God, he looks good—legs spread, a dark gray suit with a black overcoat…
I could so easily step closer.
I couldsoeasily risk my job another way.
My stomach drops somewhere deep and low when I imagine one of his large hands coming to my bare thigh, moving under my skirt slightly, the calloused tip of his thumb brushing against my underwear…
“Yes,” I answer, my voice a little too husky.
“The baby blankets… is there a reason you make them?”
His question startles me, and I stare down at him with my mouth hanging open. He must sense my surprise, because he shakes his head and continues talking.
“Your Etsy shop was on your application, and I’ve been meaning to ask you about them since I hired you.”
Anger lashes through me, and I press my lips together before I can shout what I’m thinking:That’s none of your fucking business.
“Sorry, that’s a personal question,” he adds gruffly, clearing his throat. His face is resigned, though, which tells me he’s inferred what it could possibly mean. It’s not hard—why would a single woman spend her free time making baby blankets? It’s not exactly a lucrative business, so it must be because Iwantto.
I don’t answer him or elaborate. A small part of me is still terrified of losing this job, and I’m mortified that he knows I call him Doctor Devil. He could—and should—fire me for that alone. Why would I want to give him even more ammunition to let me go?
The cable car bounces up a steep hill before we crest and even out, and I nearly gasp when the view of the city comes into view. The sun is nearly done setting, and the purple sky enhances the deep blue color of the bay and light-colored Victorian buildings around us.
“Gorgeous, right?” Dr. Kincaid asks me.
I look at him just as we begin a descent down the next hill. The cable car lurches. My hands are sweaty because of his earlier question, which causes me to lose my grip on the wooden pole. I yelp as I begin to lose my footing, arms flying out for the next pole, but Dr. Kincaid grabs hold of my coat and roughly pulls me onto his lap.
“Christ, Francesca,” he murmurs, nearly panting. His eyes are wild as they search my face, and my heart thrashes againstmy ribs, from nearly falling off the cable car, or from the way he’s looking at me, I’m not entirely sure.
“I’m fine,” I say softly, shifting so that I can stand up again.
He lets me, but something in his expression is hard and protective. Like he doesn’t want to let me go.
I stand up again and grab a hold of the wooden pole, and this time, Dr. Kincaid’s legs come to either side of mine again—this time, he hooks his ankles around my feet to keep me in place. I can feel the warmth of his thighs against my bare legs—the latter of which I have to press together to quell the pulsing sensation between my legs.
A few tense minutes later, we arrive at the end of Powell Street. It’s another couple of blocks to the hotel. The other doctors who’d gotten on the cable car with us turn to face Dr. Kincaid and me.
“We’re going for drinks down the street,” one of them says directly to Dr. Kincaid. I notice he doesn’t attempt to invite me, which is typical. Men like him don’t see me as an equal, they see me as the help.
“I should make sure Francesca gets back safely,” he says sternly.
“Aw, she’ll be fine. We can see the hotel from here,” one of the other doctors says, hands in his pockets. “Come on. It’s the one and only time I can have fun without worrying about the wife.”
I grimace. “I’m just going to go,” I tell Dr. Kincaid. “You should go out. It’s early, and I have plans with Netflix and a large bowl of room service ice cream.”
One of the doctors snorts his disapproval, and Dr. Kincaid glares at him as one of his hands comes to the small of my back.
“I’d rather ensure my assistant gets back safely. Have fun,” he practically growls before turning away, his hand on my back guiding me with him.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him. “He’s right, you can practically see the hotel from here?—”
“You’re doing me a favor, Francesca. Trust me.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Every year, those three convince me to go out with them to dinner, and it usually entails going out, drinking too much, and fucking anyone that’s not their wives. It sickens me, and I’m glad I had an excuse to spend my night with you instead.”
My stomach flips at that last part, but I ignore it as we walk closer to the hotel.
