Satisfaction Guaranteed(15)

Sloane: Do you?



Malone: This morning, as a matter of fact. And about an hour ago.



Sloane: You’re quite a regular.



Malone: And you? Are you dodging the question, or is this a case of the lady never tells?



Sloane: I don’t believe you asked a question.



Malone: Are you a regular?



Sloane: I am, but my toy of choice is a sleek silver dolphin.



Malone: Now that is a new image I’ll have to bring into the photo album.



Sloane: I’m in your photo album?



Malone: You definitely play a role in my dirty dreams.



Sloane: Same here. Even though I didn’t think of you naked at work. I need you to know that.



Malone: Not once?



Sloane: Fine. It crossed my mind once.



Malone: Only once?



Sloane: Isn’t once enough?



Malone: Oh, sweetheart, once with me will never be enough.



Sloane: Cocky much?



Malone: Just cocky enough.





11





Even top athletes let their focus slide when they’re off the court.

Can’t fault myself for a few late-night text messages.

Fine, more than a few.

About a hundred. But I swear it was just harmless flirting, and it won’t happen again.

Back to boot camp for me.

The next morning I work out at the gym with renewed vigor, I walk to the office with purpose in my stride, and I tackle the day with a sharpened eye.

I’m a fucking top-of-the-line Nikon.

Even though Sloane is in and out of the office, looking delectable as always, I am on point.

I’m an Olympic athlete, I’m a neurosurgeon, I’m an astronaut. Nothing about her distracts me.

Not that freaking pink shirt when it slopes off her shoulder.

Not the sweet vanilla smell of her skin when she reviews some of the foster dogs and their medical needs.

And definitely not the charming, bell-like laugh she emits when she and Sam debate which nearby coffee shop has better beans and cuter baristas.

I’m definitely not at all distracted when she pops into my office at lunchtime and hands me a Vietnamese noodle dish she says she picked up from a shop around the corner. What would distract me about noodles?

Certainly not when she says, “I remember you said Vietnamese had become your favorite cuisine.”

My lips curve into a grin as memories streak by. Late-night walks, and dates, and explorations across the city. Dirty, flirty, naughty, wonderful, deep, and fantastic conversations that stretched late into the night. During that one delicious week, we were all about lingering talks, kisses on moonlit streets, and deliberate anticipation. We took things slow. We did it by choice, wanting to savor what had promised to be the sweetest, most tantalizing courtship. Like the time she told me she loved Vietnamese and I took her out to a restaurant I found, and after I told her it had become a favorite of mine too.

“Do you still like Vietnamese?” she asks.

I stand, walk around my desk, peek out the door. No one’s nearby. She’s inches away from me, and I take a step closer, stopping briefly to dip my face near her ear. “Yes. I very much do.”

She shudders, and I’m a druggie. An addict, jacked up on his hit. One whiff of her sends my brain into overdrive, with wishes and wants crashing into each other.

“I should leave you with your noodles, then,” she says, her voice breathy. Her body is radiating heat waves, and they’re setting my skin on fire.

“Yes. You probably should, but I’m also excellent at sharing.”

Her brown eyes are wide and hungry. “I like Vietnamese food too.”

I gesture to the noodle dish. “We can talk about the no-hump Wednesday. Fitting, no?”

Her enticing lips tip into a grin. “So fitting.”

She sits across from me, and we share a quick meal as we discuss the spay and neuter parade for tomorrow, and this almost feels like something that could have happened seven years ago.

What would have happened if I hadn’t lowered the guillotine on our burgeoning romance?





*



The rest of the afternoon, I’m nose to the grindstone, seeing patients until the end of the day. Sam tells me our last appointment canceled.

I check my watch. Ten minutes till closing time. “Want to cut out early?”

She punches the air. “Yes!” Then she rearranges her features. “Just kidding. I want to stay and do extra work all night.” Her smile is sweet and saccharine.

“Get out of here. I know that’s a fib.”

As she and Jonathan pack up to leave, the door bursts open and Sloane rushes in, clutching a tiny, trembling dog with big butterfly ears.

“I pulled him from animal control’s shelter just now,” Sloane says, adrenaline coloring her tone.

“Oh my God, he’s adorable,” Sam coos, racing over to the Papillon mix in Sloane’s arms.

“He’s so sweet too,” Sloane says.

“Why don’t you bring him into exam room one? I’ll make sure he’s okay,” I offer.