by MJ Fields
I clearly hit my head pretty damn hard.
He nods toward the exam table. “Have a seat.”
Placing my hands behind me on the exam table, I push myself up and cringe when my very sore bum hits the table.
“Feel free to roll to yer side or stomach.”
Stomach it is.
“I’m just going to take a look, Ms. Bloom.”
Taking this endeavor to be a stronger woman, not a doormat, a bit too seriously, aren’t you? Chill out, I tell myself.
“That’s what I’m here for,” I say a bit too enthusiastically.
“Cold hands,” he says less than a second before I feel him push my granny panties down slightly and die a little inside.
Nothing like being at the hands of a Scottish god, clad in awful undies, to make your inner insecurities shine, huh, Lizzie?
“I think it’s more the right cheek,” I tell him.
“It’s not a cheek, Ms. Bloom; it’s yer entire backside,” he informs.
He presses on my tailbone, and I cringe.
He huffs, “How were ye able to sit today with a bruise this … large?”
Just like the flow of this conversation —mostly to myself— and a man referring to my ass as large, I reply truthfully, “Not comfortably; that’s for sure.”
“I’d say bed rest for—”
“No time for that.”
“You can’t stand all day, especially with a fractured ankle.”
Looking back, I see his eyes snap up from my large ass to meet mine.
“Had ye stayed put earlier, I could have seen ye immediately and given ye some suggestions to stop the spread of the bruising, and yer backside wouldn’t look or feel so bad.”
I look over my shoulder and ask, “Is it that bad?”
“It looks like ye’ve been spanked by …” He pauses and swallows back the rest of his inappropriate yet sexy word choice, then turns around, giving me his back. “Alternate cold and heat compresses for the next couple days. Ye can use a topical ointment— aloe vera, vitamin K, vitamin C, or comfrey, to name a few.” He turns back toward me. “Typically, I’d suggest elevating the area, but that may not be possible without bearing weight on the fractured fibula.”
“Fractured fibula?”
He steps closer and takes my foot, applying a small amount of pressure to the area below my ankle, and I wince. “The long outside bone of yer lower leg.”
God, why couldn’t I have gotten an ugly doctor, preferably one that didn’t have the accent that makes my already wobbly knees weak?
“The fibula is considered a non-weight-bearing bone— seventeen percent of yer body weight is all it absorbs. I’d like ye to continue using the crutches for a couple days, and then come back in and we’ll get a boot for ye. It will immobilize yer leg and protect yer bone.” He stares at my leg for a couple seconds more before setting it back down. “The walking motion will reduce muscle atrophy and will make yer physical therapy easier.”
“Physical therapy?” I gasp while calculating the costs that keep increasing in my head.
A knock on the door causes him to look back.
The receptionist steps in, holding a boot. “Dr. Stewart, we have—”
“Not the correct size,” he cuts her off.
“I can—”
“Ye’re free to leave. No need for two of us to have to change our plans.”
“Would you like me to pick up—”
“I’m all set,” he cuts her off again.
“Thank you, Dr. Stewart.”
Once she’s out the door, he looks back, and I shake my head at him.
“What?”
“For a doctor, I’d have to say, your bedside manner is lacking.”
I swear I see just a brief bit of amusement glimmer in his eyes.
“I’m a surgeon, a bone man, Ms. Bloom. If I can’t fix it, I nail it or screw it.”
Lord, take me now, I silently plea.
I can’t say if I’m even fifty percent sure of what Dr. Stewart said after nail it or screw it, but … tingles, and a return appointment for the damn boot.
“Four fifteen on Wednesday work, Ms. Bloom?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“Do you think ye can manage to be on time?”
I roll my eyes as I grab my crutches and hurry past him.
Men. Broody, cocky, arrogant men … my weakness. Add an accent and, apparently, it’s my kryptonite. I should seek counseling for that. I’m going to. Should have started after my breakup, or at very least after my online dating catastrophes.
