Doctor Charmer (Doctors of Eastport General)

24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

Reggie

T he gym is massive. Weights and equipment room on the second floor, an indoor track encircling an open-air gym. Two basketball courts and an all-purpose area that is now configured for volleyball.

It’s a few days after Christmas, and most people are off for the holidays, yet the gym is nearly empty. I chalk it up to the fact that everyone’s New Year’s resolutions don’t kick in for a few days, at which time there’ll be a line of sweaty souls queued up at every piece of equipment in the building.

“After I take your ego down a peg or two, they have a co-ed sauna where you can hide your tears of defeat,” Ivy jokes next to me. “Go.” She points to the men’s locker room. “I’ll get us checked in and will meet you on the court.”

It takes me less than a minute to change and return to the court. An urgent need to see her in her infamous shorts drives up my heart rate. She’s already standing center court, back to me. She has a volleyball pressed to her hip, chin lifted, staring at the net like it’s an old friend. My sneaker squeak gives me away. She spins to face me, the melancholy expression on her face a second ago replaced by a bright smile.

“Someone’s in an awful hurry,” she teases.

I wave my phone in my hand. “Someone promised me dinner and a show.” I’m dressed in basketball shorts and a hospital charity 5K run T-shirt.

She points to the hardwood floor. “Remember the rules. No phones. And for your safety, please remain seated with the lap bar safely secured across your lap.” She imitates an amusement park safety announcer. “Please keep your hands to yourself. Touching, squeezing, and/or smacking may result in your removal and permanent ban from experiencing the wonders of Ivy in the future.”

My laugh echoes off the high ceilings, and I do as I am told. I plop down to a seated position, crossing my legs at the ankle, my phone face down next to me.

She struts in my direction, not stopping until she bends next to my phone. “On second thought.” She picks up my phone and twists the screen to face me. Has she changed her mind and will allow me to record this stupendous moment? “Unlock, please.”

Yes.

Internally, I’m pumping my fists to the sky, but externally, I order my face to remain flat, expressionless. I tap out my unlock code and act like I have no idea what she’s about to do. “What are you looking for? You’ve already given me your phone number,” I joke and press my palms to the floor behind me, enjoying this moment. Over the last few days, we’ve shared so many moments just like this. Simple exchanges that become memorable.

She swipes hair from in front of her face, her brows furrowing in concentration as she swipes in search of something. It takes only three notes for me to recognize the tune. “Moulin Rouge, really?” She’s streaming music for her little performance.

“Don’t judge.” She laughs, placing the phone on the ground. She saunters three feet in front of me, turning her back to me, and begins to swing her hips. She moves to the beat with the grace of an athlete, and I sit back, ready to enjoy.

She spins on her toes and slowly lowers the zipper of her sweat jacket. Shoulders back, she lets it fall to the floor.

She is a vision of grace. Her hand lowers to the waistband of her sweatpants, and I sit up straight. This is it. The moment I’ve waited for. I know it’s silly. But it’s the perfect distraction I need to keep my mind off the suspension, about the ridiculous plan we must execute in a few hours, about losing the career I’ve worked so long and hard to build.

She is my perfect distraction.

The wink she gives me over her shoulder has me leaning forward. She’s right—if I were standing, I’d be swaying to the music, tipping forward to the point of falling. She turns slightly, her picture-perfect profile the stuff of future dreams. Slowly, she peels down the sweatpants. So slow that each inch feels like a mile. For every two inches she lowers, she quickly lifts it again an inch. She’s a perpetual tease with a body built for sin.

When the sweatpants reach the back of her knees, her hands let go. The pants drop to the floor, pooling around her ankle—right next to my jaw.

I’ve seen her in shorts before. When she slept over in the ER room. Prancing up and down the halls of the hospital. I thought those skintight shorts were the sexiest things I’d ever seen. I was wrong.

These shorts, and I’m not sure they even qualify as shorts, are the stuff of dreams. More a booty short that you’d picture your fantasy woman wearing in your dream. My gaze locks on her insanely long, toned legs. The ones that stretch all the way up to the heavens. The shorts have less fabric than a two-piece bikini, and I understand why she could never wear these at a school-sanctioned event.

She lifts her feet, one at a time, kicking out from the sweats. No spinning, allowing me time to appreciate her magnificence.

I know I should speak. I know I should reward her with a charming retort. But I don’t. I can’t. I’m stunned speechless. She notices, of course she does.

“Is that the sound of silence from the man who is never at a loss for words?” She twists at the waist, one hand pressed to her hip, a wink tossed over her shoulder.

“This picture…” I wave a hand toward her rear. “… says it all.”

“As advertised?” I hear the query and can’t believe she has a single iota of doubt that it isn’t everything she promised.

“Better than.” My right hand lifts to my mouth, and I give her a chef’s kiss of approval. “I don’t think I’ll need to snap a picture. This image is ingrained in me forever.”

My compliment must strike a chord. “Awww.” And from here, it looks like color races to her cheeks. “You are a sweet man.”

I shake my head. “If you could read my thoughts, you’d know there’s nothing sweet about me.”

She snickers, and the corners of her lips tick up before she speaks. “Good, then I think you’re ready. Grab your balls.”

“My what?” I catch my gaze lowering to my lap before I realize what I’m doing and jerk my head up.

She’s bent over in laughter. She presses one knee to the hard floor, laughing even harder. “Men. I love you guys. You’re all perpetually twelve years old.” She points to the volleyball, which had rolled from her side to the wall.

My half laugh lets her know she’s right. When I’m with her, I feel younger. I feel the possibilities. She makes me forget about my past and believe in a future I thought was no longer attainable for a man like me. I push to stand and walk to retrieve the ball.

“Are you sure you’re ready for all of this?” Hands on hips, she challenges me. Pushes me. Makes me work for it. Harder than I’ve had to in the past.

“Bring it on.”