I DRUM MY FINGERS ALONG my lower lip as I stand at the radiology counter awaiting Camden Harris’ MRI report. Prichard said he was eager for the results so he wanted to send someone over here to hurry the tech along.
Now, here I am. Alone with my thoughts. Nowhere to escape. No one to talk to. And still tasting Cam’s—
“You know, staring at me isn’t going to make me work any faster,” the radiologist snaps.
My eyes widen because I hadn’t even realised I was staring at her. I turn away from the counter and mumble a quiet apology. Jeez, pull yourself together, Indie. It’s not as if you were just mauled by one of the sexiest men you’ve ever laid eyes on or anything.
Remaining calm is an impossibility at this point. I was so shaken by the kiss that I had tripped over Prichard’s feet on my way out of the exam room. He caught me in front of the Harris family and did that whole awkward “are you all right” thing people do when you wish they’d just act as if the fall didn’t happen. Or the least they could do is laugh with you. Both of those options are better than the “did you hurt yourself” look.
It had to be Camden’s eyes. Or his abs. Or his face. But definitely his eyes are what sent me into a psychopathic frenzy. They were on me constantly and causing some seriously embarrassing things to happen in my knickers. Closing my lids, I can still see the dangerous midnight blue irises that bewitched every organ in my body. They held such danger in them. Such life. Such excitement. Even as he lay there with a career-altering injury, his dark lashes beckoned me with sinful promise. Couple that with his tousled blonde hair and abs of steel, and I was doomed.
I pop a sherbet lemon in my mouth and suck on it thoughtfully. Who knew “rock-hard abs” is a truthful synonym? I’ve seen countless patients and none of their stomachs have felt like that. It’s positively ludicrous how they hardened beneath my touch as if they were enjoying the feel of my hands. Good grief!
I crunch down on the hard sweet and the juicy centre erupts in my mouth. The creamy syrupiness creates a synonym of its own for how I behaved around him: Smooth and hard on the outside, a gooey mess of molten lava on the inside.
I mean, of course I am attracted to him. That’s just science. But kissing him in the ICU is about the stupidest thing I could have done. I’ve never, in my life, been conflicted over whether to behave like a doctor or like a woman. What possessed me to drape myself over the top of a patient and allow him to attack my lips for who knows how long?
Oh, sod off, Indie! You know exactly what was going through your head. Stop lying to yourself.
I push my glasses up my nose and swallow down the remaining bits of sweetness as I finally set the truth free inside my brain. You wanted Camden Harris to be Penis Number One.
It couldn’t be more obvious if it was stamped on his forehead. Of all the guys in all of London. Of all the patients in all the hospitals, he had to be mine? I could lose everything if I let something that horrid happen again.
But bloody hell, when his lips touched mine, I was doomed. For the first time in my limited experience, my physical reaction to a man trumped all the mental qualifying that my brain has done with other blokes in the past.
Did I actually think I could climb aboard and let him take me in the middle of a workday? I’ve worked so hard for my career and am constantly having to prove myself to my colleagues because of my age. Was I going to throw it all away for abs that felt like bones, as if I’m some star-struck fan girl?
No, no. This is not me.
No man makes me act this way, no matter how hot he is. I’ll chalk this up to either extremely intense pheromones or low blood sugar. Both can have some severe side effects. I pop another sweet in my mouth.
“Holy shit, you have a Harris brother as a patient!” Belle squeals from behind me. I’m taken so off guard that when her hot breath sprays moisture into my ear, I suck my sweet into the back of my throat.
My face contorts and I cough while aggressively wiping at the dewy liquid she sprayed. “Say the news, not the weather, you animal,” I grumble.
Ignoring my jab, she props herself against the counter beside me and pats my back. “You have a bloody Harris brother. I heard it’s one of the twins. Which one? Long hair or short?”
Her eyes are bright and hungry for more information. After I recover, my own gaze narrows with an ounce of possessiveness. Not necessarily possessiveness over Camden, but possessiveness over my thoughts. I’m still processing what I want him to be, yet Belle is going to put it all out in the open like she always does.