He steps in front of me, filling the doorway.
“Excuse me.”
When he doesn’t move, I look up from his huge leather shoes and watch his eyebrow perch high as he looks down at me.
“Clothes, Ms. Bloom.”
Oh. My. God.
4:40 PM
Haphazardly dressed and on crutches, I hurry out the door and toward my car, trying to out-crutch the contradictory feelings that seem to be plaguing me.
While fumbling through my purse for my keys, my phone begins to ring.
I hit “decline,” grab my keys, unlock the door, and then slide in my seat, forgetting how sore my ass was until that moment.
“Shit,” I grumble as I adjust my body weight and grab my phone to see four missed calls.
“Really, weirdo?” I huff. “Take a freaking hint.”
The phone rings again, same damn number, and I have had enough. I hit “accept.”
“Before you say a damn word, you pervert, I’m obviously not interested. I fell down the stairs, you sicko; that’s the only reason you got a glimpse of the goods, you depraved, dick-pic peddler. And just so you know, no one needs to see that thing, so stick it in your ass, you freaky cyber flasher. And stop calling my phone or I’ll report you!”
I hit “end call,” then “delete,” “delete,” “delete,” and toss my phone on the passenger seat. When I push the key into the ignition and look up, I see him with his phone to his ear as a smirk spreads across his far too-handsome face.
It couldn’t be …
Could it?
Looking in my rearview, I watch as a black Rover follows close behind, driven by none other than Dr. Dirty himself. I hit the accelerator and just barely make it through the yellow light at the intersection to get to the onramp and lose him.
Speeding— yes, speeding— down the highway, outrunning not only the thought of him, because he’s clearly not behind me, but the thought of him is still sitting shotgun, my phone rings again.
Annoyed, I hit the “accept” button on the steering wheel. “I’m so over this game with you.”
“Oh, boy. You exchange numbers on a dating app again?”
I sigh when I hear the voice of my work bestie, our school counselor, Tonya.
After my ex and I separated, I slid down the rabbit hole that is “online dating,” innocently … at first.
I did what most women motivated to rise above their situation do. I worked as many minimum wage part-time jobs as I could, while attending college part-time to gain my master’s, leaving little time to fill a void that desperately settles in our hearts as we lie in bed at night alone, wondering when our fairy tale will come true.
With a schedule so busy that it seemed a chore to even begin socializing, and a heart that was still on the mend from the all-powerful three punches driven by the fist of the universe, I resorted to online dating. I wouldn’t say I was … desperate, but there were times I thought maybe I was acting as if I was. Reality was: it eased my loneliness.
That third punch, though, it nearly did me in. It was a professional football player-sized hit to my self-esteem. My boyfriend, turned husband, cheated on me with my then best friend, so that attention become addicting.
As Tonya has pointed out, I’m not alone. Honest hearts often believe everyone else’s hearts beat the same truths. Tender hearts beat to shit sometimes seek a soft place to rest.
A hello beautiful to a c
racked ego is like aloe to the soul. A goodnight, sexy replaces the peck on the cheek by a lover, or the body that warmed your bed begins snoring so loud you legit have to nearly smother yourself with a pillow just to fall asleep. It gives you the false sense of not being alone and less lonely in the uncharted territory of singles-ville. An afternoon I can’t wait to meet you causes a smile to brighten your face. A you have the most beautiful eyes brings back the sparkle you have long missed.
I had no idea what the hell I was doing, but I learned quickly … well, sort of.
“Residual effects,” I say, peering in the rearview mirror.
“How are we going to keep you busy and off that app for the rest of the summer?”
Like most psychologists, Tonya thinks once an addict, always an addict. However, I was never really addicted. The swiping was more a boredom buster. Then the conversation, and yeah, well, the pics and the videos caught my curiosity until they didn’t.
I tell her the entire story, suspicions and all, about the fine doctor, and she bursts out laughing at my embarrassment.
