by Thorpe, Elle
“I kind of hate doctors.”
“You don’t hate me.”
“Don’t I?”
I leant forward so I was only inches from her face. I’d almost expected her to sit back, but she didn’t even blink. Just stared right back at me as if she knew all my moves. Maybe she did.
“You might want to hate me, but you don’t. I’m wearing down your barriers every moment we sit here.” I had no idea if that was true. But I was willing to call her bluff. And I found myself wanting it to be true. I wanted to get under her skin.
She leant in even closer and bit her bottom lip. Holy shit. My heart hammered. I wanted to close the gap completely. I wanted to taste her and find out if those lips were as soft as they looked. A tiny smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.
“You wish,” she said before she sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest with a laugh.
I blinked. Shit. She was possibly better at this game than I was. I needed to turn it up a notch.
“Fine. A date for a date. Purely a business arrangement.” She stuck her hand out for me to shake. “Deal?”
As if no was even an option. “Hell. Yes. Do I get to kiss you? You know, for appearance’s sake only. Of course.”
She huffed, but I couldn’t help riling her up. It was too much fun. “You do know this is just a fake date, right? Fake. As in, I’m not going anywhere near your dick.”
I half coughed, half laughed. Feisty was the understatement of the century. “Much to my dick’s disgust, I can deal with that. I’ll be the perfect fake boyfriend. I’ll make small talk with your sister and keep my hands to myself at all times. I promise.”
I took her hand, ignoring the sparks shooting up my arm from her touch, and shook on it. But then I winked at her. Because really, I wasn’t sure that was a promise I wanted to keep.
6
Bree
Sydney Harbour glinted in the early evening light, and the docked boats bobbed on the water. My heels clicked off the cement paths as I strolled to the restaurant. I’d insisted on meeting Damien at his work dinner, since he was going for pre-dinner drinks and I’d had to work until five p.m., then rush home to get ready. After he filled me in on the details, I realised his ‘little’ work dinner was actually a function for almost a hundred people in a booked-out restaurant called La Mer. It sat right on the water’s edge, and I could only imagine how much a function for one hundred people would cost. But they were doctors, so I supposed they weren’t short of coin.
I paused outside the door to the restaurant, my hand hovering over the silver door handle as an uncomfortable feeling spread across my chest. I’d almost died when Damien had told me the name of the restaurant.
I’d been here once before. About a year ago with a man I’d been married to for five minutes. After my sister and Tim had run off, I’d bounced from one relationship to another until a man named Rick had pursued me. Our marriage had been doomed from the start.
I cringed at the memory of that night. I’d made a huge scene and said some horrible things that I was so ashamed of. I hated even thinking about that time in my life, because every time I did, I sunk into the feelings of guilt and shame, and it was hard to pull myself back out. I’d worked hard so I wouldn’t have to carry around those negative feelings for life. Taking a deep breath, I straightened my shoulders. I wasn’t going to get sucked down that vortex tonight because I wasn’t that person any more. People could change.
Inside the restaurant, a waitress showed me to where the function was being held, and I scanned the busy room for Damien. Several long tables filled the space, each with flower centrepieces. The lighting was dim, and low jazz music played over the speakers, giving the room a cosy, intimate feel, despite the large number of people there. People—doctors I presumed—milled around with drinks in their hands, smiling and nodding, talking in groups. Through the crowd, I spotted Damien, a pair of black-framed glasses giving him a Clark Kent vibe. He spoke around an animated smile, using his hands for emphasis, with his tie loosened and shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. My gaze traced the intricate pattern of tattoos on his arm, and I found myself wanting to know exactly how many he had.
A little part of me wasn’t ashamed to admit I wouldn’t mind finding out firsthand.
I’d committed to my twelve-month celibacy stint, and I only had a few weeks left on it, so I wanted to see it out. But eleven months without sex was suddenly feeling like a long time. And being out tonight, in the same vicinity as a man I was clearly attracted to, even if he was a sometimes a dickwad, was not going to help matters. I had a feeling tonight was going to be a struggle, and not because I’d have to make small talk with a roomful of people I didn’t know. I took a wineglass from a passing waiter and navigated the crowd to his side. “Hey.”
He turned at my voice, his eyes widening when he realised it was me. “Wow. I mean, hi.”
His gaze swept over me slowly, and I wasn’t surprised to find it warmed my skin. I’d worn heels and a full-length black jumpsuit that showed off my long legs. Plus, I’d taken the time to curl my hair, pleased that it was finally a length I could do something with. It fell in waves around my shoulders. I knew I looked good, but damn, he was no slouch either. I’d give him that. His hair was messed up just enough to be sexy, the stubble on his jaw deliberate. The glasses, combined with the tats and the muscled forearms? Yeah, the entire package was doing it for me.
Shit. I might be in trouble here.
I raised an eyebrow, pretending I wasn’t checking him out. His hazel eyes were slightly glassy, and I suspected the bourbon in his hand wasn’t his first. “I didn’t realise you wore glasses.” Frig. I was practically purring.
“I wear contacts most of the time. The glasses only come out for special occasions.”
