His Forbidden Love (Manhattan Billionaires #2) - Ava Ryan Page 0,18

Mr. Peanut Butter had chomped on a little more neck and a little less shoulder, this would be a whole different story. Plus, I’m a fantastic plastic surgeon—”

“Wow,” Ally mutters.

“—and I don’t get paid the big bucks to leave patients looking like they were fed through a meat grinder. That said, vampires leave puncture wounds. Everyone knows that. So I’m guessing you’ll look like you were attacked by a werewolf. If anything.”

“Awesome,” Trevor says happily as his parents roll their eyes. “When can I go home?”

“You rest. Eat something. We’ll talk after that,” I tell him, offering up a fist bump.

“Deal,” he says.

“Thank you so much,” Trevor’s mother says, hurrying around the bed to meet Ally and me at the curtain. “We were scared to death.”

There’s just enough time for me to say, “That’s what I’m here for,” before she gives me the kind of thankful bear hug that is, I submit to you, every bit as gratifying as the big bucks I mentioned a minute ago.

“Thank you for taking such good care of Trevor,” she says when she pulls back.

“Anytime. Not that I want to see Trevor again anytime soon,” I say.

“Thanks, doc,” says Trevor’s dad, his handshake quickly escalating into another bear hug.

“I helped too,” Ally says with exaggerated aggrievement.

“I didn’t forget about you, Dr. Harlow,” says Trevor’s mom, quickly spreading some love Ally’s way.

“I was just kidding,” Ally says, laughing as she submits to this affection. I, meanwhile, watch the proceedings and try not to feel jealous of a hug—platonic or otherwise—that some other person is allowed to give Ally, but I am not. “Dr. Jamison did all the heavy lifting.”

“I’m sure he couldn’t have done it without you,” Trevor’s mother says as we duck out of their cubicle, and she’s not wrong. Not exactly.

I mean, could I fix up the kid’s neck by myself? Of course. Any day of the week, twice on Sundays and in my sleep.

But…

Would I feel so relaxed and content without Ally’s intuitive presence in the OR, anticipating what I’m going to do and why I’m going to do it and then helping me get there before I need to ask? Would I feel so energized if I couldn’t look up every now and then and see Ally’s bright eyes shining at me over the top of her face mask?

No. I sure as hell would not.

What are you doing here, Jamison?

The voice in my head is an unwelcome intrusion into my day. I try to ignore it, but that’s the thing about those little voices: there’s no hiding from them. They don’t go away.

What the hell do you think you’re doing with Ally?

It’s not like I have anything beyond a half-assed plan here. Or an end game.

I wanted more time with her, so I strategized a few moves and now I have a year with her. I wanted her closer, and now she’s closer. Maybe too close. I’m sure my lawyers would give me a sternly worded warning about the dangers of lusting after employees if they knew the way my thoughts were running.

The big question now is: what next?

I frown as I take off my cap and hit the wall plate, some of my post-surgery high fading. The heavy metal doors swing open and we leave recovery. I want to ask her to dinner—it would feel so natural to ask her to dinner—but I don’t dare. She’s got a boyfriend. It’s one thing to manipulate the situation and use my newfound wealth to engineer a job so she can work with me and (hopefully, eventually) hook up with me. But me asking her out when I know she has a boyfriend feels like a douchebag move.

I don’t want to be that guy. I want to do the right thing. I’m just not sure I can.

So where am I with Ally? What now? How long can I realistically resist temptation?

No fucking idea.

“Nice job,” she says as we drift over to the far end of the nurses’ station and settle there.

“But of course,” I say to get a rise out of her.

Sure enough, she scowls. My overactive imagination speculates that if we were together, she’d whack me. I’d grab her hand and keep it. Then I’d pull her in and steal a kiss or two—

“Give humility a chance sometimes,” she says.

“Why?”

She laughs, a dazzling display of dimples, white teeth and sparkling eyes that strains my self-control to the breaking point, because I want to eat this woman alive. I want to swallow her