I swallow and begrudgingly reply, “His hair is short, but longer on the top.” I’m pretty sure I copped a feel of that gorgeous golden mess during our…encounter. I inwardly recoil.
“That’s Camden then. He was seen with a supermodel a few weeks ago.”
A supermodel. Of course. Way to set your sights high, Indie!
“So is he as stunning in person as he is in the papers?” Belle’s dark eyes twinkle mischievously. “God, I bet he is. Can you imagine that level of athleticism in the bedroom? Too bad it’s not the oldest brother, Gareth. I’d let him stick it in any hole he wanted, even my ears if he liked that sort of thing.”
“Belle!” I screech, my eyes darting over at the radiologist who seems oblivious to our conversation.
“What? I would. He’s hot as hell and plays for Manchester United. They’ve been having an epic season.”
“I don’t really follow football,” I croak, desperate to end this conversation so Belle goes away and leaves me alone with my thoughts.
“Don’t follow football? How can you not? We’re practically neighbours with Tower Park. That’s who three of them play for! What, do you live in a box?” she shrieks.
“Boarding school,” I shrug, using my easy out excuse for all my unsociable tendencies.
“Right. Well, let me clue you in, darling.” She turns me to face her head-on and pushes my glasses up my nose so she can properly pierce me with her stare. “Camden Harris is one of four football-playing Harris brothers. Three of them are like the playboy darlings of East London. They all play for the same championship league club their dad manages. The twins are strikers and the youngest one is a goalie. The oldest makes over two hundred mil a year as a defender in the Premier League.”
My eyes widen. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Fucking right it is. And Camden Harris has had a legendary season. Social media has all been saying that Arsenal and Man U have been fighting over who is going to offer him a contract. He could get bumped up to Premiership! His twin brother is nearly as good. This family is a big fucking deal, Indie. The hospital PR is having a field day I’m sure.”
“Well, he’s highly inappropriate,” I add weakly.
“He’s highly hot as fuck.” I do a crap job of concealing my smile as a flash of his boyish smirk clouds my mind. Belle’s knowing grin bursts through my bubble.
I bite down hard on my sweet. “It’s weird to be attracted to someone who’s at their worst, right?” I ask, leaning in closer to her.
“Why do you say that?”
“It sounds like an embarrassing creepy fetish. He’s all injured and laid up. Or hell, maybe it’s cool. It’s probably a checkbox on Tinder.”
Belle whacks me on the arm. “Screw Tinder. So you do think he’s hot?” she asks, her eyebrows dancing.
I scoff, “I might wear glasses, but I’m not blind.” Even covered in grass stains, mud, and sweat, I wanted to bend over and lick every ridge that decorated his impeccable stomach. Then, when he started adjusting himself in front of me, I had to squeeze my thighs together for fear of fluids dripping down my legs. “But he knows he’s hot. I hate that,” I add half-heartedly, barely convincing even myself.
“Indie…stop fighting this. You know what he is.”
“No I don’t,” I defend, my heart leaping with anxiety and anticipation. The rush of realisation pulses through my veins.
Her eyes squint with determination. “This is Penis Number One.”
“You don’t know that. He might not even be into me,” I lie, feeling intimidated by the idea of actually being intimate with someone as hot as Camden Harris. That kiss sure made it seem as if he is interested, but the reality of being naked with someone like him is a completely different story.
She laughs heartily. “Of course he’s into you. Hell, I’m into you.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“Stop downplaying your appeal, Indie. It’s unappealing.” Her gaze softens. “You’re unique, smart, hilarious, and beautiful. Throw in a dash of quirky and sexy glasses and you’re the fun total package. Don’t ever forget that.” I’m taken aback by the sincerity on Belle’s face. She doesn’t really do warm and fuzzy, so her coming at me like this is shocking. “And you won’t find more of a bad boy player than Camden Harris, darling.”
“But I’m his doctor,” I nervously reply.
“Tequila Sunrise, Indie. Tequila Sunrise.” Her face suddenly morphs into urgency. “But for the love of God, don’t get caught. You have a lot to lose if you cross the line and people around here find out.”
