Page 29 of Clinically Delicious
Professional thoughts only.
I took a step.
Then another.
Stood in front of the door.
Raised my hand to knock.
And froze.
What if he answered in a towel again? What if this was just his thing? What if I’d accidentally stumbled into some kind of towel-based Groundhog Day situation where every time I knocked on this door, Gabriel appeared increasingly undressed?
Stop it, Cate. Just knock.
I knocked.
Three professional, confident knocks that definitely didn’t sound like the frantic tapping of someone having a nervous breakdown.
Footsteps approached from inside.
The doorknob turned.
I held my breath.
Please be fully clothed.
Please be fully clothed.
Please be—the door opened.
Not Gabriel.
Definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not Gabriel.
I stood there, blinking like a malfunctioning robot, my brain making the sound of a dial-up modem trying to connect to the internet circa 1997.
The man in the doorway was tall. Not quite Gabriel-tall, but close—with dark hair styled in that effortlessly tousled way that probably took forty-five minutes and three different products to achieve. He had the kind of face that belonged on a cologne advertisement, all sharp jawline and perfect teeth and eyes that were currently traveling a very leisurely journey from my sneakers to my face.
And he was grinning.
Not just grinning—grinning. The kind of grin that suggested he knew exactly how attractive he was and had built his entire personality around that knowledge.
He licked his lips.
He actually, genuinely,no-I’m-not-imagining-this, licked his lips while looking at me.
My brain, which had spent the last hour preparing seventeen different versions of “Good morning, Dr. Lyon,” promptly blue-screened.
“Well, hello there,” the stranger said, his voice smooth as British butter and twice as rich. He leaned against the doorframe in a way that suggested he’d practiced the move in a mirror. Multiple times. “You must be Cate.”
I blinked again. “I... yes. I’m... who are you?”
“Fitz.” He extended his hand, still grinning like he’d just won the lottery and I was the prize. “Gabriel’s colleague.”
I shook his hand on autopilot, my brain still trying to catch up with this unexpected plot twist.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I prepared for Gabriel. I mentally rehearsed for Gabriel. I had spent an hour in the shower practicing how to look Gabriel in the eye without thinking about towels or naked ABBA-dancing ninjas or the way his chest had looked in the moonlight—Focus, Cate.
