Page 15 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

T wo weeks later

“You’re such a good boy. Oh, you’re such a good boy. Look how handsome you are! Look at you!”

Yes, look at him. Hudson, the Honey Cove cat, is the most shameless creature in existence. His rattling purr is louder than a pneumatic drill, and his amber eyes have narrowed to blissed-out slits.

Then again, I’d be smug as hell too if Poppy Lennox squished my face into her tits like that.

“You’ll suffocate him,” I say. She ignores me completely, lifting the bundle of silver fur overhead, and a shower of cat hairs drift down to my office rug. “He’s not even supposed to be in here.”

Poppy shrugs. “Neither am I.”

That’s not strictly true. The working day is over, and as of eight days ago, this young woman is no longer my patient. She’s simply staying in a villa as a Honey Cove guest.

A very distracting guest.

And because Poppy isn’t my patient, since she passed all her assessments with flying colors, she’s not subject to the same rules. She can spend time with me. Can torment me, and I’m not crossing a line by allowing it. I’m not.

“Your father called today.” I watch as Poppy goes still, her back to me. Hudson mewls, pedaling her shoulder, his claws snagging in the blue cotton of her shirt. “He asked me whether you’re medicated yet.”

“Uh-huh.” She sounds strangled. “And?”

“And I told him I couldn’t give out confidential information.”

Should I be offended when Poppy slumps in relief? Haven’t I already proven that she can trust me?

As if I’d medicate a perfectly healthy young woman on command, all to make her more biddable. It’s super villain nonsense.

Hudson purrs frantically as Poppy rains kisses over his head, rocking him back and forth like a baby in the pink light of sunset. I want those kisses, damn it.

“We could go to the police. Could tell them what your father did, and show them the fraudulent medical notes.”

Poppy hums, noncommittal, and strolls around the side of my desk. A silvery cat tail lashes back and forth by her hip, and the floorboards sigh under her weight.

I straighten up in my chair, heart thumping.

It’s been like this for the last two weeks. Every time this girl is close, my body goes haywire, the lights flashing and sirens wailing deep inside my internal control room. My common sense needs to pull the fire alarm, stat.

Because I crave Poppy Lennox—her wry smiles, her brash laugh. The warmth of her body near mine is the sweetest torture.

“Such a handsome boy,” she croons into Hudson’s fur, and I force myself not to scowl at the cat. I will not be jealous of a feline.

My desk skids an inch across the floor as Poppy leans against the edge. She’s in her frayed denim shorts again: the ones that hug her ass and make my throat go dry. On top, she’s knotted a baggy blue t-shirt so that it shows a flash of tanned stomach.

There are silver hairs all over her—the mark of another male, I think, and then want to bash my head against the wall. Clearly I am unhinged and should check into my own institute.

Her bare legs cross at the ankle, those limbs stretching on forever, like a scenic highway I’ll never get to drive.

“Dr Whitaker has his grumpy face on,” Poppy whispers to the cat. Her gray eyes twinkle when they meet mine, and a fresh bolt of heat spears through my gut. “That means he wants us to go away and let him finish his work.”

That is never what any of my faces mean. And I don’t want her to go, so I offer up a small truth.

“Actually, I had a rough session today.”

Poppy knows I can’t give details, so she doesn’t ask. Still, I jolt when she plops Hudson down onto the rug, the cat scampering to the open window with a scandalized yowl.

She brushes off her hands. More hairs flutter to the floor. “Your job seems super stressful, Doc.”

Her life seems super stressful, but I don’t point that out. No, I’ve turned to stone, sitting rigid in my desk chair as Poppy slides closer along the desk. She hops up to sit right beside my elbow, the wood creaking beneath her weight.

When she kicks her feet, her flip flops catch on my chair. The dark mane of her hair tumbles forward, wafting me the floral scent of her shampoo.

Jesus.

“So tell me: what do you do to relax, Dr Whitaker?”

Fucking hell. That husky voice. I glare at the plastic model of a brain sitting on my in-tray and will my body not to respond to her words. “I go running.”

“In this heat?”

Does Poppy know what she’s doing to me by sitting this close? By asking me these things? Is she torturing me on purpose? She doesn’t strike me as a sadist.

“I run at night, usually.”

That was true before I met Poppy, anyway.

These days, I drag myself out of bed and hit the trails before dawn too, already climbing out of my skin with restlessness after a full night of sweat-soaked dreams. My cottage is half a mile along the coast from Honey Cove, and it still feels too close.

Like I might wake up and find myself thumping on her villa door after sleepwalking all the way along the cliff side.

Poppy sucks her teeth. “I don’t know. That sounds more like punishment than relaxation. You should try—”

“Vengeance?”

I’m being an ass but she brightens. Tosses her head back and gives a throaty laugh. “Yeah! Why not? It makes me feel better.”

Does it? Because over the last week, Poppy has come to my office every night to reach out to reporters, trying to set up a meeting to expose her father. It should be irresistible: a governor’s daughter, locked away for ‘willful behavior’ like it’s the fifties. All Poppy did was book a trip.

But it’s proving a challenge. Most think she’s pranking them; others are too afraid of Governor Lennox to pursue the lead. Is that really relaxing for her?

She reads this all in my face and shrugs. “Well, my father paid for me to stay here for months, right? So I’ve got time to figure this out. I’ve got time.”

The last few words she says to herself, turning to frown at the wall. And I hate the way her shoulders are caving in, hate the doubt settling over her like a fine mist, so I override my better judgment and place a hand on her knee.

God, Poppy’s skin is so warm. So silky. I trace my thumb along the edge of her kneecap, and she inhales sharply and smirks down at me. “Oh, doctor. ”

…Shit.

I snatch my hand back, cheeks on fire.

What the hell am I doing? This is my office. I’m at work . And Poppy may not be my patient anymore, but she was. I have privileged information about her—a duty of care—

“Forgive me.” Pens clatter over my desk as I shove to my feet, rocking the table. My chair rolls away behind me and bounces off the wall. “I shouldn’t have done that. I need to leave—right now. We both do.”

Poppy stares at me, her mouth curving down with dismay. As I stride toward the door, her hand settles over her bare knee, mimicking the touch I shouldn’t have offered.

Soft skin. The faint thrum of life beneath.

Poppy is always so alive.

My grip on the door handle is harsh, and my knuckles ache. I hold the door open wide, hating every second of this. Fuck, why did I touch her? I’ve ruined everything. “You need to leave too, Poppy. You can’t stay in my office alone. There are patient records in here.”

My words finally sink in and she slips down off the desk, her movements clumsy. When she ducks past me through the doorway, she doesn’t say a word, and not a single dark hair brushes against me. We haven’t kept that kind of distance for days.

“I’m sorry,” I call as Poppy Lennox hurries away down the darkened corridor, her wild hair dancing against her shoulders.

She doesn’t look back. I don’t blame her.