Page 16 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

“ I t’s not that I don’t like Dr Harrison. Or Dr Chang.” Janice sniffs, wiggling her toes where they’re propped on the edge of her sun lounger. The nail polish brush in her hand glistens sunset orange. “But all my big breakthroughs come with Dr Whitaker, you know?”

I do know. I slurp on my straw, gulping down cool mouthfuls of cucumber water, and push a stray lock of hair from my eyes.

Another day by the pool. Another day of drafting emails in my head, ready to send to reporters from the doctor’s office this evening, the two of us wincing in the awkward silence.

“He’s very perceptive,” I say when it becomes clear that Janice won’t keep going without input. The pool area is quiet, our hushed voices drifting on the breeze. It’s mid-morning, and all around us, patients nap on sun loungers. They’re like zonked-out extras on a movie battlefield.

I don’t want to think about Dr Whitaker. But I also don’t want to think about anything else, so.

“My Arthur was like that.” Janice looks dreamy, her voice sad. The brush is steady in her hand, painting glossy stripes of color on her toenails. “That man could read your mind at twenty paces.”

Gah. My heart. It’s a bloody lump in my chest.

“You must miss him.”

She waves a hand, a drop of orange nail polish splatting onto her shin. “Back to Dr Whitaker.” Damn. “He wants me to do group sessions, and to keep a journal.”

“That sounds… fine?”

“Yes,” Janice says, exasperation thick in her voice, “but I can do those things at home. At Honey Cove, I want him. I want him listening to me.”

I can confirm: it is very intoxicating when he does that. Nowhere near as world-ending as when he puts his hand on your bare knee, but still. Janice doesn’t know that.

“You could ask for more one-on-one sessions?”

She snorts, those poodle curls bouncing. “On and on until there are no more hours in the day? Oh, listen to me. That man could listen to my nonsense twenty-four seven, and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

Same.

“He won’t do it, though,” she continues. “He won’t give me extra sessions. Dr Whitaker never plays favorites like that.”

No? I slurp hard on my straw, staring at the pool. There’s a hard knot in my stomach. Is that true?

Well, I guess I’m not his patient anymore, so our evenings in his office don’t count.

But would I even feel guilty if they did—if I was still his patient?

A snide voice in the back of my head whispers that no, I would not care an ounce about that.

Sick little pervert that I am, I’d probably be into it.

Because I want to get my hands on his white coat. I want to sling a stethoscope around his neck and tug him down to kiss me. I want that deep voice asking me where it hurts.

I’m just as bad as Janice, panting after an extra ten minutes with Dr Whitaker. The look on his face when he touched my knee all those days ago…

I hope I committed every detail of that split second to memory, because it’s never gonna happen again.

“Of course, he likes you well enough—oh. Hi, Doc.” Janice grins over my shoulder, not guilty at all that we’ve been caught gossiping, and I know before I turn around that it’s him.

It’s the way shivers race over my skin. The way my belly tightens and my chest swoops. Even in the cool shadows by the pool, my blood rushes extra warm through my veins.

“A word, please, Poppy.”

It doesn’t matter how long I stay here. I’m never prepared.

* * *

This isn’t about The Knee Incident. That was four days ago, and Dr Whitaker has clearly opted for silence and denial about that. My sun lounger squeaks as I swing my legs around, the backs of my thighs sticking to the warm canvas, and ice rattles in my cup as I place it on the ground.

Two long legs encased in smart gray pants wait beside my lounger. His white coat is bright in the sunshine. Dr Whitaker is looming, and that means I don’t need to make eye contact yet.

Does he regret it? Touching me like that?

He must do, to be this weird about it.

“We got a reply,” the doctor says a minute later as he leads me across the courtyard. I hurry to keep up with his long strides, my damp hair dripping on the paving stones. “A journalist from the city paper wants to meet. Specifically, she wants to come here.”

And talk to us both.

I swallow, mouth dry, and wring out my hair while Dr Whitaker keys in the code to his office building.

For the first time, it hits me that he’s risking a lot by doing this for me—putting his whole career on the line to expose my father.

He’ll be in the governor’s cross hairs after this, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that my spite is hereditary.

“Are you sure?”

Dr Whitaker nods briskly as he holds the door for me. “I double checked the name. She’s legitimate.”

That’s not what I meant.

It’s weird stepping into his office now. I’ve been here three times since The Knee Incident already, but each time has made my heart pound like crazy. I’m like a serial killer returning to the scene of the crime, getting a second-hand high from the memory of my bad behavior.

I flirted with Dr Whitaker that night. I egged him on; practically begged for him to touch me.

And for a blissful moment back there, he actually did.

“I’ll show you the email. You can draft a reply.” The doctor leans over his desk, tapping away at his keyboard. Dr Whitaker has really nice hands: tanned and strong. The navy necktie he’s wearing dangles forward as he types, just crying out for a girl to yank it.

“Be honest with me, Doc. Did you go to medical school just because you look so good in a white coat?”

He hides a smile—with effort. “Whit,” he says.

“Woo?”

“No, Whit. That’s my name. People call me Whit.”

People. Friends and loved ones. Me.

“Hey, Whit.”

His eyes crease at the corners. “Hey.”

And I’m so giddy about all of this. The terse but clearly interested email from the reporter; the golden sunshine spilling through the window; the scent of chlorine on my skin; the taste of freedom on the tip of my tongue.

That smile. That ghost of a smile .

When Whit steps back from his desk, waving for me to take his place, I don’t keep a careful six inches of space between us like the last few days. No: I bounce across his office and throw my arms around his waist; I flatten our bodies together and bury my face in his tanned throat.

Whit stands there, frozen. It’s like hugging a statue in the park.

Then finally, finally, when I’m about to give up all hope, a breath shudders out of his strong chest, and his hands spread over my back to press me closer.

I melt against the doctor with a sigh.

“Huh.” He rubs a cautious circle on my shoulder blades. Can he feel my heart going nuts? Is that medical concern in his voice? Hey, am I dying? “Your t-shirt is damp.”

Ah, yeah. “I’ve got my bikini on underneath. I went swimming with Janice.”

He grunts, and then we’re cuddling in silence.

Cuddling. There’s no other word for what we’re doing: standing locked together, breaths steady, hands roaming slowly. Brushing and grazing. Tracing lines of crackling heat. The Knee Incident’s got nothing on this, and I’m living the freaking dream right now.

“You’re very muscly.”

Another grunt. A stubbly chin rubs against my temple, strands of my hair catching on his bristles. What would that chin feel like against my inner arm? My stomach? My thighs?

“You’re nearly free, Poppy.” Dr Whitaker drags one palm down the length of my spine, scorching right to my soul.

I gasp, my hips pressing forward against his. It’s pure instinct, okay? I can’t help it, and when he presses back, white static fills my brain.

Freedom.

He’s right. It’s so close, but for the first time in my life… I don’t feel like running anywhere.