Page 13 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

Now my sneakers pound against the coast path, the salty breeze ruffling my damp hair, and my breath saws in and out of my lungs. On my right, the ocean stretches out as far as the eye can see. On my left is the highway, palm trees clustered in the dirt beyond.

I’m pushing harder than usual: running faster, going further, because something is off with me. My nerves are twisted up in knots and my temples throb.

Poppy Lennox is a pain in my ass, and she’s been here for less than twenty four hours. Is it bad that I want her to pass the assessment just so that she’ll leave Honey Cove? So I can breathe properly again?

Even as I think it, something lurches in my chest.

No. That young woman needs something from me, I know it. And handful or not, I have a duty of care.

The ocean is dark blue where it breaks against the rocks far below, the white dots of seabirds huddled together in the cliff side. As the sun creeps above the horizon, the sky blushes from gray to gold.

Poppy Lennox.

Sweat pours down my back as I run. It’s another muggy day, the air crackling with static. We could use a good storm to break this god-awful tension.

What is her problem? Most patients who come to Honey Cove are grateful to be here. They’re relieved. We have a months-long waiting list, for god’s sake; subsidized spots in high demand. People come to us at their lowest moments, and we help them get well.

“If you hold me captive, I’ll sue you for every last cent you have.”

Ridiculous. I sprint faster, my elbows pumping.

I’m no jailer. First, do no harm.

I said those words, and I meant them.

* * *

I’m ready for battle when Poppy Lennox knocks on my office door at 9am. She’s on time? Color me surprised. I thought for sure she’d be late, forcing me to wait on her, or that she’d refuse to turn up altogether.

Doesn’t matter. I’ve had hours to settle my jangling nerves; I’ve had a cool shower and downed three mugs of coffee. And if I caught myself lingering too long as I chose a shirt this morning, picking out a dove gray button-down that matches her eyes—well. I’ll never admit that out loud.

My desk chair creaks as I lean back. A quick scan of the room shows a tidy office with a neat desk. There’s a well-tended swiss cheese plant and a cracked window to let in the breeze; an unmarked calendar on the wall. No signs of weakness.

“Come in, Poppy.”

The door opens quietly. She steps inside, the picture of meekness, her dark hair piled high in a ponytail. No kohl around her eyes today. That faded red t-shirt has been replaced by a blush pink camisole, and white yoga pants cling to her legs.

She’s pure innocence as she sinks into the chair opposite my desk. I’m not buying it.

“Did you sleep well?”

Poppy smiles at me sweetly, blinking those doe eyes. And fuck, I know it’s all an act, but tension coils in my gut. I squeeze my armrests.

“Very well, thank you, Dr Whitaker.”

“You missed dinner last night.” Focus on that, not on the husky way she says your name. Asshole. “Did you eat breakfast?”

Poppy nods. “It was delicious—so much fresh fruit. Thank you.”

Right. Fine. I drag the tablet across my desk, bringing up Poppy’s medical notes. Is a personality transplant on here somewhere?

Where is the stuffy princess from her head shot? Or the vicious harpy from yesterday? How many versions of Poppy Lennox are there?

“Your doctor from home sent over plenty of notes for me to read through. I gather you’ve had a difficult few years.”

Poppy’s jaw firms, and for a split second, there she is: the firecracker from yesterday. Then she’s smiling again, sweet and placid. “May I?”

I blink at her outstretched hand, hovering over the expanse of polished wood. Her slender fingers curl slightly; her olive skin is smooth and unmarred. My eyes snag on the faint grooves of her palm.

“They’re my notes, right?” The warmth in her smile slips a few degrees, but she claws it back with clear effort. “Surely I have a right to read them, Dr Whitaker.”

“It’s an unusual request.” She opens her mouth to argue, but I’m already sliding the tablet across to her, because Poppy’s right. It’s her medical information. She has a right to it.“I’m afraid the notes aren’t written in the kindest terms in some places, Miss Lennox. You might prefer—”

Poppy spins the tablet to face her. “Nope. This is fine.” Her ponytail swings over one shoulder as she leans forward, hunching over the tablet, chewing on a thumbnail as she reads. Now and then, she can’t quite hide a scoff.

