by Brynn Hale
She glances away but after seemingly thinking it over, she leans forward again. “Less about my eyes and more about your dangerous behavior, Dairen.”
They’ve taken off all my gear and right now in this cold ambulance cabin, my nipples could cut glass. I really could be sitting up, but I personally know these EMTs from my station and they’re going to be assholes because they think they can. And it’s one of the only times I’ll let them.
I cross my arms across my chest. “I guess we’ve decided to call each other by our first names? So, Parker, has anyone told you that you have beautiful eyes?”
She shakes her head and that brown hair falls forward.
I reach up and brush a piece behind her ear. “So, when I get out of the hospital…you wanna go on a date?”
She leans back against the ambulance wall and crosses her arms. “I can’t…”
I pull the oxygen down and the EMT rolls her eyes. “Why?”
“Dairen, I can’t be treating you, if we’re anything more than patient and doctor.”
“No one said two adults can’t get together and have a dinner?”
We pull into the ER bay and the EMTs unload my stretcher. The hospital tech starts talking to the EMTs. I know I’ll be fine physically.
She nods. “It’s against the—”
“Fuck the rules. We could get to know each other better. You might find I’m more than a pretty face.” I smirk and reach out for her hand.
She shakes her head. “If that’s how you really feel, then no. I won’t go out with you. I’d rather save your life than be only a moment of orgasmic release in it.”
Not exactly what I meant, Dr.
And with that, I’m rolled into the ER and I watch as the doors shut on the one thing I was looking forward to…
Love.
Parker
I look down at my schedule for today and his name is basically in capital letters in my mind.
DAIREN WESTWOOD.
Firefighter. Hot as hell. But stubborn as a damn mule.
We’ve been keeping it professional, but…
I can’t keep doing this.
I remember back to the day almost a month ago when I met him.
I walked into my office. He was on his phone, ignoring the “No Cell Phone Use in the Room, Please” sign. That head with thick, dark brown hair, almost a similar shade to mine, was down. I cleared my throat and he looked up, but with no guilt. His chocolate eyes raked my body. I didn’t feel uncomfortable. I felt undressed and naked.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Jessica, I’m gonna have to send my buddy to cover for me. I promise, I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”
“Mr. Westwood, I need your attention.”
He held up a finger to silence me and I crossed my arms.
“Yeah, all good.” He muffled his voice.
“I believe you’re here to see a doctor, Mr. Westwood. And we have a full schedule, so if you’re not going to get off of that phone in five seconds, I’ll have to continue with my day.”
“Jessica, I have to go. Can we do dinner next week at that new place in town that you’ve wanted to go to?”
I count down with my fingers rising with every number. He glares up at me, but he hangs up just after quickly saying, “Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon, sis.”
I liked that he had caring family and it seemed he cared for his family. I didn’t have family. Parents gone. Only child. And no one in my life but me. My work has turned out to be my legacy. I have myself and I’m fine with it staying that way. But my time is valuable. A long appointment ruins everyone’s day.
Mr. Westwood’s eyes sheltered by lashes that were longer than any woman’s I’d ever seen, connected to the man standing next to me. “Hello, Doctor Lakeman.” He stood and reached out to for my intern’s hand. “Thank you for getting me in so quickly. Did you know that you get great ratings on MedWord and HotDoc?”
Gage chuckled. “I wish.” His gaze shot to mine and I shook my head. Professionalism, Gage. I should save him, but that was kind of payback for him bringing me a peanut-butter covered donut. He knows I’m allergic to peanuts. Peanut butter smells so good. Worst curse there ever is. “I think you’re mis—”
“My primary care doc tells me this is some kind of pneumonia?” Mr. Westwood asked him while still eyeing me up. “Something normally seen in firefighters?”
“I…I don’t know.”
Mr. Westwood’s head tipped with annoyance. “But you’re supposed to be the best.” He crossed his arms, muscles bursting under his heather gray polo.
