Make Me Yours (Bayshore Book 3) Page 2
We went to high school together, which means she knew me when, including my awkward-as-hell hairdo senior year which looked like I’d been caught in a windstorm that left my hair permanently vertical.
But more than that, she’s Hazel Matheson’s best friend. Hazel is my younger brother Grayson’s current girlfriend. I’ve been seeing London splash across Grayson’s social media the last few weeks as he posts happily-in-love photos of him integrating with Hazel’s life back in Bayshore. Of course that’s included outings with Hazel’s best friend and partner-in-crime, that platinum babe who was just feet away from me moments ago.
If there’s anyone I do not want finding out that I have to army crawl my way into a matchmaker’s planner because I’m too busy to find a wife, it’s my siblings. But especially Grayson.
London knows my family. Which means she knows too much. There’s no way in hell I can hire her for the job at hand.
Nancy pokes her head into the office a moment later, her eyes narrowed to slits. I can tell she’s pissed, but probably London is out there, keeping her PG.
“Dr. Daly,” she says through gritted teeth.
“Yes, Nancy?” I open my laptop, clicking through log-in screens.
“You need to meet with her.” Her voice is low, threatening. A tone I’ve never heard her use with me before. I look her up and down, trying to figure out where on the scale of I’m Fucking Serious this falls.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been searching for the perfect candidate for weeks, and she’s the only one who comes close.”
Her words cut a little bit too close to the bone. Nancy’s rationale reminds me of why there’s any urgency at all. I’ve tasked her with an unsavory assignment—find me a matchmaker so I can find myself a wife. It’s awkward, at best. Unprofessional, at worst. But the clock is ticking, and I don’t have time for propriety anymore.
I need a wife three weeks ago.
“You don’t understand,” I say, pushing to my feet, annoyance surging through my veins. “She. Won’t. Work.”
“Actually, you don’t understand,” Nancy says, taking a few solid steps into my office. Her fists are balled, and suddenly I realize exactly where this falls on the I’m Fucking Serious scale. I’ve pushed her too far. “There’s nobody else. So you need to suck it up, buttercup.”
I work my jaw back and forth, holding her gaze in a weird version of a showdown. If this were the Wild West, we’d have guns in our hands. If we were in the OR, we’d have scalpels. But here, in my office, we just have clenched teeth and repressed insults.
“Fine.” I’m hot suddenly, and pull off my white coat to hang by the bathroom door. She’s never called me “buttercup” before, and that’s the clinching piece of evidence that I need to yield a bit. I don’t want to meet with London, but I can at least humor Nancy. I’ll meet with London until I can find some other outrageous reason to nix her.
Still, this is fucking embarrassing. Because London is the type of babe who can get anyone, and the situation I’m in reeks of the opposite. This is the least sexy, least masculine position I may have ever been in. Sure, I know how to wield a scalpel, which scores some sexy points. But this bona fide babe hunting me a betrothed?
I just don’t know if I can go through with it.
Nancy disappears from the office and returns a few moments later, a suspicious London in her wake. Nancy stands by the door once London is seated in front of my desk again.
“Should I stay?” Nancy asks.
“You might need to watch him,” London says with a sniff. “In case he throws me out again.”
“It’s up to you, Nance,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. I’m not ready to sit down and face her yet, so I pause by the windows overlooking the clinic parking lot. I try to focus on mundane details: there are a lot of cars out there today. The leaves are just beginning to turn colors. Some asshole has parked too close to my BMW again.
But all I can see as I look out over the downtown Cleveland landscape is the unfinished chart waiting for me on the computer, and the last words from my patient—“I’m ready for this pain to be over.”
And behind it all? The acidic anxiety bubbling just below the surface. A tightness that has been brewing inside me for almost a year.
London—or rather, the job that she represents—is supposedly the key to settling this feeling. But I’m still not sure it can be her.
