. Obviously, not loud enough, because he doesn’t answer.

  “Practically a baby,” he mutters, but that doesn’t stop him from checking my infant-bones out again. I have strawberry blonde hair, eyes the color of money, pouty lips, and a curvy figure. I’m a Carbie. A Barbie who knows what’s good for her and is all about the tacos and mimosas, i.e., carbs. So far, I haven’t heard any complaints from the men I’ve dated, but I wish I had his ex-wife’s scrawny, Kendall Jenner figure.

  “Well, my pediatrician would beg to differ. He dumped me when I turned eighteen,” I blurt out, a crazy laugh bubbling from my throat.

  Then he beams.

  Not smirk, not grin, not smile, but actually beams.

  And. It. Is. Glorious.

  “Fresh meat is our trade,” he says, and something crazy occurs to me. We’re still shaking hands. His fingers are brushing my wrist, and not lightly. It’s like he is massaging a spot I never knew was charged and sensitive. I’m about to die. I’m certain of it. Orgasm by a handshake is not a thing, right? So, why are my panties so damp? And why am I clenching so hard on the inside?

  “Well, then it’s a good thing that I’m just the receptionist, because I’m a vegetarian.” More crazy stuff leaves my mouth. I shouldn’t keep track at this point.

  “Are you, now, Miss Martin?” He tilts his chin down, and if he is asking me whether I am willing to make an exception to accommodate his meat, the answer will be his zipper rolling down and my mouth on his cock. But he is not asking that, I remind myself. He is just making small talk. Small talk I am dirtying up in my unhinged mind.

  “Afraid so,” I lick my lips.

  “So, tell me, Miss Martin, do you like what you see?”

  My eyes widen and drop to his luscious lips. He has Cupid’s lips, attached to an Armani model face. I’m beginning to worry that I actually am going to climax right here and now. This man is too much.

  “I…” I begin, and he cuts me off.

  “I meant the clinic, Miss Martin. No need to combust from blushing. The carpets here are new.”

  Of course, he meant my new workplace.

  “So far it’s interesting,” I ignore the jab. “The job is fairly straightforward.”

  “Then why do I hear uncertainty in your voice?”

  “Because of my bosses,” I admit, meeting his gaze.

  “What’s wrong with your bosses?”

  Newsflash: everything is wrong with my bosses. You hate each other and me. There’s so much negativity around, I’m afraid the air will darken when you enter the room.

  “Nothing,” I clear my throat. “But the fact that it’s only the three of us here makes it seem too…”

  “Crowded?” he asks, eating the gap between us with a long step. I can now smell him and feel his body heat pulsating against mine. I want to groan and bite his shoulder. Instead, I look up to his eyes and nod. Nothing in this situation is professional, that’s for sure.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Martin, Dr. Lerer will not be here much longer.” His breath is fanning my face and yes, it is now officially proven that a handshake can cause an orgasm, because the minute he drops my hand, the rush of a million nerve-endings searing all over my body is making me stifle a moan. I collapse against the wall behind me, my legs shaking, my nipples tight, and my mouth falls open in a little O-shaped wonder. It’s not a huge orgasm. It’s a quiet, earth-shattering one.

  I don’t look up to check if he noticed. I can’t. I’ll never live this down. This is hands-down the most embarrassing moment of my life.

  “The pessimism around here is intoxicating,” I breathe out.

  “The optimism you’re sprinkling around like a stoned fairy isn’t that great, either,” he says wryly, shooting me a warning look. “And, by the way, I know you fed my son frozen yogurt. He tells me everything.” I swallow hard, but don’t apologize. I’m coming down from my orgasm, fast, thanks to this exchange.

  “Does Dr. Lerer know that you’re planning to push her out of the picture?” I mumble, raking a hand over my hair. If Boss A is planning to take down Boss B without her knowledge, things are about to get even messier around here. I don’t know what Stacey did to Rhys, but I’m pretty sure he is being a childish bastard to her. I know I try to reason why myself that I’ve only signed a six month contract here. Surely, I can handle their drama until I find something better.

  “She does and she doesn’t. She’d be stupid not to figure it out herself, but I’m not much of a talker.” His honesty takes me by surprise.

  “You have a kid together,” I remind him. Theodore is not the merry kid I’ve met, but he’s still a six-year-old, innocent child. He deserves more than they’re offering in the behavior department right now.

  “I’m well aware. Your point?”

  “Try and be more agreeable. Not for her. For him.”

  Rhys Matthews places his elbow against the wall above my head and smirks down at me. In that moment, somewhere in hell, a demon got his wings. “I’m good at fighting. And winning. Playing nice, though? Not so much.”

