Page 27 of Doctored Vows

Zoya wiggles her brows when one of the male riders exits so the “heavily pregnant lady” can take his spot. “I’ll meet you up there.”

I nod, and once the elevator carting her away reaches the third floor, I push the button to call another.

It arrives in under ten seconds.

“Ladies first,” croons the unnamed man who gave up his spot for a fraudster.

I’ll give credit where credit is due. He has charm by the mile and a face that matches his gentlemanly ways. He could be quite the catch. I just don’t see his charm rubbing off on me. He seems a little too nice, and I learned fast during medical school that a saintly title rarely equates to its owner being an upstanding member of society.

After cursing my inability to let bygones be bygones, I enter the elevator first, as offered, before praising the stranger for his thoughtfulness. If I can forgive Maksim for leaving me hanging, I can forgive Dr. Schloss for not calling after a “thorough medical examination” of my vagina.

“Thank you. That is very chivalrous of you.”

Shockingly, the hairs on my arm stand to attention when he shadows me into the elevator.

I realize the error of my ways when a stern demand quickly follows the elevator car’s brief dip. “You can get the next one.”

When my eyes shoot to the unnamed man, who is still stationed outside the elevator, he tries to fire off an objection, but Maksim’s warning glare proves why the good guys need to scheme their way into a woman’s panties.

They can’t compete against men who unequivocally don’t care about the consequences of their actions.

It is how my father won over my mother.

He always said it is safer to side with a wolf than a wolf in sheep’s clothing because you know what you’re getting with a man who doesn’t hide his intentions.

I stop recalling the number of wolves in sheep’s clothing working in the medical field when Maksim says, “Your friend dropped this.”

A smile creeps onto my face when his twist exposes a banana, but since I don’t want to look more pathetic than I already do, I ask, “Are you sure it was hers? Maybe it was one of the many other patrons at the buffet with us.”

“I’m sure,” he answers, following my ruse that the buffet wasn’t solely re-opened for us. “It fell out of her coat halfway to the elevators.”

“Oh…” I snatch the banana out of his hand. “Then that would be my lunch.”

He either misses the humor in my tone or loathes budget-conscious people.

I’d say it is a bit of both.

When I issue him my thanks in a more respectable manner, with a smile, he dips his chin before he turns back to face the elevator dashboard.

We climb eleven floors before I break the silence this time around. “Are you here on business?”

I hear him swallow before he answers, “You could say that.”

“Will you be here long?”

Thud, thud, thud. That is the only noise I hear while waiting for him to reply.

For how long he delays in answering, I expect more than a one-word response. “Depends.”

I wait, hopeful for more.

I get a smidge, but nowhere near as much as I want.

“Some contracts barely last a minute. Others can stretch into weeks.”

“What are you hoping for? Minutes, days, or weeks?”

His tone is clipped when he answers, “What I want doesn’t matter.”

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