“I’ll leave the door cracked,” Nancy finally says, holding her hands up like a dejected mom who has broken up one too many fights. “That way, London, you can call me if he pounces.”
Not good. They’re already banding against me. London laughs dryly, examining her nails, which is somehow more threatening than anything else she could have done. The unspoken retort simmering on her lips is practically a plea for me to learn more. And god, I’m more curious than I want to admit.
About everything this bombshell blonde has to offer.
I clench and unclench my jaw, heading for my desk. I can do this. I can politely investigate her qualifications, become fake outraged over an aspect of her services, and force Nancy to fast-track an emergency replacement. Well, an emergency-emergency replacement. Because the real emergency began two weeks ago. Now, we’re in holy shit territory. Nancy will have to forgive me. I pay her to forgive me.
Her gaze is waiting for mine as I ease into the desk chair. I make the mistake of looking directly at her, and that same thing happens in my chest again. I’m not familiar with the symptoms as a cardiologist, but I did experience this sensation once before, a long time ago. Ancient history, in fact. Back when I fell for the fallacy of romance.
Her eyes are green, but not regular green. They’re sea foam, but something matte and swirling at the same time. It’s a color found in the fringes of fine art and in deep caves exclusively. I can’t look away.
“What?” she finally asks, probably after the silence has become awkward.
“Is he giving you the silent treatment?” Nancy asks from her desk right outside my office. “He does that to me, too.”
I wilt internally. “Nance. That’s enough.”
“Sorry, Dr. Dom,” she says sweetly, the smile on her face shining through her tone.
“Listen. I don’t know what my assistant has told you,” I begin, using the all-business tone I reserve for pharmaceutical reps and especially unruly patients, “but the fact that we know each other is going to be a problem.”
“I don’t understand why,” London says, her voice like delicate harp notes wafting over the breeze. I meet her gaze again and immediately regret it. All I can think of is the picture that Grayson posted three weeks ago of the three of them fishing out on Lake Erie. London’s gray and black swimsuit—and the sun kissed curves it hugged—has been burned into my memory ever since.
I’d like to pretend that it’s just because I haven’t been with a woman in over a year, but something about London’s smile snagged me through my phone screen. None of that matters. I’ll be done with her shortly.
“This is a very delicate matter,” I explain, leaning back in my chair and idly clicking the top of a pen. “It has a lot to do with my reputation, and if it ever leaked that I was…doing this, it might be the end of my career.”
“But the fact that we know each other doesn’t speak to my professional standards,” London says, straightening her back. “It doesn’t have any bearing on whether or not I’ll keep our work together confidential.”
She’s right. Which means I need to lay it out more plainly.
“You’re friends with Hazel.” Again, my mind’s eye flashes to the afternoon they spent on Lake Erie. Grayson must have uploaded thirty pictures. I couldn’t say if they caught any fish, but I know all about London’s dimples when she laughs. “And she is with my brother Grayson.”
London’s face falls slightly.
“My family, as you may or may not know, are the last people on Earth who can find out about this arrangement. So, I’m sorry, but the risk is too grea
t.”
She doesn’t understand the competition pumping through the Daly veins. How our family thrives on beating each other and proving our worth. She doesn’t understand how that same competition is the whole reason I need her services in the first place.
Grayson has found love. Connor has found love. And me?
I don’t have time for love. But I need to look like I found it. Because looking like I’ve found it will get me one of the most prestigious, most coveted, most holier-than-thou positions I could ever hope to snag: a seat on the board of directors for the Physicians Guild, a well-respected—and famous—foundation with an elite roster of doctors as members. My dad will shit a brick once I snag this spot, and I’m almost in the final round of consideration.
And that’s not all. If they accept me, I’ll be the youngest physician in the history of the nation to join their ranks. I’m ready to make history. There’s just one tiny thing missing from my stellar resume.
And that’s a wife.