“I like them. Want to introduce me to your friends?”
He started, as if he’d perhaps forgotten there was a group of people watching us curiously. “Right. Of course.” He took my hand in his and turned back to the group. “Everyone, this is Bree. My date. Bree, this is Dr Alexander Simpson, Dr Susan Michelson…”
He went around the circle, introducing each person, all of them doctors, but I zoned out, distracted by the feel of my hand in his. His hand was large and tan, and his skin against mine sent pleasurable little waves through my body. Jesus. If just holding his hand was doing things to me, imagine if he touched me elsewhere—
“Bree?”
I suddenly realised the entire group were staring at me.
“Excuse me, sorry. What was the question?”
The man next to me, Alex his name was, answered, “I asked what you do for work?” His breath reeked of alcohol, and he’d directed his question to my cleavage.
“Oh. I’m a makeup artist.” I smiled at him, trying not to focus on the fact his eyebrows met in the middle. I could fix those up quick smart if I had my gear with me.
“She’s studying naturopathy as well. She just aced her first exam,” Damien added on, winking at me.
I wouldn’t find out if I’d aced the exam for weeks yet, but still, it was nice of him to say that. I was still freaking out over potentially failing.
“So, you do all that waxing and laser stuff?” Alex asked, his nose crinkling slightly. “I don’t know how you can stand it. Though, I suppose, you and Damien have that in common. Working in the downstairs area each day.” His laugh echoed around the group, and he leant over to thump Damien on the back.
Damien squeezed my hand lightly, and I forced a smile. The man hadn’t even listened to me. Or he somehow thought that beautician and makeup artist was the same thing. Did he just assume that all us blonde bimbos with boobs did the same thing? That was frigging rude. And degrading. I couldn’t hold my tongue. “It’s no big deal. Just part of the job. When the guys come in for back, sack, and crack waxes, that’s my favourite,” I snapped in an over exaggerated Australian accent while I glanced at the man’s crotch.
Alex choked on his drink, and
Damien snorted. My cheeks went hot. Seriously. My mouth. Why had I said that? I wasn’t going to be any help to Damien tonight if I couldn’t at least pretend to be classy. In fact, he’d probably ask me to leave before I had a go at any more of his colleagues.
“Your attention, please?” a waiter called from the side of the room, and I was grateful for the distraction. “Dinner will be served in a moment, so if you could all take your seats.”
Damien tugged on my hand, leading me towards the end of one of the long tables.
“We should sit in the middle,” I hissed at him. “So you can network? You’re only going to get to talk to me all the way down here.”
“I know. Why do you think I’m heading in this direction? Alex isn’t the only dickhead in this room.”
Oh. That was…really kind of charming, and I had to admit, I liked the idea of spending the dinner at the quiet end of the table with his attention on me. But it wasn’t what I was here for. “Fake date, Damien,“ I reminded him. Fake date. Celibacy vow. I perhaps needed them written on flash cards so I could remind myself of both while he kept saying all the right things.
“Yeah, but this one is my fake date, so I call the shots. You can call the shots tomorrow when I’m your fake boyfriend. Deal?”
I couldn’t help the tiny grin that escaped me. “Fine. Boss.”
Something sparked in his eyes, making me wish he’d say whatever it was he was thinking. I had a feeling it may not be appropriate for the company we were keeping. He pulled my chair out for me before settling into his own.
“So, since this is your night, how ’bout you tell me why it is you need a fake date? You’re a young, good-looking doctor.” I let my gaze drop to his arm that rested on the tabletop. “With tattoos. You should have women beating down your door.”
Seriously. What was wrong with the guy? He had a vibe going on right now that I was more into by the moment. I couldn’t be the only one.
“I like relationships.” He sat back as a waitress placed meals in front of each of us, but he leant back in as soon as we’d thanked her. “I haven’t been in one for a while, and I don’t have time for clubs or pubs or hookup apps. So, no. I don’t have women beating down my door. Except you.”
“I didn’t beat down your door,” I protested.
“Fine. I don’t have women knocking loudly on my door, except for you.”
I snickered. “So, you’re a workaholic?”
“Depends on your definition. I work more set hours now that I’m working in fertility. But there’s still a lot of study involved outside of work and a lot of work functions I’m required to attend. Some women don’t like that.” He shrugged. “But what’s your story? I’m not the only one who needed a fake date. You’re hot as fuck. Why aren’t you taken?”
I hoped I was wearing enough makeup to cover the blush that was no doubt staining my cheeks. “Thanks. I think?” I laughed, hoping he wouldn’t press me on my reasons, but he just waited quietly, those eyes trained on mine in the dim light, not at all concerned we were effectively ignoring all of his colleagues and the food in front of us. I sighed.
“You really want to know? It’s long and ugly.”
“Nothing about you could be ugly.”
Ha. He didn’t know me at all. Didn’t have a clue about all the horrible things I’d done and said. All the people I’d hurt. “I was married. Not that long ago. His name is Rick.”
“So, I’m the rebound guy?”