  I take a step sideways, away from his body. Either he is hitting on me or trying to punch me. I’m not fine with either option. “Sir, wh…what about the stationery?”

  Rhys Matthews leans closer to me again, sliding the pencil holding my bun in place out of my hair and placing it above his ear. His eyes drop to my cleavage as he unleashes another delicious smirk.

  His lips are hovering over my ear and we practically breathe the same air when he says,
“I think I got everything you came here for, Miss Martin. Close the door behind you.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The Billionaire and the Princess

  Two weeks tick by.

  Two weeks of picking up a solemn, snobbish Theodore Matthews from school—the kid is six years old going on sixty—and bringing him to the clinic to hang out with his dad in between appointments. I’m never there when they’re together, but Theodore tells me that his father teaches him Latin, history, and how to play chess. Dr. Matthews may be an asshole to the world, but I’ll give him one thing—he sure loves his kid.

  “Can I have some more frozen yogurt?”

  “Are you gonna rat me out to your dad?” I narrow my eyes, shooting him a look through the rearview mirror. He has his mother’s platinum hair and hazel eyes, but his dad’s ability to make you want him to like you.

  “Probably. But he is not going to fire you. He says no one puts up with him.”

  “Then, I guess so. But I’m getting you a small cup. You don’t need all that sugar.” Plus, I’m paying for this from my own pocket and I’m trying to save some money here.

  Two weeks of greeting worried moms, and kids, and newborns, and clueless dads, and walking them to Dr. Lerer’s and Dr. Matthews’s offices.

  Two weeks of making homemade cookies and putting a plate up on the reception desk, and playing with a congested toddler when his mom has to breastfeed his younger sister, and helping a teenager who came here for a vaccination by telling her how piercing your tongue is not even that painful at all.

  Two weeks of munching on vegetarian tacos during my lunch breaks, staring at Dr. Douchebag’s door and wondering why he hates his ex-wife so much and why am I obsessed with the question of whether he is single or not?

  Two weeks of no personal interaction with Dr. Matthews. Until yesterday.

  Mid-morning, Dr. Matthews and I bumped into each other on our way to the bathroom.

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  “You first.” He motioned with his hand.

  “No way. Mine’s gonna take some time,” I said, my eyes widened in horror when I realized what I’d said. He arched an eyebrow.

  “There’s prune juice in the fridge.”

  “Gross, I mean, I need to reapply my makeup. The humidity outside is killing me.”

  “You look fine to me.”

  “Is that a compliment?” I shouldn’t be encouraging anything that remotely resembles flirting, but I do. Because I have a death-wish, apparently.

  “It’s the truth.” His voice was dry.

  “Then I’ll take it as a compliment, because people don’t usually look that amazing without makeup.” The thought was depressing, but true. Another quirked eyebrow was raised in honor of that remark.

  “Do I not look good?” he asked.

  “You look…” Amazing. Fuck-hot. Handsome as hell. “You look seriously great, Dr. Matthews.”

  “Well, I’m not wearing makeup.”

  I want you not wearing your clothes, either, I thought, and a little smile curved on my lips as a result. He offered me the same smile, his shoulder brushing mine as he passed me to open the door to the bathroom. His lips found my ear as he whispered, “Yeah. I’m having the same thought, Miss Martin.”

  But he couldn’t have meant that.

  He couldn’t…right? Surely not, right? Damn, this is going to be one long evening of reliving this moment over and over again.

  * * *

  Dr. Lerer rarely acknowledges me. Rhys, at least, greets me with ‘good morning, Miss Martin’, ‘have a great evening, Miss Martin’ and ‘in my office, Miss Martin’, which is what he says to me now, as I sit at the front desk, knitting baby booties for an expectant client who came here with her daughter yesterday. I bolt up and follow him to his room, leaving the reception unattended even though it is almost nine o’clock and patients are bound to trickle in any minute now.

  “Close the door,” Dr. Matthews commands, parking his gorgeous ass behind his desk. Today he is wearing pale gray slacks, a stone-blue, button-down shirt and a Finding Nemo tie. No stethoscope yet. He’s a twelve out of ten, as my damp underwear can testify.

  “What can I do for you, Doc?”

  “You can start by not calling me Doc.”

  I nod. “Dr. Matthews.”

  “We have a problem.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve failed at your so-called, straightforward job.” He throws my words back at me, his face serene.