“I’m not stupid. I’d never do anything here,” I huff as if she couldn’t say anything more ridiculous.
“And don’t get hurt. We’ve talked about this. I don’t want to have to maim one of London’s star footballers. You know I’m good with a scalpel.”
I chuckle and bite my lip as ten tons of nerves come barreling down on top of me. A manila envelope distracts us both as it’s dropped on the counter beside me. The tech walks away without a word, and I scoop up the contents, clutching them closely to my chest.
Getting hurt by a player like Camden Harris is the last fear in my mind. I’m not worried about getting too attached. Getting caught, on the other hand, is something I need to be careful about. Regardless, maybe somehow I can get this to work. Maybe when he’s no longer a patient, we could get in touch. I could slip him my number, or if I’m feeling horribly brave, ask him for his. I know he’s high-profile, but we can be discreet.
He’s the perfect Penis Number One. I’m smart enough to find a way around this. I’m sure of it.
“I have to get these results to Prichard. The Harris family is breathing down his neck for information on this special surgery he wants to do on Cam.”
Belle’s mouth spreads into an ear-to-ear smile.
“What?” I ask.
“You call him Cam now, do you?” she sings.
“Piss off!” I hiss and turn to scurry down the hallway and away from my nosey bugger of a friend.
When I approach the large patient suite, I peek through the heavy double doors and spot a stunning blonde hunched over Camden. He’s nestled comfortably in a large, double patient bed that’s covered in expensive linens. After his MRI, he was moved to the private wing of the hospital that’s reserved for A-list patients and donors. It’s more like a swanky hotel than a hospital room—one of the many benefits of a privately owned clinic.
The blonde strokes his hair affectionately as if she’s been doing it for years. A knife twists in my gut at their easy comfort with each other. My eyes drift down to her body, all willowy and stylishly dressed in cute jeans and a green Bethnal Green jersey with Harris imprinted on the back. When I finally see Camden’s face, I feel instantly annoyed as realisation dawns on me.
Camden Harris…is a cheating wanker.
He had a lot of nerve kissing me the way he did. What if she had walked in while we were doing that? I was one heartbeat away from gripping his—
I stop that train of thought in its tracks. If I’m being honest, I should have never done anything with him before knowing a thing about him. He’s a footballer for goodness sake. Of course he has some woman or women on call at all times. How much more green and stupid could I be?
I grip my stethoscope until it smarts inside my hand. His hair looks tamer now—more clean-cut as his blonde locks are smoothed over to one side revealing just how truly handsome he is. Even dressed in a white hospital gown, he looks like a GQ cover model. I preferred him properly mussed if I’m being frank. He wasn’t as perfect looking as he is now.
Steeling myself to be unaffected by this rapid change of events, I raise my shoulders and stride confidently into the room. I avoid his eyes on me as I snatch up the iPad from the holder at the foot of his bed. Then I busy myself with typing in his results.
“Hey, Red,” Camden drawls sexily.
I frown, my eyes flashing uncomfortably to the blonde and dropping back down to the iPad.
“Cam, she has a name I’m sure,” the girl says, looking at me apologetically. “I’m so sorry. He can be a prat with very little effort I’m afraid.” She smiles kindly and asks, “What is your name?”
Of course she seems sweet and nice. It would be asking too much for her to be a bitchy, vain bimbo with stiletto pointy nails and a vapid personality disorder. I’d do anything to see her take a selfie with Camden in the background. That would at least distinguish the two of us.
“I’m Dr. Porter,” I state pragmatically. I see a flicker of surprise on her face when I give her my title. I really should have worn my black-framed glasses today. My wild eyewear makes it difficult for people to take me seriously. My first day as an intern, the chief of surgery glared at me and uttered, “Those had better be prescription.”
“We’re still at that level?” Camden states brazenly, completely disregarding the woman by his bedside. I look over at him with an incredulous glower. “I mean, after all we’ve shared,” he adds with a waggle to his brows.
