One Moment Please (Wait With Me #3)(3)

I plaster on a super-fake smile as he tilts his head and takes another bite, eyeing me as though I’ve just murdered his entire village. My gaze casually drops to his hands.

No ring.

What the hell is going on with this guy? He’s single. He’s a doctor. He’s hot. What’s he got to be so sour about?

“You’re a doctor here, right?” I try to fill the silence. My eyes flick to the name badge hanging on a clip from the breast pocket of his scrub top. It reads “Dr. Richardson” with a whole battery of letters after his name. I don’t have a clue what any of them mean, but they’re probably important.

He continues to stare at me the same as always, though it’s more uncomfortable now because he’s so damn close.

Definitely not foreplay.

I shift in my seat. After months of sitting on these chairs, the plastic has become uncomfortably hard only this very second. I may be chafing.

Can a hard glare from a hot guy cause chafing?

What is this guy’s deal? I’m a nice person, not that he’d know. He’s never even given me a chance to show it. The way he’s looking at me reminds me of all the boyfriends my sister would sneak into our house when she was supposed to be babysitting me. They looked at my presence as though I was ruining their whole damn day.

A wave of warmth floods my body. It’s as though I’m in an interrogation room being questioned with a hot light above me that’s making me sweat. Except no one’s asking me questions.

Why is he still not talking? This is weird! And rude. Yes. Very, very rude. And hell, I was sitting here first. If a person decides to invade another person’s space, the least said person can do is speak.

My patience snaps, and my tone is a lot less friendly. “I just thought since you decided to sit at my table without asking, you’d be polite enough to introduce yourself.”

“Your table?” he grunts. His baritone voice sends a shiver through my body as he finally breaks his silence.

He drops his sandwich and reaches for his water bottle. I can’t help but stare at his Adam’s apple as the water slides down his thick neck with each long drink. He catches me gawking, so I quickly fork a bite of pie into my mouth.

“I was here first,” I mumble around the silky pie and gesture with my fork to my schoolwork strewn all over the table as proof.

“You’re always here from what I can tell,” he huffs, setting his water bottle down and grabbing his apple. He sits back in his chair and rubs it on his chest before taking a bite. “Always here and always eating pie.”

“I am not always eating pie!” I exclaim defensively around another forkful of pie. Jesus…when did that get in my mouth?

The doctor laughs, but it doesn’t reach his granite facial features. His mouth doesn’t even curve up around the edges…As a matter of fact, it wasn’t even really a laugh. It was another grunt.

“Umm, okay,” I reply dumbly, wiping the crumbs from my lips. What else can I do at this point? “I’m sorry, but did I do something to offend you?”

His eyes cut to my slice of pie. “You could say that.”

I look at my half-eaten dessert. What about it could have this guy so riled up that he’s confronting me in the middle of a hospital cafeteria? Glancing around the room conspiratorially, I lean across the table and lower my voice to ask, “Do you want my pie or something?”

Throwing his head back, he releases a genuine laugh—a deep, full-bodied sound that vibrates the area between my legs at a really inopportune time. Then he stops abruptly and pins me with a serious look. “No, I do not want your pie, Lynsey.”

I sit back and roll my eyes. “Okay, I get it…that was a dumb response. My mind is a bit absorbed with what I was working on, so maybe you could cut me some slack and save your riotous laughter for another table companion.”

It’s impossible to hide my agitated tone. This guy is unapologetically harshing my happy, thesis-completed vibe and taking me to a place I don’t appreciate.

Why is he so grumpy anyway? We live in Boulder! People here are always happy. Legalized marijuana has basically guaranteed that.

All humor drains from his face as he narrows his stormy eyes. “What were you working on exactly?”

My face heats under his stare because—dammit, he’s sexy. But I straighten my spine, pretending he hasn’t affected me by jutting my chin. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve just finished my thesis.”

“Thesis?” he barks with a disbelieving tone. “Thesis on what exactly? Munchausen syndrome?”

My brows furrow. “Munchausen syndrome? No…why would you—”

“What’s your deal really?” he interrupts, his upper lip curling with disgust. “You have some kind of Grey’s Anatomy fetish?”

“What are you talking about?” My confusion transitions into frustration.

He shrugs and audits my body in a way that exposes me as if he sees those five extra pie and cheese board pounds. His voice is crisp when he replies, “Munchausen syndrome is when you fake an illness so you have an excuse to come to the hospital.”

“I know what Munchausen syndrome is,” I snap, annoyed that he’s skirting my questions. “I’m asking why you assume that’s what my paper…” my voice trails off as it dawns on me. “You think I have Munchausen syndrome?”