“You’re an asshole.” I try to be stern, but I can’t help laughing, too.
And laughter truly is the best medicine.
Tuesday
“Is it this guy?” Tonya asks, holding up my phone, app open.
After placing the last of the rolled-up poster in the cardboard container, I look over my shoulder as she sits in my desk chair, feet on my desk, showing me approximately the one hundredth picture from the account she reopened to “research” the possibility of Dr. Dirty being one of the dick pic peddlers.
The picture is of a man, whose towel is strategically placed to showcase his abs and V.
“I think you have an addiction.” I roll my eyes and turn back to tackle the task at hand.
She laughs. “Me? There are ninety-nine plus likes—”
“Don’t touch those, or it’ll charge my account, and I will”— I turn and point a magic wand at her— “turn you into an even crazier cat lady.”
“Hey.” She feigns hurt then smiles. “I resemble that remark.”
“How about you resemble my best friend, set down the phone, and help me finish this up?”
Wednesday
After two days, we are finally finished.
Standing outside my classroom door, number 234, the unwelcome feeling of loss comes over me.
Sensing my anxiety, Tonya puts her hand on mine. “It’ll all be back together soon.”
I force a smile and nod.
“Now, you have an appointment—”
I laugh. “Oh, no, I don’t.”
“You have to—”
“I cancelled it. It’s a fracture that will heal. A bruised butt that will feel better soon. I don’t need a boot.”
Closing the door behind me, I exhale slowly. In a world full of worries and a million reasons to be anxious, I have found respite in the moments spent inside of room 234, a place where magic truly happens.
Still sensing my anxiety, and with good cause, since she’s seen it at its worst, causes her further worry. “You could come spend the night with me. Let me make you dinner.”
Next week will be busy getting everything back together. Until then, I already know what I will busy myself with.
“I have plans.” I wag my eyebrows.
She rolls her eyes. “Jamie?”
“Do you even have to ask?”
“If you ever raise a hand to me again, Jamie Fraser, I will cut your heart out and have it for breakfast. Do you understand me?” I repeat the words from my second favorite sexy scene in the entire Outlander series as I flick on my adult magic wand and hold it against the thin material of my sleep shorts.
“Holy shit,” I gasp, quickly pulling it away.
In my defense, it’s been months since I’ve felt the need to release. I blame Dr. Nail-It-or-Screw-It for reminding me that I’ve spent that long without a Jamie fix.
I blindly hit the button, turning the speed down so I can ease into it, while simultaneously rewinding the scene.
A knock on the door has me jumping off the couch, popcorn, magic wand, and the tumbler— aka, adult sippy cup, full of wine— goes flying.
Don’t judge. It’s my kind of date night.
Another knock and I hop to the door, unlock the dead bolt, open the door, and peek out through the crack. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Not one word.
But Claire, well, she takes the opportunity to cry out Jamie’s name.
Mortified, my eyes and mouth snap shut simultaneously and stay that way.
“Ms. Bloom, ye missed yer appointment.”
Opening one eye, I defend myself, “I cancelled.”
“Ye haven’t returned the messages left by my office staff.”
“I’m fine with the crutches.”
“Ms. Bloom, will ye stop being such a stubborn arse and—”
I shut the door but not all the way and yell behind me, “If I take the boot will you leave already?” hoping to cover up the moans and sexy type noises of Jamie and Claire. Then I turn it off as Jamie is literally pounding away at Claire.
I turn when I hear the door shut. Then, glancing around, I see popcorn all over and the spill proof cup dripping on my new-to-me area rug.
“Shit,” I groan and hop toward it.
“Ye’re going to have more than a bruised arse and fractured bone if ye den stop yer nonsense, Ms. Bloom.” He drops the box containing the boot on the couch and bends down to get the cup.
“It’s gonna stain,” I say, continuing to hop toward the kitchen.
