Page 16 of Boyfriend of the Hour

I wanted to melt into a puddle on the floor just to slip under the doorway, away from the abject horror I saw there.

“Can I ask why?” His voice was stern and gentle at the same time. “It’s certainly your prerogative. But I’ve seen you at the bar, Joni. You don’t like it when strangers hit on you or make comments about your body, and they do it a lot. Once, a customer offered to give you fifty dollars to shake your chest at him, and you sprayed him with water until the bouncer took him outside.”

I peered at him. I’d honestly never thought he’d even noticed me beyond the drinks I poured. Every other time I’d seen this man at Opal, he’d always sat quietly at his corner, staring at his scotch instead of consuming it.

“That was different,” I said. “That guy was just demeaning. He called me sugar tits.”

“And you think men receiving lap dances will be different?”

I glared at him. Who thefuckdid he think he was, judging me like this?

“Fuck,” muttered the doctor.

I couldn’t have agreed more.

Without an answer, I jumped off the table and sprang into immediate, if awkward, action, clutching the gown to my body with one hand while I grabbed my clothes off the other chair in the room with the other.

It was hard. A lot of stuff fell. More than once.

“Joni.” Dr. Hunt stood up. “Joni, stop.”

“Nah, I’m good.” I managed to shove one leg into my jeans, then the other, hopping around like an idiot in the process. My underwear just went into my purse. “And you know what, Nathan? You’re right. You should definitely not be my doctor. Now, I gotta go and get back to my demeaning job.”

“At a bar, or…”

“Oh my God!” I screeched. Christ on acracker, the man really couldn’t stop himself, could he?

I threw my coat over the disposable gown, not even caring that I was going to walk out of here looking like I’d escaped from a looney bin. My T-shirt was somewhere on the floor. Right now I couldn’t have cared where.

“Joni, please.”

Just before I reached the door, Dr. Hunt managed to capture one of my wrists, pulling me back to face him. His fingers burned, but it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it was nice.

Maybe too nice.

“I didn’t want to—I didn’t mean to—” he stumbled. “Look, I don’t care where you work. If you want to strip or dance or mix drinks, neither I nor anyone else should have a say about it.”

“Thanks for stating the fucking obvious,” I gritted through my teeth. “Now let me go.”

The hand around my wrist felt like a brand I’d never known I wanted. The idea was infuriating.

“Not before—fuck, I just want to know why you have to change anything when you’re perfect just the way you are!”

Time stood still. For a moment, we stayed there, staring at each other, my wrist braceleted by his big hand while his brown eyes met my green without a trace of judgment, but with something that resembled…fear?

What didhehave to be afraid of here?

Ever so lightly, his thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, over the thinnest, softest layer, tracing the pattern of my veins.

I shivered even as a tear fell down my cheek.

He wouldn’t say that if he knew the truth.

“This body,” I said with a voice that creaked, “isdefinitelynot perfect. And neither am I.”

Dr. Hunt sighed and shoved his other hand into the mess of silky curls atop his head. “No, of course not. No one is technically perfect, but?—”

“This body used to be good atone thing,” I continued, uninterested in his rationalizing. “And now that’s gone. So now I might as well be good at something else while I can because that’s pretty much all I have left.”