Love with Me
Page 3Joy turns to her tech and rattles off a whole list of orders, her voice firm, hands steady.
Once we’re alone, Joy rewashes her hands, then leads me into her office where she collapses into her chair and takes a deep breath.
“Okay,” she says and reaches for her water bottle. “Spill it.”
“I’m suspended indefinitely,” I reply, and she chokes on her water. I hurry around the desk to pound her on the back as she sputters.
She wipes her hand over her mouth and then gapes up at me.
“What did you just say?”
“If I say it again, you have to promise not to choke.”
“This isn’t funny.” She frowns.
“You heard me,” I reply and drop into my seat across from her. “Remember that patient that died on my table a couple of months ago?”
“Of course.”
“His family is suing me and the hospital.”
Her jaw drops, and she’s still gaping at me.
“And while I’m under investigation, I can’t work. They’re paying me though, so there’s that.”
“So there’s that,” she echoes, nodding slowly. “No, fuck that. You didn’t do anything wrong, Jace.”
Her immediate and fierce loyalty is a balm to my bruised confidence.
“They know that, too,” I reply. “It’s all a formality. Honestly, if it had been my father on that table, I can’t say that I wouldn’t want to look into a wrongful death case.”
“It doesn’t bring him back,” she insists.
“No, but if there was malpractice, it could prevent it from happening again.”
“You’re defending the Walters,” she says incredulously.
She blows out a breath and stares at me. Her brown hair is piled on top of her head. She shed her white coat after surgery, and she’s in baby blue scrubs.
For the first time since I met her, I wouldn’t say she’s pretty.
She’s fucking hot.
“What am I supposed to do with time off?” I ask, trying to distract myself from Joy and her sexy scrubs.
“You said you wanted to make some changes to your house. Now is a good time for that,” she suggests. “And you could learn to play the piano.”
I cock a brow. “The piano?”
“Sure. You have good hands. Might as well use them for something.”
“Now you have jokes. My career is almost over, and you have jokes.”
She giggles and shrugs one shoulder. My dick twitches.
“I have tomorrow off,” she offers. “I’ll hang out with you, and you can come up with a plan. I know this will drive you nuts.”
Because she knows me, inside and out.
“You’re not kidding,” I agree.
“I’ll make you dinner tonight,” she says as she stands to gather her things. “And if you’re really nice, you can sleep in my spare room.”
But I don’t want to sleep in her spare room. No, I want to sleep with her. Which means I have only one option here.
“Dinner will be great,” I reply with a grin and follow her out to the lobby. “I’ll go home, though. I have to clean some stuff up before you come over tomorrow.”
“Suit yourself,” she says with a shrug. She unlocks the front door to let us out. “Do you want tacos or lasagna?”
“Yes.”
She laughs as she waves at Bill. “Be good, Bill.”
~Joy~
“I have chicken parm in the slow cooker,” I inform Jace as we walk into my house. “Sorry, no tacos or lasagna, but I made plenty.”
“You always make too much,” he says with a smile as he closes the door behind us. Before we can walk any farther, both Carl and Nancy come running to the door to greet us.
“You’ve added to your brood,” Jace says, squatting to pet Nancy, a sixty-pound, eight-month-old English Bulldog. “And this one is missing an eye.”
“Shh,” I admonish him as I lift my sweet kitty, Carl, into my arms and nuzzle his head. He purrs immediately, smiling up at me. “Don’t hurt her feelings.”
“What’s your name, sweet girl?” he asks the dog.
“Nancy,” I reply for her, set Carl on the couch, and watch as he happily jumps onto the floor, barely limping despite missing one of his front legs.
“Why do you always give them people names?”
“Because they deserve the dignity of a name,” I reply, leading him through the house to the kitchen. The house smells of tomato sauce and chicken, and it makes my stomach growl. “I mean, who wants to be called cupcake?”
“Not you, apparently.”
“Yeah, don’t ever call me cupcake.”
“So noted.” His grey eyes are full of humor, the emotion replacing the anguish I saw when he first arrived at my clinic. “Let’s not talk about the hospital tonight.”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” I ask, batting my eyelashes innocently. Jace grips my hair in his fist, pulls my head back, and smacks a loud kiss on my forehead.
“That’s why I love you. How long do you have in the kitchen?”
“Twenty minutes, tops. I just have to boil the pasta and add cheese to the chicken.”
“Great, that gives me plenty of time.”
He dashes back to the living room and starts gathering Nancy’s toys and throwing them into the box in the corner, but Nancy joins him and pulls them all out, one at a time as if Jace is playing a fun new game with her.
“Hey, I’m trying to clean up your mess,” he says, making me giggle.
“I always do this,” he reminds me. “Why do you always have pants on your couch?”
I turn to watch him gather a pair of jeans off the arm of my sofa. “I’m not telling.”
“Well, now you have to tell me.”
“Sometimes, in the evening, I don’t want to wear my pants anymore, so I take them off and drape them on the couch and forget to take them upstairs with me later.”
He watches me with an expression that’s new for him over the past couple of months. But before I can say anything, he just chuckles and walks to the stairs leading to the second floor. I can hear him bustling about up there, and then my washing machine starts.
Score. I don’t have to do laundry later.
Since college, whenever Jace comes to my place to eat, he tidies up while I cook. He’s a neat freak. I’m not.
Let me clarify. My house is not dirty. I’m a doctor, and cleanliness is important. Not to mention . . . ew. But I can be messy.
I think Jace feels useful, picking up after me. Or, he’s disgusted by my clutter. Which could be the case.
“You don’t have to do my laundry,” I say as he comes into the kitchen a few minutes later.
“It only takes a minute to throw a load in,” he says, immediately stacking the few dishes in my sink into the dishwasher. “Besides, I’m earning my keep.”
“Your mama raised you right.” I bump him with my hip, pushing him out of my way so I can reach for the pasta ladle to give the pot a stir. “You’re better at laundry than me anyway.”
“You’ll always be a better cook,” he says with a shrug and sets a clean mug in my cabinet. “We all have our strengths.”
“True that. Okay, this is about ready. Do you mind reaching for the plates?”
Moving around my kitchen with him in it is easier than I expect it to be, every single time. The man is big, in the best ways. When I first met him in college, he was tall but lanky, still growing into his manhood.
And man, has he grown into it.
He’s broad and firm, with muscles in all the right places. Last week, we were at his house, and he dribbled some coffee on his shirt, so he whipped it off before going to fetch another one, and I’m pretty sure my jaw hit the floor. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">