My eyes widen and glance at the blonde who’s frowning in confusion. What is he trying to do? Cause a bloody cat fight right here? Whoever this woman is—girlfriend, fuck buddy, whatever—she’s obviously important enough to be here for him. I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me.
I turn back to the blonde. “I’m Mr. Harris’ resident doctor. I’ve just paged the attending ortho surgeon.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m—”
“I must be going.” I rudely cut her off because I don’t want her to introduce herself as Camden’s girlfriend. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching me squirm.
“You just got here.” Camden winces as he attempts to sit himself up more.
“You need to stop moving,” I chastise.
“You need to stop running,” he retorts with a challenging spark in his eyes.
This gives me pause, but then the blonde adds, “I keep telling him to stop moving. He doesn’t need to make it worse by over-exerting himself.” She crosses her narrow arms over her tiny runway chest. I wish she had a flaw, but she doesn’t. She’s stunning all the way up to her clear blue eyes.
My boring brown eyes mistakenly flick back to Camden, who’s looking at me with a puzzled expression. Before I can say another word, Prichard opens the door, distracting all of us. “Ah, Indie, I was just looking over Mr. Harris’ results you entered in the system.” His deep baritone voice fills the room with an air of confidence.
I sigh at his use of my first name in front of our patient. Prichard sometimes takes his friendliness with me too far and steps past the professional boundary. But he’s an attending, and he’s kind of too charming to get mad at. There are several nurses and interns who fawn all over him—even some of the men—but he never gives them attention. It’s the ones who ignore him that he seems the most fascinated by.
He definitely has that perfect tall, dark, and handsome cliché look about him. His daily scruff is an intriguing salt and pepper, which only adds to his distinguished appeal. Compared to Camden, Prichard looks like a proper grown-up. It’s like comparing crème brûlée to ice cream. They are both delicious, but for very different reasons.
“Indie is your first name?” Camden drawls smoothly, eyeing me up and down. “I like it.”
I grimace and glance back at Camden’s girlfriend, who doesn’t appear the least bit taken aback by the way he is acting. Maybe she’s used to him acting this way toward women wherever they go. Maybe this is normal behaviour for him. If so, good luck to them. My Penis List can survive without the likes of Camden Harris.
“Indie, I’d like you to double-check a couple of things,” Dr. Prichard says a bit louder than necessary while he eyes Camden with a contemplative gaze.
He places his hand on the small of my back and ushers me out of the room. I hear a noise and glance back to see Camden shifting uncomfortably in bed and shooting daggers at Prichard’s hand. Is he bothered? How can he be when he has a bombshell standing right next to him? Besides, I wouldn’t think this looks like much. Prichard has always been affectionate in the way he communicates. It’s partially what makes him a great doctor. Sometimes a slight touch on a shoulder can instantly calm an anxious patient’s nerves.
When the door closes behind us, Prichard looks at me seriously through his deep brown eyes and says, “I’m going to have a meeting with the family about a new ACL procedure that cuts the recovery time by half. Due to the timing and the season being almost over, I’m afraid Mr. Harris won’t be able to play the last match. But with this new surgery, he’ll be up and normal in about a week. We’ll have to do a follow-up surgery one month after that. Then he’ll be good as new.”
My brows arch excitedly. “The Wilson Repair,” I state, trying to keep my voice calm and professional. “I’m very familiar. Will I get to scrub in?”
“I’m aware of how familiar you are, Indie. I read your published article.” His eyes crinkle as they drop down to my mouth. “That’s why I don’t want anyone else to assist me.”
I swallow uncomfortably at his peculiar look, but inside I’m soaring because this could be huge for me. He rubs my shoulder excitedly. “Gather the family in his room. We’ll discuss the details in there.”
A bit later, a pungent odour of wet, sweaty men swirls around the small amount of space in Cam’s suite as three Harris brothers and Mr. Harris all file in. They are quite the family—all well over six foot tall, gorgeous, and muscled like you wouldn’t believe. Two of the brothers are still in their fully soaked football gear, similar to what Camden was wearing when I saw him earlier. But now they are joined by a decidedly taller, darker, and more handsome bloke in street clothes who can be none other than Gareth Harris. Nurses keep flocking past the door, fan-girling over the man whose arrival twenty minutes earlier had to involve security. The media were already swarming for Camden, but when Gareth arrived, it became a frenzied mess.
