Dr. Fake It - A Possessive Doctor Romance

His fingers prodded me so softly I almost didn’t feel them. “Hurts?” he asked, almost as if to himself.

“Yeah, a little bit, but— ouch! Shit!” He pressed hard and nodded to himself. “What the hell?”

“I think you’ll be okay. It was broken, if I remember right?”

“Cracked.” I pushed his hand away and tugged down my shirt.

“I don’t like that bruise, but if you’re careful, it should be okay. If it gets worse, or if it spreads at all, you need to tell me.” His eyes met mine and I saw the doctor then.

“Whatever you say, doc.”

He smiled a little and lingered a second longer than necessary. I should’ve told him to step back, but I liked having him near.

He turned and headed back to my door. “Anyway, I’m making breakfast. Eggs and pancakes?”

“Uh, sure. Coffee too?”

“Whatever you want. Remember, you’re the queen around here for a while.”

I smiled a little bit. “Thanks. I’ll be out in a minute.”

He nodded but didn’t leave. “We need to talk about your situation, just so you know.”

I looked down at the tile floor, at my bare feet. My toes were painted pink but it was mostly chipped away. I remembered my mother doing it for me, smoking cigarettes, watching Mike & Molly reruns, cursing at the TV. She always managed to make me laugh more the show.

“All right, just give me a minute.”

He left without another look and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

I turned back to the mirror and looked at myself. I wondered what he saw: some broken, bruised, and battered chick he could save. I hated that, hated being at the mercy of some arrogant doctor, but I knew I didn’t have much choice. I gripped the edge of the counter and wished he wasn’t so damn handsome—then this would probably be a lot easier.

As I headed out to the kitchen, I decided to tell him the truth. Part of me wanted to lie, or at least to leave something out, but if this was going to work then he needed the full story—no matter how embarrassing or demeaning.

His place was a new construction apartment building. Everything was fancy: soft close drawers, track lighting, dimming switches, polished chrome, smooth tile, marble floors, granite counters. I noticed he shared the same general minimalist style with me, and everything he owned seemed designed for a particular purpose in mind. Gray and black dominated, with a few splashes of color from his palette.

The table was set and he sat at the far end sipping coffee and reading the Wall Street Journal. I’d never seen someone reading the physical paper like that before.

“Take a seat,” he said, nodding at the place opposite him, the plate heaped with fluffy golden eggs and lightly browned pancakes. A steaming mug of coffee sat in front of it, deep and rich black.

It was like a dream. My mother and I never had a breakfast like this in our lives. We made do with milk and cereal and instant coffee when we were on a budget. The apartment had always been clean and tidy, but old and crumbling, cracks in the plaster, peeling drywall and chipped paint. This place was the opposite, and stood for all the sort of upper-class wealth I never thought I’d experience.

“I’m going to get this all out, okay?” He raised an eyebrow at me, but didn’t say anything. “When I’m done, you can decide if you want to keep helping me or not. I won’t blame you if you walk away.”

He leaned back, put the paper down, and sipped his coffee. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

I paced into his living room, eyes roaming over his beautiful leather couch with its casual throw pillows and soft, velvety blanket draped over the back. “Growing up, my dad was an asshole.” I stopped, took a breath, and started again. “My dad was a real piece of shit. He was an addict, a criminal, and an abusive bastard, and I have no clue why my mom tolerated him. He drifted in and out of our lives, causing problems, taking money, stealing when we refused to give him what he wanted, then disappearing for weeks or months at a time. He always showed back up though, either washed up from a bender, or so deep into withdrawal that he’d lie in the bathtub and sweat for days until he disappeared again.”

I took a deep breath and turned to him. I expected to see disgust in his eyes—I wouldn’t blame him. I felt disgusted every time I thought about how we let my father drift in and out of our lives, upending everything, fucking things up, being a piece of shit and a loser, but never cutting him off. Instead, Gavin looked back at me with a sad expression and gestured for me to continue.