Page 17 of Doctor's Bossy Match
I look down at my ruined white shirt, stained like a toddler.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“If you wanted attention,” she adds with a mock grin, “you could’ve just joined the conversation instead of throwing yourself on the floor.”
I glare at her, biting back the dozen replies fighting to be said.She’s lucky Thomas is still within earshot.
Mason laughs.My eyes shift to him, wordlessly telling him toshut the fuck up.
“Go change into scrubs,” Dr.Thomas says, pulling my gaze to him.“You’ll feel better.”
I wipe my hands on my pants as Regan’s already walking toward the break room, her smirk lingering like the coffee I’m wearing.
In the bathroom, I yank off the ruined shirt and toss it into the trash with a growl.Scrubs don’t feel like me.In my suit, I feel sharp and in control.In scrubs, I feel...young.Less like a boss, more like a peer.And when it comes to Regan, I need the edge.Especially when she stands there with that smug little smile, probably congratulating herself on getting away with stealing my creamer.She thinks she’s clever.She thinks she won.
Still, I pull them on, freshen up, and head to my office with irritation still in my chest.I open a patient file from the ER and try to focus.
A soft knock doesn’t come.Instead, the door opens, and Regan slips in with two mugs balanced in her hands.
“You didn’t knock,” I say flatly.
She shrugs.“Hard to knock with both hands full.”
“Next time, knock anyway.”
Her nose scrunches as she glares at me, the tiniest wrinkle forming on the bridge.It’s...annoyingly cute.
“Why are there two cups?”I ask.
“Well, if I’m making you coffee, I figure I deserve one too.”She plunks mine down on my desk.“And yes, I used your creamer.It’s the best.”
I blink at her, mouth slightly open.She casually confesses it like she’s discussing the weather, but there’s something in her tone—playful, teasing, maybe even flirty?I can’t tell.And I hate that I want to figure it out.“You’re admitting to theft this time?”
She shakes her head.“I prefer to think of it as sharing.”
“Sharing involves permission.Next time,” I say, narrowing my eyes, “use your own or bring your own and label it.Keep your hands off mine.”
“Yes, Dr.Harrison,” she replies sweetly, dragging the word out like she knows exactly what it does to me.
My throat tightens.Why does that sound so good coming out of her mouth?
I glance at the coffee.It actually smells perfect.
I take a sip.
It is perfect.And I hate that.
“So, is it to your liking, sir?”she says again, with a devilish smile.
I roll my neck.“Don’t call me sir.It’s Dr.Harrison to you.”
Her tone is mocking, like she’s calling bullshit on my authority just for fun.
I set the mug down harder than necessary and answer her.“It’s alright.”
She sips her own coffee, eyes still on me.And I hate that we’re both wearing scrubs now.Hate that it makes her feel equal.
“What are you working on?”she asks, sitting with a presence I can’t ignore.