  My heart is in my throat and my hands are generating enough sweat to lubricate a hippo as he takes his time, powering up his computer and browsing through a program I can’t distinguish, before swiveling the monitor in my direction. I recognize the blurry footage from the security cameras wired around the clinic. It shows yours truly at the reception desk, reading The Billionaire and The Princess while eating low-fat Pringles and drinking iced coffee. I squint my eyes, trying to come up with a good excuse for my behavior. Truth is, Dr. Lerer and Dr. Matthews are also surgeons specializing in congenital defects. They work outside the clinic three times a week, so the place is normally less than packed. I have an obscene amount of time to burn, and all the interesting websites are blocked from the reception computer, which leaves reading as my only source of entertainment.

  “Do you see what the problem is here?” His voice is cold, and the disdain in his tone makes me want to fight back. Instead, I offer a faint nod. I need the paycheck.

  “What were you reading?” He drags his hand over invisible dust on his desk.

  “A book.”

  “I can see that, Miss Martin. My eyes have yet to fail me. What’s the name of the book?”

  My own eyes beg for him to withdraw the question, avert the topic or just fire me before I have to answer him. His poker face remains blank as he swipes his thumb along his lower lip, waiting for an answer.

  “Well?”

  “The Princess and The Billionaire,” I provide, hissing the words like they are poisonous.

  Dr. Matthews zooms in on the book’s cover on his screen. A spontaneous desire to crawl under the tiles and live there until further notice strikes me. On the book cover, you can clearly see a heavily tattooed, muscular man holding a woman by the hair, his lips inching toward hers.

  “You said you’re a vegetarian,” Dr. Matthews states. My eyebrows drop in confusion.

  “I am.”

  “Then why do you like meatheads?”

  I snort-laugh, but he remains straight-faced. My face twists into a frown. I slide my hand over my retro, flowery dress.

  “I won’t read on the job again. I only ever do it when I see your schedules are clear, anyway. I would never stain the reputation of this fine establish—,” I begin, and he cuts me off.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” There’s an urgency in the question, and it throws me off balance.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I heard you, alright, I just don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

  “Is my ass your business? Because the security camera also shows you checking it out for twenty minutes straight when I was talking to Miss Brookeheimer yesterday and had my back to you.”

  He points at the monitor again, rewinding the time, and sure enough, I’m ogling his backside like it’s my firstborn taking their first step.

  “Sir, you spend an awful lot of time watching the security camera videos. You do know of this thing called a TV, right? They have better footage there. Edited. With plots and pretty people and everything.”

  “I don’t need a TV, Savannah Martin. The only pretty person I am interested in is standing in front of me, sporting an arousal stain on her dress. Now answer my question. Do. You. Have. A. Boyfriend?”

  Jesus, take the wheel.

  “Yes,” I blush. I don’t know why I say that. Not only do I not have a boyfriend, but I barely have any friends. My high school gang broke up and went its separate ways when we move
d away for college, and I’m the only person who was dumb enough to come back. I spend my evenings eating Skinny Popcorn and watching Jeopardy with my mom. Sometimes I do online quizzes with my dad. That’s the extent of my social life these days. And even though I’ve been having illicit thoughts about my boss, I can’t help but tell him off, especially after what he said about my arousal stain. I look down. My dress is dry. I hear him chuckle. He knew I would check. Jerk.

  “This is sexual harassment.” My green eyes narrow to slits and I fold my arms over my chest.

  “What it is is a delicious foreplay that’s about to materialize and blow your fucking mind. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not even this week. But I’m watching you, Miss Martin. All the time. You fucking want me, and you’re going to get your way. Sooner than you think. What’s his name?”

  “Huh?”

  “This imaginary boyfriend of yours. Does he have a name?” He gets up from his seat, and I beg my eyes not to slide down to his slacks, because I think I see a very definite erection straining against the stretched fabric of his pants, and I want to cry with joy. My heart mallets ruthlessly in my chest as Rhys takes measured, controlled steps in my direction. I am going to melt in his hands. He will be the end of me. It might sound overdramatic, but that’s exactly how it feels. Fresh meat, his voice echoes in my head. He’s a carnivore, and I want him to feast on me. I want this beast to lick his plate dry.

  “His name,” he reminds me for the third time, sauntering across the room to where I stand, by the door.

  “Noah.” Wyle. From the TV show ER, my first crush.

  “How old is Noah?”

  “Twenty-seven.” My lucky number.

  “Where does Noah live?” He keeps saying his name like it’s a swearword. Butterflies begin twirling in my chest. What are they doing there, I have no clue.

  “Here in Providence.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Salesperson.” I’m pretty sure I’m describing the guy who tried to convince me to change my mobile network across the street. He had enough facial hair to cover a small island.