Dr. Hot Stuff (Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedies Book 9) Read online

  “Thank you.” I grab a tissue from the center of the table and dab at my eyes, even though I’ve done well keeping my tears in check. It’s mostly just a ruse, an attempt to hide the terror I’m sure must show on my face. “I appreciate you sharing this with me. I promise I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  This is the truest, most honest thing I’ve said since this meeting began.

  I swallow hard, forcing myself to make eye contact with each sibling. James, Sean, Jonathan, Mark, Bree. One by one, I pray they can’t see the panic in my eyes.

  That they’ll never learn how much I’ve misled them.

  Or how quickly time is running out.

  Chapter 2

  Bradley

  “Here’s your specimen cup, Mr. Fulghum.” I hand the plastic container to the man perched on the edge of a chair in exam room three. “It’s for urine,” I add, recalling the last time I failed to specify and ended up with the wrong kind of sample. “The restroom is straight across the hall.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” He trudges out the door, cup clenched in his fist like a lifeline. It might be, considering we’re checking for bacterial STDs and that he’d very much like to keep that information from his wife.

  I head for the sink and wash up, making a mental note to order more pamphlets on partner notification services. This could be an issue for Mr. Fulghum. A glance at my watch tells me it’s almost five, which is awesome. One more patient to see before I duck out for poker night at Ponderosa Resort.

  “Mrs. Sampson, lovely to see you again.” Slipping into exam room two, I close the door behind me and consult her chart. “How long have you been having earaches?”

  Her salt-and-pepper brows knit together as she considers the question. “Let’s see….it was after Chelsea rolled out the new fall flavors at the cupcake shop, but before James Bracelyn’s wedding. Probably the week Sergeant Dugan was on the news talking about pedestrian safety?”

  Welcome to the timeline of small-town life. I love it, which is one reason I moved back to Central Oregon to open my own practice. Not the only reason, but it’s the most pleasant one.

  “Let’s take a look.” I flick on my otoscope, and Mrs. Sampson turns her head obligingly. There’s a little redness around the tympanic membrane, but nothing alarming. “How about the left ear?”

  Before I can roll my stool to the other side, she grabs the lapel of my lab coat and beams. “You have such lovely blue eyes, sweetheart,” she says. “You remind me of my second husband.”

  I frown, wondering if I missed something in the years I was away for med school, Army obligations, and a tour in Iraq. “How many husbands have you had?”

  Her grin widens as she fluffs her salt and pepper hair. “Only the one. Rumor has it you’re looking for a wife?”

  Welcome to the downside of small-town life. “Your left ear, Mrs. Sampson?”

  Heaving a sigh, she turns to grant me access to her other ear. Like the right, it’s in near perfect condition. Why do I suspect today’s visit has less to do with medical concerns and more to do with gathering gossip?

  “Everything looks good from here.” I flip off the otoscope and set it aside. “If you’d like, I can prescribe some mild ear drops.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m feeling better already.”

  “You’re feeling my leg, actually.” I glance at her fingers clenched around my knee. “We have a strict no groping policy in this office.”

  She flutters her lashes. “Since when?”

  “Since you patted my posterior at your last physical.”

  With a huff of indignation, she gets up and locates her purse. “You take away all my fun.”

  “I highly doubt that.” Last I heard, she and her merry band of senior citizens started a petition to bring a touring troupe of male strippers to a nearby retirement village. She has plenty of fun without me. “Take care, Mrs. Sampson.”

  “You, too, dear.” She turns in the doorway. “Tell your mother hello. And tell your sister I made a new sweater for Jordan.”

  “Will do.” My chest tightens. Maybe it’s hearing my father’s name, or maybe it’s knowing he didn’t live to meet the granddaughter who shares it. “Julia loved the last sweater you made,” I say. “The one with the little tadpoles on it?”

  “Those are sperm,” she announces proudly. “To honor the process that brought that sweet little baby into the world.”

  “Wonderful.” I make a mental note never to share this with my sister. She has enough to worry about without fearing she’ll scar her daughter by dressing her in male reproductive cells.