A flush climbs her throat.

Her rising anger is thick in the air.

“You disagree with your previous doctor’s assessments?”

A grunt. She doesn’t even bother to look up. Birds trill outside the window and I drum on the desk, watching her lips purse, her mouth curving down as she reads her doctor’s comments.

And yeah—I get it. The judgment in those notes surprised me, too. Because the behaviors they describe are a cry for help, not a call for scorn.

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed,” I tell her gently, but Poppy Lennox glares at me like something sticky on her shoe. So much for the docile girl of a few minutes ago: this Poppy is furious. Spoiling for a fight. I pull the tablet back, bracing myself.

“You believe this shit?” she demands.

I pause. “…You don’t?”

Poppy’s scoff bounces off the walls. “About as much as I believe in fairies. It’s my life, Dr Whitaker.

I think I’d remember,” she flings a hand toward the tablet, “stripping down at my father’s gala and dancing in the fountain.

If nothing else, the inevitable photos would haunt me online for the rest of my life. ”

That’s… true. But why would her doctor lie?

“It’s creative, I’ll give them that.” Poppy’s eyes are fixed on the tablet, and she’ll tear her thumbnail if she’s not careful, gnawing on it like that. “Not like them at all. I bet an intern wrote this.”

I can’t search for stripped photos of my patient online. Not even to prove a point. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

But: “Do it,” she says, sitting up straight in her chair. Poppy stares at me, eyes bright, and it’s like she read my mind. “Do it, doctor. Google me right this second.”

“That would be inappropriate.” And way too difficult to temper my reaction to the inevitable photos in front of an audience.

It’s bad enough sitting across this desk from her, catching hints of her floral scent with every breath.

Bad enough forcing myself to sit calmly, my expression cool, my fingers knotted loosely on top of the desk.

What is it about this girl? From the first moment I laid eyes on her, I’ve been so antsy. Out of sorts.

But Poppy snarls and shoves to her feet, rounding the desk in a few strides. She snatches the tablet up again, leaning her ass against the edge of the table, and jabs at the screen.

“You shouldn’t be over here.”

“On this patch of floorboards?”

This close to me. “There are rules, Miss Lennox.” I roll my chair away a few inches. “Procedures in place to protect you.”

She gives a loud huff. “If you want to protect me, take a look at this.”

Her fingertips brush mine as she hands over the tablet. Fuck, fuck, fuck. And surely it’s all the static in the air, making my skin jolt like that. Making it feel like we’re throwing off sparks.

“No fountain nudes.” She’s triumphant, nudging my chair with her foot. And…really? None at all? That makes no sense. I frown down at the search results, scanning the innocuous mentions of Poppy Elizabeth Lennox.

There’s a high school spelling bee medal. Her name listed in special thanks for a gala. Several photos of her standing behind her father as he shakes hands with politicians and investors, the Poppy in each of those photos looking well dressed and faintly bored. Prissy head shot bun: activated.

No messy drunk photos. No salacious hook ups. Nothing that her medical notes would suggest.

I roll my stiff neck, my heartbeat picking up speed.

“I…”

Poppy stares down at me, gripping the edge of the desk tight. Her body has curled forward, bowing toward mine, like she’s willing me to believe her. She’s vibrating with how badly she wants it.

And fuck, every instinct in my caveman brain is screaming at me to please her. To satisfy her every whim. Pathetic.

“I need to look into this.”

Just like that, the spell is broken. My patient slumps against the desk, the hope fading from her eyes, and when she drags herself back around to her own chair—I miss her. So messed up.

“Fine.” That dark ponytail shifts as she turns to stare out of the window. “Let’s get this over with. Ask me about my breakfast, Dr Whitaker.”

I clear my throat… but for once, the questions won’t come.

She’s got me. I’m rattled.