Page 32 of Dr. Intern

“Hmmm,” she hums thoughtfully, sliding the phone back to me, “maybe if you’re good.”

I run my fingers over my stubble, trying to work out why she’s talking to me like this, as if I’m a friend and someone she genuinely wants to get to know, not a complete douche. I don’t deserve it, but I’m sure as fuck not going to complain.

So while I’m not proud of what’s about to come out of my mouth, I can’t stop it.

“And what if I’m bad?” I ask, my voice dropping to a level that I didn’t know existed.

“If you’re bad,” Claire considers, her voice surprisingly steady given the flush creeping down her neck, “I might have a few other photos in my stash that you would like.”

Fuck me sideways.

Now all I can think about are pictures of her naked body just sitting on her phone, completely unappreciated. At least I hope nobody has had a chance to appreciate them . . .

“Oh, Claire,” I say, trying to maintain some semblance of self-control. “You don’t want to know just how bad I can be.”

For a moment, neither of us says anything. The room seems to have shrunk, and I can practically hear the rapid beating of her heart. My pulse pounds to match hers, desperately trying to figure out what the fuck is happening here.

I should get up and walk away—should take an ice-cold shower and get in bed. But I can’t bring myself to move, let alone breathe.

Deciding for us, she pushes the stool back and stands, leaving me aching with a mix of desire and frustration. I need more, but I’m not going to push her. Even this tension is better than nothing.

“Goodnight, Beau,” she says, her voice a little breathy as if she’s trying hard to maintain her composure. “Or should I call you, bad boy Beau?”

Her small smirk sends me over the edge, and I reach out to grab her arm, wanting to keep her a moment longer. “Call me whatever you want, pretty girl. Just make sure it’s my name on your lips.”

She inhales sharply, a visible reaction to my touch, before gently pulling away. Crossing the living room, she heads towards her bedroom, casting a playful challenge over her shoulder. “Try to behave yourself.”

I swallow, watching her disappear into her bedroom. Behaving myself around Claire Winters is going to be damn near impossible.

Chapter 13

Claire

Every morning for the past week, I’ve woken up to the scent of vanilla hazelnut and a fresh pot of my favorite coffee. And every morning, despite my best intentions, I smile because there’s a cheeky note in Beau’s chicken scratch sitting next to one of my mugs. At first, I tossed them, but now, they’ve started to fill the drawer under the coffee machine. He might not realize it, but the small gesture is one of the first things in a while to bring me happiness. And after Mom died, I’m trying to hold onto any little bit of happiness that I can.

Parker took most of his kitchen stuff to his new house, so the only mugs in the condo are from my personal stash. Over the years I’ve collected a slew of reality TV-themed ceramic coffee mugs. They range from quotes of my favorite stars to photos of iconic scenes. While they’re not the most sightly things, they remind me not to take life too seriously—Sonja Morgan certainly doesn’t.

The mug that Beau left out on the counter this morning has cursive pink letters with the words, “A new bombshell has entered the villa.” It’s a reference to the show Love Island UK, and while there’s now a spin-off in the US, I will forever read the phrase with a British accent.

The note read:

I felt like this was fitting given we’re now roomies.

(I’m the bombshell, in case you were confused)

I couldn’t help the laugh that came out of me as I tossed the note in the drawer and grabbed my coffee. Something about Beau is just so endearing, like he’s a big softie stuck in this massively intimidating body. I can see why my brother is friends with him and can picture Beau immediately melting Parker’s ice-cold shell.

Speaking of things that are melting—my heart is at the top of the list. Beau opened up to me about his diabetes, a topic he evidently doesn’t share widely. I expected a brief explanation, but when I bombarded him with questions, he didn’t shut me down or show annoyance. Instead, he just smiled that warm, engaging smile and patiently indulged my curiosity. Which, it turns out, was short-lived, because after a few moments of intense eye contact with my strikingly handsome roommate, my stomach started doing backflips, and I fled to my room.

He’s just really hard not to like . . .that’s the problem.

But at the same time, Beau is also a bundle of contradictions. He blatantly flirts with me, yet made zero effort to contact me after our date. No calls, no messages, only deafening silence—as if the night we shared simply vanished into thin air.

I feel like any normal guy would act awkward around a girl that they ghosted. But not Beau. He’s in his own world, breezing through life as if we can casually switch from a fling to friends without missing a beat.

The problem is—I’ve never once felt like an adult in my life.

A massive part of me is dying to make things as awkward as possible between us. But because I’m stubborn as hell, I’m not going to let him know how he affects me. I’ll flirt back and make him see everything he missed out on until he’s kicking himself for not calling me. After all, he’s just a man. And anything men can do, women can do better.

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