“Ha, no. I think he was actually. Maybe all my relationships have been rebounds, in one way or another. Our marriage only lasted a short time. Like, we’re talking a few weeks. The whole thing was a train wreck. He was married when we got together. I didn’t know at the time, and by the time I did find out I was too far gone to care. He left her. For me. Then dumped me on my ass to go back to her.”
To Damien’s credit, he didn’t look completely disgusted. Which was kind of him because I was more than disgusted enough with myself for both of us.
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Mine was a pretty big one.”
“Question is, did you learn from it?”
I didn’t even need to think about how to answer that. “Yes. I had—no, I still do have anger issues and impulse control problems. Not from him. From something…someone hurt me, a long time ago. Someone I thought would never betray me the way they did. I’m not using that as an excuse because what I did was unforgivable. I was a bitch. I know that. But I’ve been working hard with a therapist for a year now, trying to better myself. She’s the one who said I need to sort things out with my family, hence the dinner tomorrow night. It’s all part of me trying to make up for the wrongs I’ve done and the people I’ve hurt. Sometimes I think I'm there, and then other days I realise I still have a long way to go. I’m a work in progress.”
I sat back in my chair and squinted at him. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. We should talk to your colleagues. I’ll try to keep my mouth shut and just look pretty on your arm.”
He frowned. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Sell yourself short. You’re more than just a pretty face. This room may be filled with over-privileged doctors, but I didn’t invite you here just to be arm candy, Bree. I for one, am completely intrigued by you. You and the skeletons in your closet.”
My stomach flipped as he moved closer, his voice low. “Truth is. I didn’t actually need a date for this dinner. I’ve been to a million of these by myself. They’re practically a weekly event. I just wanted to get to know you.”
Oh.
Fake date was apparently not so fake after all. I should probably be angry, since he’d brought me here on false pretences. But if this was real, judging by the low simmering heat spreading through my blood, my celibacy vow was in trouble. Traitorous damn body.
He cocked his head to the side, mischief twinkling in his eyes. He seemed completely sober now. “I can tell you want to be angry about that, but you can’t, can you? In fact, if I leant in right now and kissed you, I think you’d kiss me back.”
So, he’d run me down and had a party? That all seemed like a distant memory, despite the fact it had only been a few days ago and my arm still sported the injury to prove it. But he’d also spent the night complimenting me, and out of scrubs and jeans and t-shirts, he looked damn kissable. If I were being honest, he’d looked kissable in them too, but I’d been too busy flying off the handle to allow myself to think it.
There was nothing in my contract that said I couldn’t kiss the guy. “Maybe you should try and see what happens.”
He bit his lip and leant in. I let my eyelids flutter closed, the smell of his aftershave and the sweeter scent of the bourbon and Coke wafting around, my toes curling in anticipation. I was dying to know if his kisses were as hot as the promise in his eyes. His stubble brushed my cheek before he whispered in my ear. “Not here. Not yet.”
Then he pulled away, leaving me blinking at the sudden loss, wholly unsatisfied, while he sat back and folded his arms across his chest, smug as could be.
I recovered quickly. “It’s like that, is it? I’ll remember that tomorrow when I’m the boss of the date.” If he wanted hard to get, that’s what I’d give him. It’d been almost a year since a man had touched me. I could wait. Could he, though? There was sexual chemistry sparking between us, the draw undeniable. One of us would have to release the pressure by giving in at some point.
But it wouldn’t be me.
Damien’s smile faltered for just the briefest of moments, but I saw it. If he thought he was torturing me tonight, he was in for a world of frustration tomorrow. This was going to be fun.
7
Bree
After our almost kiss at the restaurant, where Damien had made vague promises about ‘later’ and I’d made smart-ass rebukes about playing hard to get, we’d made more of an effort to speak to the people sitting around us. The pull between us was too great to keep up with the intimate t
alk and not be able to take it further.
The couple across from us turned out to be nice people from Damien’s Melbourne office, who’d chatted with me curiously about naturopathy. Their genuine interest had been the complete opposite of the way Damien’s colleague Alex had spoken to me earlier in the evening, and we’d had a great time discussing the merits of various practises. I’d felt comfortable sitting beside Damien with his arm draped loosely over the back of the chair, and afterwards, we’d caught an Uber back to our building.
“Stairs or elevator?” Damien asked as we entered the lobby.
“Elevator. These heels aren’t made for stair climbing.”
He pushed the button on the wall. And then, while we waited, standing side by side, staring at the elevator doors, his fingers brushed the back of my hand. He slid his hand into mine, and I glanced over at him.
“Is this okay?” he said without looking at me.
I turned back to face the elevator so he wouldn’t see the smile on my face.
“It’s nice.”
The elevator arrived, and the doors whooshed open, revealing an empty space. I followed Damien in and stood beside him. The moment the doors closed, he rounded on me, one hand still linked with mine, pulling me close to his body. I glanced up at him in surprise, my insides turning to lava at the look in his eyes.
“I didn’t kiss you in the restaurant tonight because I didn’t want our first kiss to be some crappy peck on the lips in front of a room of people. I don’t want to kiss you like that, Bree.” His voice had turned deep and husky. Sexy as hell.