“We can sign an NDA,” London says, her eyes narrowing with what I can only assume is a subtext of duh. “It’s standard practice for all of my high-profile clients. I’ll draw one up for you to look over. But I promise”—she leans forward, offering me a smidgeon of a glimpse of the cleavage lurking beneath that cream blouse—“you do not have to worry about my personal relationships interfering with the integrity of my work. Hazel will not know about this professional relationship, and neither will Grayson.”
From beyond my office door, Nancy lets a satisfied hm slip out. I work my jaw back and forth, tossing the pen I’ve been abusing for the past five minutes back into the cup.
“I’m serious about this,” I say again, running my thumb down the line of my jaw. “If it leaks somehow, you won’t just be fired. I’ll get a full refund. And I’ll make sure you don’t get any work like this in Cleveland ever again.”
Something flashes in her gaze, and I can tell my threat is working. Her chin tips down, that sea-foam galaxy slicing through me.
Her hand shoots out a moment later. Looking for the handshake.
“You have a deal, Dr. Daly,” she says.
I’m gripping her cool, dainty hand before I can think better of it. We stare each other down—equal parts challenge and suspicion—and the reality settles in.
I want there to be a lot more than a deal between us.
But there’s nobody better than me at keeping the professional line drawn thick and dark.
London will be nothing more than an inconvenient solution.
A gorgeous, fantasy-inspiring, angel-voiced inconvenience.
Chapter 3
LONDON
It’s nine a.m. Wednesday, marking the first full week in my new office/apartment combo in Cleveland. I found the perfect space in a little neighborhood called Larchmere, which appeals to my funky-artisan, community-driven nature. I knew within the first thirty minutes of looking at this space that I could easily spend the next decade here.
Which, provided Dr. Dom doesn’t make good on his threat to run me out of town like some sort of cardiologist mafioso, I might actually have a shot at making a good life in Cleveland.
My mug of coffee is still steaming on my freshly organized desk, which I keep spartan and tastefully decorated. Kind of like Dr. Dom, that spartan and tastefully decorated assho—I mean, possible new client.
I frown. It’s been two days since that tense-as-hell interview with the lovechild of McSteamy and Henry Cavill, and I still haven’t gotten a response to the proposed NDA I sent over the same day. In fact, I’m thinking about him too much altogether, and not just in relation to, “Does he plan to hire me so that I can afford food for the next six months?” No, I’m thinking about Dom in all the ways a woman shouldn’t think about her potential client.
Like his hairline, for starters. It is at once impossible and infuriating. Like the artistically shellacked hair of a Ken doll was transplanted onto his scalp but made somehow wavy and soft-looking. In fact, he is a Ken doll, scalpel included with the limited time Operating Room edition.
I don’t really want to be thinking about anything beyond his hairline though, because it’s dangerous. Like, my panties might spontaneously combust if I think back on the thick knobs of his knuckles as he dragged a thumb down his square jaw. Or those shoulders, wide and strong beneath the white coat, like he was just some model they cherry-picked from Hollywood to play a doctor. And Jesus, those eyes. Blue ice personified.
I definitely shouldn’t be wondering about what he’s like in his private time. Imagining him tossing popcorn in his mouth at a movie. Or shouting as he rides a bicycle down a steep hill on a sultry summer evening. Even though he probably never goes to the movies or rides bikes, it’s somehow erotic to imagine him enjoying himself.
No, I can’t think about any of that. Even though—oops, too late. My panties might already be smoldering.
Nancy assured me that the deal would happen, but personally, I won’t believe it until I see it. I might even need the signature notarized, just to be extra sure that Dr. Dom plans to go through with the contract without ruining my career just for fun.
Because for me, this situation is double-edged. A man recently ruined my career, though he gave me no warning beforehand. So, kudos to Dr. Daly for that, I guess—advance warning of ruining a life should be standard practice. But my Columbus-based options being nil has forced me to restart in Cleveland, so it’s not like he could ruin me much further. I have nothing built up here—yet.
