by Eme Strife
I feel my nether regions throb abruptly at the contact of skin on skin, and I'm beyond shocked that I'm responding like this to a formal gesture from a total stranger.
From somewhere in the universe, I hear my voice come through in a breathy question.
"D-Doctor Templin?" I ask nervously.
There's no way in hell this potential linebacker is a doctor, but I have to ask anyway.
I sound so hoarse, and I'm not sure if it's from throwing up just a few minutes ago or from beholding the imposing six and a half or so feet of sexual eye-candy in front of me. Perhaps both, but somehow, I'm inclined to believe it's the latter.
I don't think I've ever felt such strong attraction for anyone from just looking at them, and I was never really a believer in the whole insta-lust thing. I think this man just debunked that for me.
He slightly loosens his hold on my hand, but doesn't let it go.
"No, I'm Doctor Dexter Frost,” he corrects. “John had to attend to an emergency that he just found out about. He apologizes for the short notice and asked me to sit in for your appointment, if that's okay with you."
The rumble and tenor of his voice is deliciously deep, and my ears are screaming in absolute bliss. I can actually envision my ear drums in frantic applause, giving a standing ovation to the sexy, baritone sound that’s invading them.
His name rings all sorts of bells. I'm pretty sure I've heard of him before. My mind searches my memory for several seconds as I continue to scan his chiseled face, and I finally put a link to the name.
No freaking way!, I tell myself.
The Dexter Frost?
It can't be…
I'd learned of him years ago when…when my mother was diagnosed with cancer.
I feel my brows furrow in question and curiosity.
What the hell is one of the top oncologists in the world doing in a college county in Wisconsin?
I feel unmistakable wetness beginning to form and collect between my thighs, and I have to avert my eyes from his to compose myself.
And just how the hell did I go from feeling sick to my stomach to undeniably horny in a matter of minutes?
I remain stunned, my hand still in his with my entire body paralyzed.
My eyes are on the verge of popping out of their sockets in spasms as they drink in his impossibly gorgeous face and big body—as they drink in the paradoxically cold and icy, yet beautiful and mesmerizing gaze of the infamous, allegedly unconventional, and disturbingly handsome medical physician;
Dexter Frost.
***
THE CONFIDENTIAL SERIES
I feel my eyes growing wide and my neck tilting as far back as it can go without snapping off, all in an effort to keep up with the sheer size of the imposing figure standing before me.
“Dexter Frost?” I finally manage to ask, my voice incredibly hoarse. “The oncologist?”
“Yes,” he admits with a nod. “I’m temporarily standing in as the assistant chief surgeon here at Greenwood.”
"I see," I say. I suppose he does look way too young to be a chief surgeon, anyway. Still, I can’t help but feel a bit apprehensive about meeting with him. I know he’s a general surgeon as well, but the fact that oncology is his specialty doesn’t really sit well with me.
"You can reschedule to meet with Doctor Templin next week if you'd prefer that," he offers.
I shake my head a little too adamantly. There's no way I'm putting myself through another panic attack session if I don't have to. I didn't just throw up for nothing.
"No, that's okay," I say with an overly-frantic wave of my hands. "I'm already here, anyway."
He looks at me with a slightly confused expression, no doubt a bit surprised at my reaction, but nods anyway. "Alright, then."
The kind receptionist from earlier hands him my file and gives me another smile before returning her attention to her work.
"This way, please," he gestures with his hand, urging me to follow him.
We head into the elevator and go up two floors before it dings open and its steel doors let us out into another hallway. We keep walking down a corridor, lined extensively with thick, light brown carpeting.
I keep my eyes on the floor and on my feet as we walk side by side in silence. We pass a few closed doors before he turns the knob on the one with his name engraved in a mounted silver plaque adjacent to it.
"Come on in," he says, standing in the open doorway, almost matching its height as he waits for me to go inside first.
I walk ahead of him, feeling incredibly timid as I squeeze past his large, imposing frame. I’m extra careful not to brush against him as I do.
Christ, what kind of doctor looks like he belongs in an MMA fighting cage?
A quick image of him standing in an enclosed fighting ring flashes in my head. He’s standing tall and proud with nothing but a pair of sparring pants and his lab coat on, surrounded by screaming, belligerent fans, and I can't help but roll my eyes at how silly my imagination can get.
He shuts the door behind us and follows after me. He points over to a black leather chair at his desk and ushers me to take a seat.
I do a quick once-over of the office, taking in the spacious environment, the various splashes of color, and the mix of leather and mahogany furniture meticulously placed throughout the room.
A pair of very large, double-hung windows stare back at me, claiming a huge chunk of space in the wall opposite the door, with silky beige drapes hanging off either side of them from a long chrome rod. I sigh internally as I see more snow and barren trees through the clear glass.
The walls and ceiling are an immaculate white, much like the snow falling outdoors. The floor is covered with the same light brown carpeting from the corridor and hallway just outside.
A medium-sized aquarium is built into one of the walls, full of bright and colorful little fish, swimming around each other mundanely like most goldfish do.