“I’m not Dr. Lakeman.” Gage nods with his head toward me. “She is.”
Mr. Westwood’s head rotated slowly to me, but he says nothing.
I sit in the desk chair and I motion for Mr. Westwood to sit in the chair across the table from me. “Mr. Westwood, I am Dr. Parker Lakeman. This is my resident, Dr. Gage Randall.”
He lowers slowly into the chair. “I…I don’t know what to say.”
“Sorry,” I say with a smirk.
“What?”
“You could say that you’re sorry that you assumed this male was the doctor and I wasn’t because of my gender.”
His brown eyes turned a dark topaz, digging deep into me, but I blocked them. A pair of nice eyes wasn’t going to take me to my knees, even if his gaze made my stomach do something from a Cirque du Soleil act.
He started slowly like I couldn’t understand. “Dr. Lakeman, I’m…sorry. I made an assumption that ‘Parker’ was a male name and I didn’t ask for clarification. I’ll ask for your forgiveness.”
“Very good. You’re forgiven.” I opened his chart to have something to look at because the more I looked at him—with his batting eyes—even if he was a little snarky—and his luscious lips, full like two puffy pillows of pleasure—the more I wanted to look at him. “Okay, let’s get you healed up and ready for duty again.”
“I’m not taking time off.”
“Mr. Westwood, that will be a condition of treatment. Your body needs to be able to heal. If you’re still subjecting yourself to the demands of firefighting, your body will be constantly trying to catch up.”
“I’ll be fine.”
And that was the moment when I knew I wouldn’t be fine. I’d already started caring too much.
In a very weird way.
I make it through most of my day. The only thing keeping me focused is an eight o’clock reservation at Season 617 this evening. I love that restaurant. Recently, it had a bad review that infuriated me. I’d like to give that K. Cassidy, Reviewer, a piece of my mind. I’ve never had a bad meal there and I doubted I ever would.
I hand-write my date-with-myself onto my schedule. I want to see it after every appointment and remember what I have to look forward to.
I grab his chart from my desk. I straighten my back at the patient room door. At least it’s the last appointment of the day. And his second to last, one more and I’ll never have to see Mr. Westwood ever again.
Ever.
My stomach dips.
I make sure I have everything. He’s too observant and the one time I didn’t have my pen with me, and he had to hand me one from his pocket, and our hands touched. Well, I can’t think of the moment without a girly, ridiculous sigh exiting my mouth.
Weirdly, I live next to his sister, actually half-sister and technically she doesn’t live there anymore, but after finding that out, I’ve basically become a homebody. I don’t want to run into him, but since her place is basically uninhabitable due to a fire, I’m pretty safe. But he does know where I live.
I grab the door handle and my stomach does this fluttering thing that I hate, but also kind of, just a little, enjoy. I feel alive and maybe eager. I enter the room and don’t bring my gaze from his chart. “Good afternoon, Mr. Westwood.”
“Doc,” he mumbles the word and I spin to him. I instantly know that something’s wrong. He’s usually all full of spit and vinegar and saying some cheesy line.
> “What’s wrong?” I throw the chart on the desk, a couple of papers float across the floor, and I cross to where he is on the examination bed. I pull my stethoscope from my pocket and I have it to his chest before I can blink. I listen.
I listen more.
And then I realize I like how my hand presses into his chest, and I’ve stopped listening and started feeling. Too much again.
Great.
“I think it’s allergies,” he says with a sniffle.
I deflate like a balloon; every cell of my body had been on high alert. I slide back a couple of steps.
“I’m not contagious, Dr. Lakeman,” Mr. Westwood says with that panty igniting smile, white teeth gleaming.
“No, no, of course.” I grab the otoscope and look in his ears.
That damn cologne, or body wash, or maybe it’s just his scent fills my head. It’s 20-year old caramel whiskey, Cuban-cigar smoke, and warm Tahitian vanilla all rolled into one.
