Weekend Fling with the Surgeon

“You’re sure?” she asked, looking as if she wanted to stay, but was hesitant, in case he didn’t really want to slow dance and she didn’t want to force him to stay.

He wanted to hold McKenzie in his arms.

Any excuse would do.

“Positive.” He pulled her to him and put his hands at her lower back, holding her close as they began to sway to the country love ballad.

McKenzie’s head rested just beneath his chin as they moved in perfect harmony to the song Ryder had never heard before but would never hear again without thinking of McKenzie and this moment.

Without remembering her light flowery smell and warm body next to his wreaking all kinds of havoc with his internal circuitry.

Holding her like this had him wondering what it would have been like had McKenzie been single when he’d arrived in Seattle. What if Paul had never been in the picture? What if he’d never had to tamp down the way she burned his insides and instead could have let her set him on fire over and over.

Her fingers toyed with the hair at his nape. “Thank you, Ryder.”

“For not stepping on your toes?” Her fingers in his hair was making his feet happy enough to walk on air.

“That,” she agreed, brushing her thumb slowly across the back of his neck, “and everything else. For coming with me this weekend, for being so great at the rehearsal dinner, for saving Jeremy’s uncle’s life.”

“That was a partnered effort,” he reminded her, pressing his palm into the curve of her lower back to keep her close. Her body next to his felt good. “You played just as big a role in saving his life as I did.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think so. You were wonderful. Jeremy’s family all think you’re a hero. My family, too. Which is great, only...”

“Only?” he prompted.

Her gaze lifted to his and she searched his eyes, making him wonder just how much of his thoughts she’d read, especially when she answered his question.

“None of it is real.”

* * *

They weren’t real, McKenzie reminded herself for the dozenth time in the past five minutes.

Literally, she kept reminding herself, because it was easy to forget they were pretending when Ryder smiled at her with a certain look in his eyes.

Ryder wasn’t her boyfriend.

Despite her reminder that had been for herself as much as for Ryder, he was smiling.

Why wouldn’t he be? It didn’t matter to him that they weren’t real, that the sexual tension building between them on the dance floor was a byproduct of proximity, pretense and young, healthy bodies rather than something more.

Her family all bought that they were a real couple.

Only rather than being happy at how well her plan was working, she laid her head back against his shoulder and moved to the music with him in slow, rhythmic movements and fought sighing.

Because they were doing such a good job pretending that they were convincing her, too.

She liked how he held her, firmly against him, but not too tightly.

Being in Ryder’s arms, having him hold her next to him, feeling his warm breath against the top of her head, was an experience unlike anything she recalled.

She couldn’t remember having her ear pressed against Paul’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, or perhaps feeling it against her cheek more than actually hearing the resounding lub-dub over the twangy love song, and being so aware of each beat. Of being aware of the strength of the chest she leaned against. Of being so in sync with that rhythm and becoming mesmerized by the tune it played.

Of being so aware of the spicy male sce

nt surrounding her and flashing her back to when he’d stepped into her bedroom fresh from his shower that morning and filling the room with him—his scent, his presence.

Of how her thighs had clenched, her heart had quickened, her throat had tightened.