Right next to it is an extensive book shelf, standing magnificently from floor to ceiling in a glorious brown mahogany and split into maybe a dozen compartments, each one filled with several medical books, journals, and dictionaries.
Fluorescent bulbs line the ceiling in an alternating pattern, shining brightly and illuminating the room perfectly.
A wide plasma TV mounts another wall, displaying nothing at the moment.
Everything is silent except for the bubbling sounds coming from the aquarium.
I'm really not sure what to make of the place. It seems a bit extravagant for a doctor's office, but what do I know? It's not like I go around surveying doctors' offices.
As I take my seat, I notice a framed collage of pictures standing erect on his desk, next to an extravagant-looking penholder.
They're pictures of him and a woman.
She's pretty. Very pretty, actually, with wavy blonde hair, a slender frame, and light blue eyes that are about a shade or two darker than his. Classically model-esque.
If I’m being very honest, she’s absolutely gorgeous. It must be his girlfriend. Or wife.
In each picture, they're side by side, smiling happily, being affectionate, and obviously very much in love with each other. They're obviously a couple. A very attractive couple.
I feel like I should tell him that as a gesture of politeness, if only to break the ice, but I ultimately decide not to make any mention of it. I’ve never really been one for small talk, anyway, and I don’t feel like being very honest right now.
And for some ridiculous reason, I feel my heart sink at the sight. And then I feel like kicking myself for being bothered by it.
How absurd is it to feel heartbroken because a man I just met—a man that I otherwise would have never even come in contact with—is happily married to a beautiful woman? God, I must be insane.
He comes around and settles behind his desk, taking his seat opposite me and placing his intertwined fingers on the wooden slab. His big body fills the large swivel chair, and he slightly turns to the side and casuall
y crosses his feet.
The gold band on his ring finger confirms my speculation.
That’s definitely his wife in the pictures.
I feel a surprising stab of disappointment run through me, but I quickly subdue it. It's not like I didn't expect it. A man as handsome and smart as he is doesn't go around unattached.
***
He reaches for a frameless pair of glasses and puts them on with a single hand while grabbing my folder with the other. The action is so effortless and yet so meticulous at the same time. I find myself staring at his hands for a moment, noticing their incredible structure and size. His fingers have a certain elegance about them, like they can wield magic or something.
Well, he is a surgeon, so I guess that's technically true on some level.
"Ramona Gallo," he says as he looks at the first page of my form. The incredible depth of his voice sends a bolt of shivers down my spine, catching me off guard. I find myself wanting him to say my name again, and I think I'm even more surprised by that reaction.
I frown at myself, feeling like I need a good hard knock on the head to get my mind right. I'm in a doctor's office, for crying out loud. Considering my history, this is the last place on Earth I should ever feel anything other than dread or disgust.
"You're Italian?" he asks, but his attention is still on my form.
I nod my head as if he's looking. "Uh, yes. Partially," I say hoarsely. I need to clear my throat before speaking again. "My dad was Italian and my mom was Bajan."
He turns his face toward me, an unusually curious expression showing through his perfect features.
"Was?" he asks.
It's a simple question, but carries so much weight for me that I feel like I've been kicked in the gut with a pair of heavy metal boots. I feel myself struggling to swallow before I can say anything else.
"Yeah. They both passed away," I simply offer.
A hollowness fills me as I sit still in the firm leather chair, trying hard to not let my emotions get the better of me.
His expression turns slightly somber as he continues to look at me. The look is unmistakable.
Great. He feels sorry for me. He feels the one thing I absolutely can't stand and don't want from anyone; pity.
"I'm sorry," he offers.
"It's okay," I quickly say. There's a slight hostility and a hint of anger in my voice when I say it, and I know I shouldn't be so defensive with him about the topic. He doesn't deserve my wrath. All he did was offer a polite and empathetic gesture.
That's what you do when someone tells you they've lost someone, I internally scold myself. You empathize with them! It’s common courtesy, Roni. No big deal.
"I used to be really good friends with a Daniel Gallo way back in the day," he says, smiling. "A marine. Really nice guy. You wouldn't happen to know him, would you?"
My eyes widen at the mention of that name. It takes me a few seconds before I can answer. "Uh…y-yeah. Danny's my, uh, my half-brother."
He raises his eyebrows, seemingly just as surprised by the coincidence as I am.
"Is that so? I thought you looked a little like him,” he says. “I’ve known him a long time, but I had no idea he had another sister."
He looks at me intently again, as if trying to really confirm our resemblance, his eyes sweeping over my figure and burning holes into my flesh. I shift in my chair, uncomfortable with his prolonged gaze.
"How is he?" he asks, finally breaking his stare.
I shrug. "I'm not exactly sure. We don't really talk that often."
More like ever. Danny hates my guts. And my mother's. So does his sister, Jennifer. They always have. They’ve always blamed us for our father leaving them and their mother, and also for his death. Now that my mother's gone, they put all that blame on me.