“Your canals are a little red and that would indicate allergies. But with the delicate nature of your lungs, we need to be careful that you’re not reintroducing more pollutants into your system while they’re healing.”
“I took an allergy pill, is that okay?”
“Mr. Westwood, I asked you to call me before taking anything new.”
“I did, but the online system said you were unavailable.”
I walk to the desk, grab one of my cards and write my cell number on the back. I’d tried to avoid this, but…
He needs it.
I justify the move in my head a little too easily. I hand it over.
He raises his eyebrows. “It’s never taken me four weeks to get a gorgeous woman’s phone number.”
“I’m sure you’ll make up for lost time when you’re better.”
“Minus the allergies, I’m feeling better every day. I really didn’t know I was feeling so crummy until I started improving.”
I sit on the rolling stool and examine what he’s said. It’s more than he has in the four weeks of treatment, about his health at least. And it’s so honest and vulnerable. I can tell as a firefighter he’s expected to be invincible. He walks through fire. He rescues people. He puts up a brave front. But this time he needs to rescue himself. I made the care plan as his pulmonologist, but he has to stick to it. Now, if he’d only taken time off from the station, but we doctors often can’t have everything we want.
And I know that better than anyone.
“I’m really glad to hear that, Mr.—”
“Call me, Dairen. Please, Parker.”
My heart pounds fast in my chest.
I can’t.
Chapter Two
Dairen
It’s been almost five weeks since the first time I saw her. Embarrassed the fuck out of myself with my faux pas. And it was the day I started my obsession with her. It was quite the day.
After an incident outside of the hospital where she kick-dropped my heart into my gut, she’s been brutally professional. Almost a robot in my presence. Albeit a fucking sexy as hell robot. Mountainous-tits, handfuls-of-ass, and pouty-mouthed robot that makes my cock pound in her presence. Something primal and animal, I’ve never experienced, and I like the feeling. A lot.
I can’t count how many times I’ve jacked off using her as my muse. I should be dehydrated by now, but that’s number two on her list of What-Dairen-HAS-To-Do-To-Get-Better edicts. More water. All the water. Buckets, troughs, ponds. The woman’s obsessed with hydration.
I really didn’t mean to tell her what I said. I’d been thinking I was feeling better, but I wasn’t going to say it. Wasn’t going to admit it. Somehow, this woman makes me say shit that I’d normally keep locked down tight. And always have.
But there’s something here. Something I’ve never experienced. I’m positive if we’d fuck once that we’d both get it out of our systems. Maybe. Or maybe we’d just feel like once wasn’t going to be enough. And that scares me even more.
I stare at her while she looks up some of my test on her phone.
Acute eosinophilic pneumonia. That’s my diagnosis. A rare type of pneumonia that affects mainly firefighters because of the environmental issues we’re exposed to. It’s a hazard that I’ve come to just accept. Even if I still feel like I’m okay, I’m not. And that’s hard for me to admit.
“I took the next thirty days off,” I say, and she doesn’t respond.
“That’s good to hear.” She stills. “Wait, what?” She spins the stool to face me.
“I…I thought it was time that I get a little rest.”
“You mean, you have two weeks left in treatment and now you’re taking time off?”
“I guess your nagging worked.”
She straightens her back. “I did not nag, Mr.—”
“I asked you nicely, Parker.” I slip off of the bench and I’m to where she’s at on the rolling stool in two steps.
She stares up, those green looking like four-leaf clovers and I wonder if I’m going to get lucky, finally. She licks her lips, but then purses them together. “Dairen, please don’t.”
I have to be willing to back away, but willing and able are two completely different things. I reach down and cup her jaw, wisps of her baby-fine hair slip into my fingers. I start to lean down, but there’s a knock on the door. I slide back to the table and jump up as its opening.
My heart pounds like wild horses are running through my veins. I cough away what my brain was doing to my cock. It’s pounding like a mofo, too.
“Dr. Lakeman, Dr. Everett is on the phone and he says it’s urgent.”