Though knowing me, I’ll have a head start on my Lake Erie empire by first quarter next year.
What can I say? I’m one efficient bitch.
A new email tinkle sounds from my computer, which sends a thrill of excitement through me. Much like any incoming mail does. Is it the signed NDA I’ve been waiting for? Is it a response from one of the many other leads I’ve been following while starting over in Cleveland these last few weeks? Or is it just another newsletter from that yoga studio in Austin that I went to once and I keep forgetting to unsubscribe from, even though two years have passed?
I glide into my new sleek office chair, which complements the spartan chic theme I’ve got going on. I hijacked most of the pieces from my old office in Columbus and picked up a few new-to-me pieces at the vintage shop around the corner. The entire front wall of my office is windows, allowing golden, autumnal sunlight to spill over everything. I love this place already. It’s the best fresh start I never asked for. Never wanted. But absolutely needed, after the shit storm I went through.
NEW EMAIL: Dominic Daly.
My stomach pitches to my feet as I click the preview. His email fills the screen. The first thing I see is “Dear Ms. Hayes,” followed by a one-liner: “Please see attached.”
The attachment opens up to the NDA. And what do you know? It’s filled out and signed.
A whoop of excitement escapes me, and I pump my fists in the air. Thank the lord! My career relaunch is officially underway. And sure, it might riding on one of the sexiest clients I’ve ever signed on, much less looked at from within a three-foot radius. And yes, he poses a high risk of being the most disagreeable person I’ll deal with, possibly in my entire life.
But I’m making it on my own here in Cleveland, after the professional falling-out of the century. This is a promising turn after a slow start. But I have faith it will get better, due in part to the clause I added to the NDA that allows me to utilize Dr. Dominic Daly on my ‘previous clients’ page, listed strictly as brand management, of course. No mention of a wife hunt anywhere.
I take a few moments to sigh and whoop and scroll through the contract again, which I will possibly frame in a password-protected corner of my computer. Because it’s official: I have my first heavyweight client. Which means the workload is on.
Once I’m composed and caffeinated, I dial Dominic’s number. Nancy picks up on the second ring.
“I thought that might be you,” Nancy gushes. “Boy, isn’t this exciting?”
“I’m glad he came around,” I say, which is professional code for about fucking time.
“He will be too,” Nancy promises me. “Now what’s the next step?”
“I’ll need to speak with Dr. Daly,” I tell her. “We’ll need to meet a few times before the real matchmaking can begin. I need to get a better feel for what he’s looking for and why.”
“Well you’re in luck,” Nancy says, her voice turning into a whisper. “He’s coming this way right now.”
I can see him in my mind’s eye: glowering at papers in his hand, advancing with the intolerable swagger of a man who knows he’s the only one in the room who has ever held a beating human heart in his hand.
The sound over the phone muffles as she greets the doctor, and then I’m put on hold. It feels like an eternity before the line picks up again. A throat is cleared, and my forearms prickle, which means it’s Dominic on the other end.
“All right,” he says in lieu of a greeting.
“Yeah,” I respond, already losing my tether with this man. “Hi. It’s London.”
“I know.”
I swallow hard, my cheeks flushing even though there is no reason to be responding physically to this grump when he is five aerial miles from me right now. “I got your email. I trust we’re good to proceed?”
“Sure.”
He doesn’t sound enthused, but then again, did I expect that? In the background, I can hear the clacking of a keyboard. Either he’s drowning me out with work or sending an internal message to Nancy that says I will seek revenge on you for convincing me to hire London.
“I promise, this process will be painless. I’m a professional.” I’m suddenly aware of how many p sounds I’ve made in the last ten seconds, and I pause, flushing again. I don’t normally notice stuff like this. But with Dom, I’m constantly on edge. Waiting for him to strike like a viper with either his attitude or his impossible good looks. “What we need to do from here is a simple little questionnaire. It helps me get to know you better. And I do need to know something about you in order for my methods to work.”