  By the time Mrs. Sampson is checked out, and Trevor Fulghum is assured we’ll contact his private cell with the results of his urinalysis, it’s five-thirty. Not enough time to run home and change, so I swing by the store for beer and Pringles on my way to the resort.

  The winter air is crisp and heavy with the promise of snow. It’s not due until tomorrow, but the pine trees sparkle in the moonlight like they’re dusted with glitter, and the distant peaks of the Cascade Mountains cut the darkened horizon like a snow-capped sawblade. I drive the winding road to the resort with my heater cranked, singing along with cheesy Christmas carols on the stereo.

  It’s ten minutes to six when I park in front of Mark Bracelyn’s cabin. The fact that he’s hosting means plenty of cupcakes from his wife’s shop. Lemon blueberry is my favorite, which Chelsea always remembers.

  Grabbing my six pack, I swing open the truck door and freeze.

  Izzy.

  Curled in the porch light beside her cabin’s front door is Lady Isabella Blankenship. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, and she’s wrapped burrito-like in a bright red and yellow Pendleton blanket. She’s got a paperback in one gloved hand but looks up and waves when she sees me.

  My chest floods with something I can’t identify, but I swallow it back as I grab the chips and carefully close the truck door. The pounding of my heart has nothing to do with how pretty she is and everything to do with a genuine concern for her health.

  Right.

  But seriously, I’m a doctor. Though she wasn’t my patient, I was there when she fell ill with acute kidney failure. I feel a kinship, that’s all. Empathy for someone who experienced recent medical trauma.

  That’s not empathy. It’s increased cortical responsiveness to sensory stimulation.

  I hate when my subconscious gets literal.

  “Hello, Bradley.”

  “Izzy.” It’s taken a year of casual hellos to convince her to call me by my first name. I’m so thrilled that I find myself ambling across the grass to greet her instead of heading into Mark’s place. “Nice setup you’ve got here.”

  “Isn’t it?” She smiles at the freestanding propane heater blazing at the edge of the patio. “Mark bought it for me so I wouldn’t have to give up this spot when the weather turned.”

  I love how warmly her siblings have welcomed her. Literally, I mean. “Puts out a lot of heat.” The propane thing, not Isabella. I should probably clarify so she doesn’t think I’m hitting on her, but she smiles again, and I forget what I was about to say.

  “I just love the fresh air here, don’t you?”

  “It’s one of the biggest reasons I came back to Oregon to practice medicine.” Speaking of which, I should probably make sure she’s feeling okay. Her face looks flushed, but that might be the heater. “How are you doing?”

  “Wonderful, thank you for asking.” She bites her lip, drawing my eyes to her perfect mouth.

  A mouth I’m definitely not thinking about kissing because that would be unprofessional.

  “Actually,” she says slowly, “I do sort of have a question.”

  “Fire away.” There’s an empty chair beside her, so I take my chances and settle into it. It feels a bit familiar, but we’ve been acquainted long enough, right? “Is this a medical question?”

  “Sort of.” Again with the lip biting. “I’ve been reading a lot of Kristan Higgins, and all her boo
ks have dogs in them. Sometimes cats or the occasional bird.”

  “That seems like a good hook.” I glance at the paperback on her knee, unsurprised to see it’s a romance novel and there’s a golden retriever on the cover. Jon’s fiancée, Blanka, turned her on to the genre, and I love how ravenously Iz has been devouring the books.

  Not that I’m cataloging her reading habits.

  “Yes, well, I’ve been wondering about having a pet someday.” Her cheeks pinken a bit, and she gives a sheepish smile. “After the transplant, the doctors told me I needed to be cautious around animals. Apparently, I’m more susceptible to diseases, but I was wondering if that had passed.”

  “You’re planning to stay in the U.S.?” I try to keep my voice clinical, when I’m secretly aching to do a fist-pump. “That’s great, Izzy. Congratulations.”

  “No, actually—” Her smile falters a little. “I can’t stay for good, but maybe a while longer. It’s…complicated.”

