Hotshot Doc(46)

He moves to walk away and I say, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Then I make exaggerated smoochy noises with my lips. Because, hello! This dream is not G-rated. I want a kiss, dammit, but the prince just chuckles and walks away.

Pfft. Just my luck, getting a prudish prince.

This is the last part of the dream I remember before I jolt awake in a room that smells like sandalwood and pine, lying on sheets that are way softer than anything I can afford. It takes me all of three seconds to realize I’m still in Matt’s house, and worse, I’m in his bed! Oh god, that means he must have picked me up and put me up here himself. He was the prince—and I begged him to kiss me!

I bolt upright and look around the room. He’s not in bed with me. THANK GOD. I scramble out from beneath the covers and leap to my feet. With a shaky, nervous breath, I glance down. Oh, phew. Fortunately, I’m still in my dress from last night, though it’s a little askew. I grab my phone from the charging dock and turn it on. Josie called me 37 times.

I call her back right away.

“OH MY GOD. I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!” is the first thing she says as the call connects.

I hold a hand over my mouth, scared to make too much noise. I don’t know where Matt is. He could be coming back any minute.

“Listen, I’m alive. It’s a long story, but I’ll be home soon.”

She groans. “Good, I’m glad, but it’s 5:45 AM and I’m going back to sleep.”

The call abruptly ends.

Okay, well, at least that’s taken care of. I tiptoe around and gather my things. My jacket is on the floor. My shoes are sitting neatly beside the bed. Matt must have taken them off for me like I did for him, and I shiver thinking of him undoing the little strap around my ankle. For some reason that seems more thoughtful than when I yanked off his dress shoes, but maybe I’m reading too much into it.

Once I have everything I need, I tiptoe to the door of his bedroom. If I make it outside without being noticed, I can just order an Uber from down the street, or who knows, I could always hitchhike home with some grizzly trucker. Last night, I was worried about crazy people. Now, I’m so embarrassed by how I behaved that a good ol’ kidnapping doesn’t sound so bad anymore.

I hear a noise behind me and freeze, glancing slowly over my shoulder like I’m expecting Freddy Krueger to make an appearance. A second later, Matt steps out of his bathroom, toothbrush swishing back and forth across his teeth. He’s wearing gray sleeping pants and no shirt and I blink an untold number of times as if my eyelashes will flap hard enough to carry me right out of this situation.

“Good,” he says with a quick nod. “You’re up.”

Then he turns and steps back into the bathroom so he can spit out his toothpaste and rinse his mouth. My eyes flick to his window and I wonder if I can make it across the room and outside before he’s done. But no, a second later, he’s back in his bedroom, brushing past me to get into the hallway. Now he’s sans toothbrush and still sans shirt. I feast on the sight that is his tan back and broad shoulders and muscly biceps, but when he glances back to look at me, I shoot my gaze to the ceiling so fast, I think I sprain a muscle in my eye.

“C’mon, I’ll make breakfast.”

I laugh. “For a second there, it sounded like you said the word ‘breakfast’, but that can’t be right.”

He scrunches his brows in confusion. “Aren’t you hungry?”

I hold up my hand. Why are we talking about food, of all things? Aren’t there more important details we need to work out? Like, oh, I dunno, when we took the major leap from enemies to shirtless breakfast companions? “Hold on—did I or did I not fall asleep on the floor of your bedroom last night?”

He frowns and turns around, leaning one shoulder against the wall and crossing his arms. His abs are insanely toned. “You did.”

“And did you or did you not lift me up into your bed and tuck me under the covers?”

“I did, but then I slept out on the couch. Nothing happened.”

My cheeks burn because there’s still one more thing I need clarification on. I rush the words out on one breath. “Good, okay. Also, I dreamed that I asked for a kiss—that didn’t happen, right?”

His face completely transforms as his mouth breaks into a devastating smile. “No, that definitely did happen. It was cute. You puckered up and everything.”

Just as I thought. I cross my arms and put my head down and fast-walk right on by him. I head straight for the door and I think if I pick up enough momentum, I won’t even have to stop to open it, I can just barrel straight through the wood.

His hand reaches out to catch my shoulder and he tugs me back. “Wait, I said it was cute. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed isn’t the right word. Traumatized is more like it. I’ll need therapy.”

He offers me a little half-smile and my gaze pings back and forth between that and his swoon-worthy bedhead.

“Well it’s nothing worse than what I did. Getting drunk, forcing you to put me to bed—I don’t think I’ve been that wasted since my college days.”

Somehow, I doubt he was that drunk even then.

“You told me about your ex-wife,” I admit in an effort to get everything out on the table as soon as possible.

He looks less than enthused. “Ah.”