Six
Whit
Two weeks later
“You’re such a good boy. Oh, you’resucha 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. Cantormentme, 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 IcravePoppy 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.