  I wait for her to elaborate, but instead, she squares her shoulders. “I’m here for now, though. Bree helped me redecorate the cabin last week to make it more my own. It’s feeling quite homey.”

  “I’m betting Bree loves having a sister after so long as the only girl.” I clear my throat, dragging myself back to the question she asked. “You’re right that immunosuppressed patients are at a higher risk for infection. I’m not saying don’t get a pet, but there are risks.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, let’s see.” I lean back in my chair and consult my mental medical manual. “You have things like Cryptosporidium, Giardia, Salmonella, Campylobacter—those are all things animals can pass along to humans.”

  Her brow furrows, drawing my gaze to those bright green eyes. “So pets are off limits?”

  “Not necessarily. You’d need to be extra careful about hand washing and hygiene. Maybe nothing that requires a litter box. Cats also pose a scratch risk, so that’s a hazard.”

  She looks pretty bummed about that. “What other animals should I avoid?”

  “Reptiles aren’t a good idea. Too much risk of salmonella. That rules out snakes, turtles, lizards, that sort of thing.”

  “No problem there.” She gives a small shudder. “What else?”

  “Maybe skip the exotic pets.”

  She cocks her head. “I’m not familiar with that term. You mean like elephants and eels?”

  The laugh rumbles out before I can stop it. “Were those high on your list of possible pets?”

  “I like to keep my options open.” She smiles and runs a finger along the spine of the novel, distracting me with the delicate lines of her hands.

  “Good thinking.” Also a good reminder to avoid phrases she’s not likely to know. “Exotic pets would be things like chinchillas or monkeys or wolverines.”

  Izzy cocks her head. “These are common in the United States?”

  “Maybe not for someone with a suppressed immune system. Too much of a bite risk.”

  “There goes my dream of having a pet wolverine.” She says it so dryly that I almost miss the spark of laughter in her eye.

  “No wild animals, either,” I continue. “Raccoons, squirrels, skunks…”

  “Lions and tigers and bears?”

  “Oh my,” I add, and she laughs.

  “All right,” she says. “I’ll do some research.”

  “If you want, I could show you around my parents’ farm.” The word slips out before I can stop it. Plural parents, when in fact, there’s just one. “My mother takes in animals for the Sheriff’s office. Goats, chickens, pigs, cows, that sort of thing.”

  She smiles, and my system floods with oxytocin and dopamine and a bunch of stuff I’m forgetting because when Izzy’s around, I barely recall the alphabet.

  “Not house pets,” she says.

  “Definitely not house pets,” I agree. “But it’ll give you an animal fix, and my mom’s really great about keeping things sanitary. She also loves meeting new people.”

  “That sounds lovely.” She beams, but there’s a question in her eyes.

  Has she heard my mom’s a widow? That my father’s death was quite the scandal around here?

  Or maybe it’s the other gossip.

  “I’m fascinated by farms.” She glances down into her lap, making it impossible to read her eyes. “I’d actually never seen one until recently.”

  “You went to a farm?”

  “Bree took me to the reindeer ranch.” When she glances up again, I see curiosity tinged with embarrassment. She must know something? “We would have gone sooner, but the King sisters said it was castration season.” Her cheeks blush deep crimson. “I’m sure you know all about that, but—”

  “Right, yeah.” Okay, I guess we’re going there. “We should get this out in the open. You must’ve heard it from Bree?”

  Izzy blinks. “Um, well…she does sometimes share things with me.”

  Did I mention the downside of living in a small town?

  I don’t fault Izzy, or even Bree. It’s just the nature of living in a community where everyone knows everyone else’s business.

  I take a deep breath and swallow back a fierce wave of protectiveness for my sister. “Just to set the record straight, yes, I did threaten my sister’s ex with a castration tool.” Not my proudest moment, but I don’t regret it. “Julia needed help,” I continue, “and her husband needed a strong message.”