My eyes focus once again on the blonde who is perched on the side of the bed. She’s dutifully holding Cam’s hand while Prichard explains the procedure that’s going to get him back on the field sooner rather than later.
I know more about The Wilson Repair than most because, in med school, I wrote a paper on the materials used for the surgical grafts. I cross-analised them with a newer formula and found potential for quicker recovery times for patients. After a couple of years, my results were published in a medical journal and surgeons began adapting the new material.
Since then, The Wilson Repair has slowly been taking over traditional ACL repairs. A Spanish footballer was the first athlete to have it done last year, and he returned to the season after only five weeks. The uniqueness of this type of repair is that it avoids any bone drilling. The only drawback is that it’s a two-session surgery, but the rapid recovery payoff supersedes that.
To scrub in on a procedure like this after all of my hard work is a huge opportunity. I’m hopeful this will prove to the other residents that I’m not only a skilled researcher; I’m also a skilled practicing surgeon who deserves to be here.
Since there’s only one more game left in the season, Camden is done for the year. Regardless, the fact that he’ll be able to start rehabilitation right away seems to please his family. I fill in all the blanks that Prichard volleys my way. The hospital’s PR person and a member of the press are present so he’s definitely show-boating a bit. But the Harrises are all gobbling it up as they look at us with bated breath every time we speak. Even Camden’s dad, Vaughn Harris, eyes me as if I alone am going to be the one to save his son’s life.
As I’m explaining to Camden that he’ll be up and walking normally in less than a week, another incredibly good-looking male comes strolling in.
“Hi, guys. Sorry it took me so long to get here. There was an accident on the Tube, and it’s a nightmare out front with TV crews.”
The blonde girl leaps off the bed and dives into the bloke’s arms. They embrace in an intimate hug. Her voice trembles against his chest, “It’s fine, Hayden. I’m just so glad you’re here.”
He pulls back, cupping her face and dropping a soft kiss to her lips. “Man, the way you’re acting, I’d swear it was you injured instead of Cam.” Hayden’s voice is laughing as he sweetly strokes her cheeks with his thumbs.
“Our Vi has a flair for the dramatics,” Tanner grumbles in a teasing tone.
“Shut it,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye. “It’s the bloody pregnancy hormones.” She swats Hayden’s chest playfully and adds, “And it’s all your fault.”
It’s then that Camden’s cocky eyes find my shocked ones. A lopsided grin tugs on his lips as he mouths, “Sister.” Then a full-blown, satisfied smile spreads across his face.
Sister.
Pregnant sister.
Not pregnant girlfriend.
And just like that, Penis Number One is back in the game.
A few minutes later, Prichard gets paged and leaves me to continue fielding any other questions they have. We schedule the first surgery for two days from now; however, to prevent any risk of further injuring himself and taking The Wilson Repair off the table, Prichard wants Camden to remain in the hospital. I’m sure the hospital also wants to capitalise on his presence here any way they can. With private ownership, this kind of press can greatly help with investor interest.
“So you’ll actually be in the room when they cut into my knee?” Camden quietly asks me as his family continues filling Hayden in on the other side of the room.
I nod, walking up to his bed and standing closer to him. His voice is low with a seriousness to his tone. Looking at him now, I see that he’s lost that roguish alpha air. Lying before me is a softer and more boyish version of him. Maybe even a little scared.
“I’ll be right beside Dr. Prichard,” I reply, fighting the urge I have to touch his arm in comfort.
Exhaling, he asks, “Will you be doing any of the cutting?” He swallows hard, and I watch his Adam’s apple slide down and back up his thick neck.
I note the pensive look on his face. “It’s a scope, Cam. They’re tiny incisions. You probably have football scars from tackles that are bigger than these will be. Truly, you’ll be up to your old tricks in no time. I promise you.”
A pleased smile spreads across his face.
“What?” I ask, pushing my glasses up and frowning in confusion.
