Not Daddy Material (Billionaire's Contract Duet 2)

Her lips twitched. “It was a first. Most people come out of surgery groggy and just think I’m their mom or something.”

I shook my head. “Can we chalk it up to me still being under the influence of whatever drugs you gave me?”

“You seem pretty alert, Mr. Blakefield.”

“Come on, give me another chance. I’ll be a model patient. I’ll even pretend I didn’t look down your dress.” I flashed a wicked smile.

She blushed, pulling her white coat closer to her chest, knocking her stethoscope to the side. I liked that I was affecting her somehow. It was a distraction from the beeping and the lines running into my arm. She was the sexiest distraction I could have wished for.

“I’ll check in on you in the morning.” She walked toward the door, looking over her shoulder. “Have a good night.”

“Hey, Doc, before you leave…”

“Yes?”

“Do you have a first name?”

She paused. “It’s Lennon. But my patients call me Dr. Ashworth.”

“So does that mean I should call you Dr. Ashworth or Lennon?” I taunted. I liked her name. I’d never heard it before. It seemed to fit her—strong and beautiful. She wore brains and sex appeal well.

I grinned as I watched her leave. I should have been feeling a whole lot worse than I was, but something about Dr. Ashworth was like a dose of good medicine.

4

Lennon

I held on to the counter at the nurses’ station, knowing my knees were knocking together and my legs were barely holding me up. I was furious. Livid. I’d never been so insulted in my professional life in such a degrading way. What was more messed up was that I was so turned on by that asshole, I could barely hold myself together. He had managed to insult me and flirt with me at the same time. He was infuriating.

I hadn’t bothered to look at his face during surgery. Most of it had been covered with a cap, and I was so rushed to get in and repair his hand quickly that I never thought to see what he looked like.

Most of my patients came out of surgery looking pale and listless. They didn’t react well to the anesthesia. Some could barely talk, let alone string together coherent sentences. But not this man.

Wes Blakefield was the definition of perfection. His jaw was set in straight, solid lines. His skin was tan, and he had the greenest eyes this side of Ireland. Not to mention he was well over six feet tall and had broad shoulders and arms to match. On top of that, he had one hell of a dick. I covered my mouth. I wasn’t supposed to look at him like that. He was a patient. Not a demi-god. Not a male model that could melt the panties off every nurse in this hospital. No, he was a patient. My patient.

“Dr. Ashworth? Dr. Ashworth?” I jumped, startled to hear my name intrude my lewd thoughts about what Wes wanted me to do with his erection. Was he serious?

I twirled around, blushing. “Yep?”

“Mr. Hamlin’s knee is still swollen, and Ms. Parish’s elbow is definitely not getting any better,” the nurse reported. “They’re both asking for you.”

“Of course. I’ll be right there.”

I closed my eyes and took a slight inhale, pushing out the dirty thoughts of Wes Blakefield. It wasn’t my fault those thoughts were there, I told myself. He was the one who thought I was a hired whore and flashed me with all his glory. It made me hot again just thinking about it. Hot and mad. I tried to remember how offensive he was. How he thought I was just some cheap piece of ass sent to pleasure him. I was a brilliant surgeon—not a call girl.

I stormed toward Ms. Parish’s room. Elbows and knees first. I’d check on my horny patient again later.

I guess I always thought when I moved to San Antonio, I would find a place in the city, close to the hospital, and put down some roots. But as I flung my keys on the kitchen counter in my efficiency apartment, I realized I wasn’t anywhere near that step. I hadn’t even started looking at houses or apartments. I kept renting the same extended-stay studio, waiting for a sign that San Antonio was the place for me.

The furniture was generic. So were the horrid, pale paintings on the wall of scenes from the Alamo. But for some reason, they reminded me it could all be temporary if I wanted it to be. I could leave. I was on a week-to-week lease with this place. Nothing to move except my clothes. I wore scrubs most of the time, anyway. I hadn’t been on a single date since I moved here. There was no reason to pull out that little black dress or put on a strappy pair of fuck-me heels. Life was work. And work was my life.

I heated up a bowl of soup, poured a glass of wine, and sat in front of the TV. Today at the hospital had been nothing but non-stop chaos. It started when everyone flipped out about the Wranglers’ quarterback, and ended with the director of orthopedics calling me in his office to talk about our high-security protocols. I swear, everyone had lost their damn minds over this patient. I never discussed my patients’ conditions with the press, and I didn’t need a lecture reminding me that a high-profile patient had to be able to trust that the hospital would never report his injury.

I finished my soup and reached for my laptop. I typed Wes Blakefield into the search e

ngine. I clicked on the star’s website. He had his own page dedicated to his records. I skimmed the stats, but they meant nothing to me. He had won awards I’d never heard of. I didn’t care about football. I hit the back button and clicked on an article.

I chewed my bottom lip as I moved from article to article, picture to picture, studying him. Absorbing information about his social life. The man was single and seemed to be at every social event in the city. His killer smile was beyond photogenic. There were women. Lots of women. It seemed he had a new girl on his arm at every restaurant, charity event, or party. I never saw the same one twice.