  The message was “don’t hit your wife, and don’t stick your dick in a stripper when you’re married,” but it was too late by then. Julia was six months pregnant when she showed up on my doorstep with a facial contusion and a phone full of incriminating screenshots.

  I’ll admit it: Seeing my sister in tears made me see red.

  “Castration tool,” Izzy repeats slowly, her brow furrowing. “I saw one at the reindeer ranch, I think.”

  “The one for cattle is bigger.” I don’t know why I feel the need to point this out. “For the record, I didn’t castrate him or even come close. Yes, he fled the house without pants, and yes, Chief Dugan found him running down the street clutching his genitals, and yes, it was unfortunate a reporter happened to be in the neighborhood—”

  “Um, Bradley—”

  “But I swear, I never touched him.” God, I hate telling this story. “There’s an area in the brainstem called the pontine micturition center, and it’s in constant contact with the bladder. Stress or fear can cause the inhibitory signals of the prefrontal cortex to be overridden, which causes uncontrolled bladder evacuation and—”

  “Bradley?”

  “—in a flight or fight situation, the fear triggers from the limbic system are what prompted my sister’s ex to remove his soiled slacks before fleeing the scene and—”

  “Bradley!”

  The surprising force in her voice jerks me back from that unpleasant memory. I don’t realize until I look down that my hands have clenched in fists. “I’m sorry.” I uncurl my fingers. “You had a question?”

  Izzy stares at me. “There seems to be a misunderstanding here.”

  I stare back, not sure what she means. “I wasn’t arrested.” Again with the ridiculous need to clarify details that don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. “No charges, either. I swear I didn’t lay a hand on him.”

  There was no need. I may have described for him in detail the ways the U.S. Army taught me to rupture someone’s trachea. Somewhere between that and the sharp tool in my hand, he pissed himself.

  “I’m glad you weren’t violent,” she says slowly. “But I wasn’t asking about that. About any of it, truly.” Izzy bites her lip. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

  Hell. “Seriously?”

  She nods, eyes flashing with something between amusement and embarrassment. “It’s a fascinating story, but none of my business. I mean, unless you want to share—”

  “No. God, no.” The desire to dig a hole in her lawn and crawl into it is overwhelming. “I’m sorry.”

&n
bsp; “Don’t be.” Izzy rests a gloved hand on my arm, sending a burst of sparks straight to my brain. “Your sister is fortunate to have you.”

  “I can’t believe I said all that.” And I can’t believe how good it feels to have Izzy’s hand on my arm. “Can we have a do-over?”

  Her forehead scrunches. “Do-over?”

  “Pretend this conversation never happened.” As if. “Change the subject, maybe.”

  “Of course.” She draws her hand back, and I miss it instantly. “What would you like to talk about?”

  I wrack my brain for something less mortifying. The time I velcroed my name to the wrong side of my Army combat uniform, or the time I got into a stranger’s car, assuming it was my Uber, and asked a nice older woman to drive me home. It wasn’t until we arrived that she thanked me for not harming her in the carjacking.

  Iz must sense I need a lifeline. “Tell me about your childhood,” she prompts softly. “I’m fascinated by the idea of growing up on a farm.”

  I love how she makes it sound exotic instead of fraught with family drama. “I had a pretty normal, small-town American upbringing,” I say. “It’s a large ranch with a lot of employees, but I still had to buck hay and clean stalls.”

  My parents may have had money, but they also had a strong urge to teach me the value of hard work. Probably why my father was so delighted when I told him my plan to join the service and become an Army doc instead of taking the traditional route through med school. Basic training gave me one helluva good lesson in work ethic, not to mention my time in Iraq.

  “What was high school like?” she asks. “What were you like?”

  “Pretty boring, actually,” I admit, grateful she’s focusing on my earlier life. “I studied hard, played football, went to prom, all that jazz.” I study her face, which has taken on an odd, dreamy quality. “What was your childhood like?”

  “Pretty much the opposite,” she says. “There were a lot of royal functions to attend. Balls and ceremonies and high tea. I only had one year of actual classroom education, and that was boarding school.”