“Thanks, Candace.”
Parker stands and wobbles just a little. There’s only so much smoldering a fire can do before it ignites, but the oxygen in the room feels like it’s absent. So at this moment, we’re just kindling to the future blaze.
My head spins examining her round and luscious backside when she’s at the door.
“Thank you for taking time off…Dairen.” My name comes out on a combo of a whisper and a breath.
“Have dinner with me, Parker.”
“I can’t.”
She says that too much and I don’t like it.
“Not yet?” I ask.
“I just can’t. You’re looking good. See you in a week. The nurse will be in to take you to labs for a blood draw,” she says it fast and then she’s out the door.
That wasn’t a “never”. And maybe I’m too hopeful, or proud, but I want her bad and I’m not stopping.
I fall to my back on the bed. The hardness rocking through my body, but it’s my own problem. I have to control this crazy preoccupation. She’s interested, but she’s too far way. She’s out of my reach. I can barely see her even when she’s in the room with me. It’s like she’s ghosting me, but I have to see the ghost weekly. I can hear her, but I definitely can’t understand her. I can’t. Can’t what?
She’s my doctor. I get it. But we’re adults. There are other pulmonologists in the area. She could just send me to another one. She could just let them treat me.
I still with my hand half-way through my hair. But then she wouldn’t be saving me.
I smile. She and I are a lot alike.
Twenty-seven saves over the last fourteen years as a firefighter. A lot of people think it would be more, but most firefighters only have a few saves and a lot none in their lifetime. I’ve had more than enough.
Maybe she needs this one.
Maybe she has to save me before she can slip into Parker-mode.
I stand and my boot slides a little. I pick up the paper. I go to set it on the desk and something catches my eye.
Season 617- 8 p.m.
“Well, well…I think that table for one just became a table for two.”
Chapter Three
Parker
I decided to shower, do my hair again, but I only smudged some eyeliner and added a buff lip gloss to finish up. I needed to treat this night as special. I needed to let down and let go. That’s why I s
howed up about twenty-minutes early to have a drink at the bar. Anything to just relax and get some perspective.
I straighten my summer dress in the window of the restaurant. I chose something light and airy. Spaghetti straps with a built-in bra in the ruched, empire-waisted top, sunshine yellow-colored, with tiny white daisies scattered everywhere, and white kitten-heeled sandals to complete the ensemble. Simple. Classic. Perfect.
I open the door to Season 617 and my heels scratch like sandpaper on the floor as I come to a screeching halt.
I’d recognize that body in the dark. He’s at the bar, drinking something, by the paper umbrella being rolled between two of his long fingers, fruity, when he shouldn’t be drinking at all. Number six on the list—NO alcohol! My jaw tightens.
What the actual…
I don’t cuss out loud. Never have. I’m not against it. It’s just not me. Regardless, I can still hear the appropriate word in my head.
And that word is something that I can’t do with him. Not that I’ve ever done it with any man. But I can’t let myself slip. Maybe I should just go home. Eat leftovers or cereal for the umpteenth time this week.
My mind is saying leave, but I swear my pussy is actually crying because I won’t go for it with him. But I can’t. Ethics. Morals. Whatever you want to call it, I have them. And I will stick to them.
God, help me stick…
I go to the receptionist. I lower my voice to barely a whisper and motion them to lean forward. “Hi, Jaelyn.”
They whisper back. “Dr. Lakeman, is everything okay?”
“Yes, it is. Just don’t want to disturb your other patrons.”
“Okay?” They seem confused but continue the quiet conversation. “What can I do for you?”
I keep one eye on Dairen and one on Jaelyn, but I bring both back to Jaelyn since that’s not actually possible. “Reservations. Table for—”
“Two,” a voice says, and I raise my head.
“No. One,” I say with a finality.
“Two,” he insists with a cocky smirk, adjusting his sports coat that skims so close to his body that I can swear I can see sinews of muscle.
