I swallowed hard. This was the weird part.
“So, don’t judge, but my cousin works at a strip club, and she said her tips doubled after she got hers done. She’s a patient here, by the way. Rochelle Ortiz. Did you do hers?”
Nathan shook his head numbly. “No.”
“I didn’t think so. They gave me this appointment because there was a cancellation. And, well, you probably already know I’m not the greatest bartender, but I was thinking if I got, I don’t know, something more Pam Anderson and less Emma Watson,I’d start raking it in. But more natural, okay. Like out to here, not here. And I don’t want them to feel like rocks.”
I mimed where I wanted my boobs to turn out, which felt weirdly like the way frat guys tended to talk about girls they liked. By the time I was done, Dr. Hunt’s gaze hadn’t moved from mine, but I honestly wasn’t sure if he was listening anymore. His eyes had sort of glazed over, and his mouth had folded into a tight line.
“Well?” I asked. “What do you think? Bump me up at least four or five sizes, since there isn’t much to work with. Do you think I can handle a triple D?”
Dr. Hunt blinked rapidly. “Triple—what?”
“D,” I repeated. Sheesh, I hope he wasn’t this distracted in surgery. “I’m barely a B-cup now, and that’s if we’re being generous. I figure if we’re going in there, might as well do it right, you know?”
He blinked again, and this time, his eyes sharpened as they traveled over my body. There was nothing lecherous about it. He wasn’t undressing me with his eyes, like too many bar patrons did after a drink or five. But I couldn’t help feeling, well, naked under that intense gaze anyway.
Lord, the man could look right through a girl.
“Dr. Hunt?” I asked when he still didn’t speak.
That seemed to yank him out of his…whatever it was. Stupor wasn’t the right word. He was too focused to be daydreaming. But he wasn’t exactly paying attention to what was coming out of my mouth either.
He hadn’t even answered my question.
“All right,” he said abruptly, standing up from the stool. “First, I’ll need to take a look and perform a quick exam. When you’re ready, please remove the top half of the gown. You can let it settle around your waist.”
He turned around to wash his hands, dry them, then put on some exam gloves. By the time he was done, I was sitting topless on the exam table, trying and failing to remind myself that this was no different than getting a basic breast exam from my family doctor.
Because hewasa doctor, after all. A stupidly handsome, annoying, broody, Henry Cavill-lookalike doctor, sure. But also kind of an antisocial dick—and maybe that was a good thing. The only one having unprofessional thoughts here was me, clearly.
Dr. Hunt turned around and stumbled, but that scowl was still fixed on his face as he approached the exam table.
I sat straight and tall. I wasn’t a dancer anymore, but the posture had been beaten into me since I was barely able to walk. You can take the girl out of the dance studio, but you can’t take the studio out of the girl.
I hated how true it was.
Dr. Hunt stood to one side of the table and reached out as if to begin the examination. I looked up at the ceiling and waited for that cold, clinical touch. And waited.
And waited.
When I looked down, he was frozen, hands out.
“Eh, what’s up, doc?” I said in my very best impression of Bugs Bunny.
The doctor started, as if he’d been snapped on the nose, yanking his hands back to his side and practically jumping away.
“Everything all right?” I wondered.
He cleared his throat for what had to be the fifth or sixth time since walking in the door.
“You aren’t sick, are you?” I wondered as I stretched one arm over my head to touch the nape of my neck, just like my family doctor usually had me do when she did the same exam.
Dr. Hunt tugged at his collar and shook his head. “No, I would never come to work ill.”
I smirked. “I know. I was just joking. It’s kind of hot in here, don’t you think?”
“Oh.” He seemed to think about that for a moment. “I was actually wondering if you were cold.”
