Page 6 of Trouble from Abroad
Time to focus onfixing things—not on things I can’t afford to break.
Be a dad first. Doctor second. And whatever she is? Off-limits by about a decade and a half.
CHAPTER THREE
mia
My phone’shaving a seizure next to my pillow. It keeps vibrating with the arrival of multiple messages, putting an end to my power nap.
Would you look at that—April started a group chat with Calista and me, and it’s already at over a hundred unread texts. Some other messages from Liam pop up, and I’m conditioned to prioritize those.
Oh, great. We’re all having dinner together tonight.
Why does it feel weird that I’m not the one who booked the restaurant? I really need to shake off the personal assistant persona.
A fresh round of vibrations jolts me—except this time, it’s not my phone. The door rattles hard, about to come off its hinges.
Heart kicking up, I zip my pants back up, scramble out of bed and cross the room in quick strides. Yanking the door open, my voice echoes in my head when I ask, “Yes?” and I realize I have my earplugs in.
Dr. Preston Jett is in my doorway, a forearm bracedagainst the frame, a fist still half-raised. The man doesn’t even have to reach that high—his arm just lands there, effortlessly—the doorframe existing for his personal convenience. His bicep flexes, taunting me, testing the elasticity of his gym shirt and my self-control. Why does he have to look so damn good?
I’ve seen hot men before. I’ve even worked for a few. But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for the man in front of me. Dr. Preston is disturbingly gorgeous. No man should be allowed a chest that broad, green eyes that look that deep, and a scowl that begs for me to tease him, all in the same body.
His muscles are carved like something out of damn Greek mythology. Unreal. His jaw could give paper cuts. I’d be willing to bleed, run my hand over it, to try that theory out.
It’s… rude. That’s what it is. It’s rude to look as good as him.
His hair’s pushed back again, and now I take more notice of it. Short on the sides, thick on top, flecked with just enough gray to make my ovaries pop. His face belongs on a magazine coverandthe MI6 wanted list. The beard’s trimmed close and doing things to my better judgment.
Everything about him says control. Order. Power. A man who probably schedules his emotional breakdowns between surgeries and conference calls.
Ha! What am I thinking? A man like him doesn’t have emotional breakdowns.
It’s fine. He’s my boss. A grumpy American who clearly didn’t expect someone like me. Whoever ‘like me’ is in his mind. Judging by his current expression, I’m a surprise.Maybe a problem. I have a nagging feeling I’m not welcome here. It’s more like I’m under house arrest.
I blink myself back to reality—and he’s still there. Looking more annoyed, whispering curses. His chest rises with frustration. His wet shirt clings to his torso, begging for mercy.
“That’s why,” he says, gesturing to my earplugs. “I was knocking for so long, I thought you’d died in your sleep.”
“Well, doctor,” I begin, “your bathroom refurbishing efforts weren’t exactlyquiet,” I say, awkward but honest, “so I had to resort to these.” I take them out and raise my hands in surrender, showing off my faithful squires and praying to God they’re earwax-free. “I wasn’t dead… but I did consider pulling a hammer on you if these didn’t work.” I plaster on a smile.
“Oh.” He pauses, looking a bit embarrassed, but half smiling. “Right. Sorry.” He scratches the back of his head, flexing his biceps. He’s got to stop doing that. His whole body is highly disturbing; it blocks the doorway and all my common sense. “I didn’t consider that. Got too used to being alone in the house these past weeks, I guess. My apologies.”
I still sound rough from sleep, but I force myself to speak, anything to keep from ogling him. “Er… can I help you with something?”
“Gunn’s insisting we go out for dinner,” he grunts, arms crossing in front of his chest.
Sweet Jesus. My brain blue-screens. The entire English language flatlines at the sight of his rippling forearm muscles—and veins—on display. Yep, it’s the veins. The veins render me mute.
I look down. Not at his legs. Or are those tree trunks? Stop, you’re being too obvious. Eyes up, woman. Be cool. Be professional. Think about spreadsheets or… porridge. Yeah. Porridge, save me.
“Okaaay…” It’s the best I can come up with, not entirely sure of what I’m agreeing to anymore.
I think I’m only fit for this job if he’s not around. I can only be responsible for the well-being of a child if I’m distraction-free, which means Dr. Preston Jett needs to stay at least fifty feet away from me at all times. And dry. Arms always relaxed, hanging at his sides. A restraining order might be in the cards. Mutual, probably, although for different reasons.
When he talks again, my chin is down, and I’m checking out his quads. My head jerks up, and I wipe the edge of my mouth, praying I didn’t drool. I just woke up. It could be from my sleep. “I’m sorry, what?” I blink shamelessly, finally managing eye contact again.
“I said, I’m not done in the gym, so I thought you’d like to shower first. There’s only one bathroom, so we need to take turns.”