"I see," he simply says. "Well if you get in touch with him, tell him Dexter Frost says, 'hi'."
I give a forced smile, betting everything I have that he'll get in touch with Danny way before I ever will.
Dr. Frost flips through the pages of the form as I idly pick at the slightly chipped polish on my nails, trying to focus solely on the bubbling sounds of the aquarium instead of his gorgeous face.
His voice comes through again, easily distracting me from doing so.
"I see you have a history of cancer in your family. Is that how your mother passed?"
I answer him in an almost robotic manner. "Yes. Both my mother and her father died from cancer. So did my paternal grandfather."
He nods. "I see. Again, you have my condolences. As an oncologist, I know how hard that can be."
I'm not sure whether or not he knows about what happened, and I don’t know if Danny had told him, but he doesn't ask me about my father—about our father—and I'm glad for that.
His voice comes through again. "What types?"
"I'm sorry?" I say, confused by his question.
"What types of cancer did your mother and grandfathers have?" he clarifies.
"Oh. Uh, breast cancer for my mother. Colon cancer for her father. Pancreatic for my paternal grandfather."
"I see. How long has it been since each of them passed?"
I'm not sure if the question is medically related, but there seems to be a hint of simple curiosity behind it.
I decide to answer regardless of the question's intent. "It's been about six years for my mom. Her father died before I was born, and it'll be a year exactly on Friday since my other grandfather's passing."
He continues to flip through the pages, with eyes so intense and focused, scanning each one carefully and intently.
He finally places the form on his desk and turns to fully face me with his hands intertwined on his desk again. A noticeable frown makes its way onto his lips.
"You have a considerable drug use history. Can you tell me a bit about that?"
I stiffen in my seat as soon as the words leave his mouth, and I feel a bout of shame quickly creep up on me, threatening to wash over me completely.
I guess I should have expected him to ask me about that since I did fill it out in the form, but talking about my past history with drug abuse—even with a professional physician—still makes me feel incredibly uncomfortable.
He's just another stranger. It really shouldn't matter what he thinks of me, and I certainly shouldn't care if he does think less of me, but for some reason, I don't want him to judge me or see me in such a negative light. I don't know why, I just don't.
"I…I just sort of went through this phase right after my mother died. I guess I was trying to cope with her loss," I admit.
He nods, somewhat empathetically, but still has a serious look on his face with the frown still intact.
"I can understand that,” he says, “and I can imagine how hard it must have been for you. But you know that there are very serious risks and consequences that come with drug abuse. Especially when you mix so many together."
His tone is starting to get a bit harsh, and I feel like I'm being scolded.
Great. First it's Vito, and now it's this guy.
He pauses for a moment, still looking at me with a gaze so intense that I have to look down at my hands to break the stare. My fingers are trembling, and I don't know if it's because he's subtly telling me off or something else.
I hear him breathe out, possibly in a sigh.
"I'm not going to give you a lecture on drug abuse,” he says. “You seem like a smart person, and I wouldn't be telling you anything you don't already know. Plus, you haven't indicated that you're currently under any medication. I'm assuming that includes non-prescription and recreational drugs. Is my assumption correct?"
"Yes," I whisper, suddenly feeling really low about myself. I really wish he didn't know about my previous drug problem.
"Okay,” he nods. “I'm taking your word for it, but I want you to know right now and here that you're not doing yourself any favors if you are still engaging in drug abuse."
Jesus, I know that! Drop it already!
&n
bsp; I'm becoming furious. It's like he's picking on me now. I want to voice my thoughts but I don’t. I hate feeling paranoid, but I'm beginning to think he's demeaning me because of what I did. I may not have made the best choices, but he has no right to look down on me for them.
I swallow hard, feeling the onset of tears threatening to well in my eyes. I haven't talked about my drug history with anyone before, on any occasion, and on any level. I never imagined doing so would be this hard, and he hasn't even scratched the surface.
I bite my lip, physically refraining myself from verbally lashing out at him. My nostrils flare slightly, and I know I'm getting really angry. Gorgeous or not, if he so much as mentions anything about drugs one more time, I'm going to cuss the mess out of him and walk right out of this building.
There's a long pause, and the awkward silence that ensues is broken only by the wispy sounds of flipping pages. My feet start tapping uncontrollably again, giving away my state of impatience, anger, and anxiety.
Is a consultation supposed to take this fucking long?
After a moment, he finally breaks the silence.
"So," he begins, switching his attention back to me again and linking his long fingers through each other once more, “tell me what's going on, Ramona."
***
I feel a slight ringing in my ears at the sound of his insanely deep voice. I'm not sure if it's just me or the general funkiness I feel from being in a surgery center, but his statement sounds an awful lot like a demand. And the way he just said my name? Holy shit.
Before I even get a chance to speak, he says, "Or would you prefer to go by 'Miss Gallo' or something else?"
My toes curl on impulse at the sound of him calling me in such a formal way. It sounds both incredibly sexy and so damn respectful at the same time. I'm not sure I’d be able to decide, so I just shrug in a gesture of indifference.