I grab spray cleaner, a sponge, and a paper towel to soak up some of the spill, and when I turn around, I nearly die.
Holding my magic wand, the adult one, in one hand and the wine sippy in the other, he looks up at me. His eyebrow begins to arch, a smirk playing on his sickly handsome face, and I try my best to act like I don’t wish I could disappear.
“May want to continue the online search for a mate, Ms. Bloom,” he says as he looks down, searching for the power button on my wand and turning it off.
“Is that why you’re here, Dr. Stewart? Hoping to get lucky?”
He starts to reply, but I hold my hand up to stop him. “Don’t answer that. And also, feel free to reserve judgment. I mean hello, I know it was you calling over and over again because you may have seen a breast on FaceTime, from a woman you sent a dick pic to instead of —”
“Ye may want to stop right there, Ms. Bloom, before ye further embarrass yerself.”
I huff, “Oh, please, like I’m going to buy that—”
“Do I look like a man who’d have to resort to online dating?” he says self-righteously.
Before I can say a thing, mostly lies, because no, standing in front of this … perfect ass of a man, he absolutely doesn’t even remotely resemble any of the men I’ve seen. But, again, with a body like that, he could definitely be one of the faceless pec, ab, and V guys.
He points toward the couch. “Now, have a seat, and we’ll make sure this boot fits. Then I’ll be outta yer hair.”
Completely embarrassed and slightly —slightly? Ha!— turned on, I hop toward the couch.
He grabs my elbow and steadies me. Immediately, goosies form where his firm but steady grip touches me and heat spreads to my no-go zone as I sit down … slowly.
On his knees before me, he lifts my leg. “Yer arse feeling better?”
I nod, and his lips form a tight line, his eyes crinkling slightly in amusement.
He’s quite possibly the sexiest man on the planet, but a complete and total ass —and a creepy peen peddler— yes, there’s that, too.
Sweet Jesus, Tonya is going to have a field day with this, I think as he rests my heel on his knee while he pulls the boot out of the box, and then he gently slides my foot into it, like Prince Charming. Pervy Prince Charming, I remind myself.
“Now get yerself settled.” He points at the pillow then moves my legs to rest on the couch. Then he stands up
, grabs the remote, my sippy wine mug, and hands them to me. His fingers graze over mine, and that heat burns hotter.
As he begins to walk toward the door, he pauses with his back to me, bends down, turns around, and hands me my wand. “Enjoy yerself, Ms. Bloom.”
Oh.
No.
He.
Didn’t.
Thursday
Lizzie
“He came to your house?” Tonya gasps.
“Shh …” I look around the crowded coffee shop, hoping no one heard her.
No one had.
She leans in and whispers, “Did you, ya know?”
“Really?” I huff.
“I just thought—”
“Well, stop thinking.”
She grins. “I googled him.”
I palm my face.
“He has Henry Cavill bone structure, and Theo James sexy brute and coloring.”
Peeking through my fingers, I scowl at her.
She leans in. “Please tell me he sounds like Jamie.”
“Tonya,” I scold her.
“If you didn’t fantasize about him, I’m going to.”
I don’t tell her that after he stormed out, after trying unsuccessfully to calm down, I did just that. Slept like a baby, too.
“Oh my God, you did.” She laughs.
Apparently, I don’t have to tell her.
Feeling my face burning bright red, I shake my head. “Not the point.”
After she pushes her perfectly done lock of brown waves from her face and gets it together, she looks at me. “It’s perfectly natural to—”
“Snap out of shrink mode and get back in the friendship circle.”
She shakes her head. “When you get in your head too much, you force me there.”
“I’m not in my head,” I argue-ish, because when not surrounded by smiles, belly laughs, and all the things that make me happy, that’s exactly where I tend to go.
She slides my phone from in front of me. “The only way to truly find out if Dr. Ethan James Stewart is in fact a dick pic peddler is to go through all those messages.”