“You just called me Cam.” The twinkle in his eyes leaves me no choice but to smile back.
I laugh softly and punch some pointless buttons on his monitor to distract myself from his face. “Slip of the tongue, Mr. Harris. Don’t get all cocky on me now. You were doing so well.”
“I was thinking I could call you Specs for a nickname instead of baby or Red, but Indie is just too sexy of a name I’m afraid. It’s beaten everything I’ve been workshopping in my head.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You’ve been workshopping pet names for me?” I chuckle, secretly chastising myself for loving the nickname Specs more than I should.
He shrugs and tweaks his eyebrows while eyeing my completely scrub-covered cleavage. Honestly, the way his eyes are staring, you’d think I am wearing a wet T-shirt.
“I’ve had a lot of time on my hands,” he says, his voice deep and husky. “And you’ve sort of been consuming all my thoughts since you buggered off so quickly before.”
I clear my throat nervously. “I had things to do.”
He growls with a speculative twinkle in his lash-framed eyes. “You thought she was my girlfriend, didn’t you?”
I remain silent. The discomfort I felt in those brief moments at the loss of opportunity a girlfriend would have presented is not something I care to revisit. Him having a girlfriend should have come as a relief to me. Instead, my stupid, tortured soul was more disappointed about the loss of Penis Number One.
“My sister is more like a mum at times,” he adds. “She’s great. You’d like her I’m sure. Everybody does.”
“She’s lovely,” I reply, my chest pounding with anxiety as that heated look in his gaze blossoms. “My shift is about over so I need to be going.”
All cockiness drains from his face. “You’re leaving?”
I shake my head. “Well, not technically. I sleep here. I only get six hours off, so I get more sleep if I stay in the on-call room.” Which is mostly true. He doesn’t need to know I don’t go home because it’s too lonely there.
“So can I have them page you in the middle of the night if I need a sponge bath?” he drawls sexily. The corner of his mouth tilts up with an impish grin.
“No,” I baulk.
“Why ever not?” He actually has the nerve to look offended.
“It doesn’t work like that, Cam—Mr. Harris. The resident on call is whom they’ll page. Plus, sponge baths aren’t resident jobs.” But, come to think of it, if anyone is touching him, I want it to be me.
“I don’t want just any medical person. I want you. They put me in the VIP wing. Don’t I get some say?”
“This isn’t appropriate,” I whisper, but even I can tell my voice sounds weak. I bite my lip and look around nervously, grateful to see his family oblivious to our current exchange.
“I’m not asking for anything major. Just a simple way to get ahold of you if I have questions about the surgery. I don’t do well with this…stuff.” His expression morphs from cocky player to pensive patient. My instinct tells me that it’s not an act, and my professional training wants to put his mind at ease. Not to mention, my heart lurches when someone looks at me the way he is, all wounded and scared, especially when I know I can make him better.
I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do. But a deep, quiet part of my mind says he needs this and this is my chance. This is where I take the plunge. This is where I stop letting my professional life trump my personal life.
I reach into my pocket for my yellow Post-it notes. With shaky hands, I scribble my mobile number down and hand it over to him. His fingertips brush against mine, but he continues to watch my face for the answer to what I’m handing him.
“Don’t make me regret this, Camden Harris.” I take a step back, watching the space between us shimmer with heat transference like the air above a campfire.
“Never.” His tone is dark and promising as he clutches my number in his fist.
Feeling as if my legs might give out as his stormy blue eyes lock onto mine, I break the trance I’m in and turn to shuffle out, grateful that the family is still deep in their own conversation and oblivious to us.
“Oh, and Indie?” he says quietly, forcing me to pause and look over my shoulder.
“Yes?”
“When I have two good knees again, you won’t be able to get away from me so easily.” His eyes spark with heated warning. It’s a warning that says to prepare myself for much more than a stolen kiss.
Feeling more like a woman than a doctor at this moment, I bite my lip and shrug. His gaze drops down to my pink tinted lips, which causes me to smile, spin on my heel, and haul arse out of there before my blush starts me on fire and totally gives me away.
