Page 29 of Dr. Intern

He’s probably a shower, not a grower—at least that’s what I’m going to tell myself.

“How distinguished,” I mutter, darting my eyes back to his face. “I didn’t know they let heathens become doctors.”

He laughs, a rich, joyful sound that echoes through the crisp air. “They do in orthopedic surgery. We’re just heathens with hammers, baby.”

I roll my lips to hide my smirk. It’s hard to not like the guy, especially with his thick accent. Everything he says just rolls off his tongue like a buttery Chardonnay.

Beau’s chocolate eyes narrow, scanning over me as they drop to my chest with absolutely zero discretion whatsoever. For some reason I feel my nipples harden under his gaze, my body responding to him despite my mind’s intentions.

A bra would have probably been a good idea now that I have a roommate. But then again, why should I adjust my habits for his comfort? He’s the one intruding in my home, not the other way around.

“Aren’t you cold?” Beau asks, forcing his gaze from my chest to my eyes once more. Despite the stubble, I notice a slight flush on his cheeks which surprises me, because it’s definitely not from the chilly morning.

“Nope,” I reply, slightly amused by his reaction. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to get flustered easily. “Are you?”

He lets out a visible breath, the cold air accentuating it. “Not in the slightest. Besides, I know a few ways to stay warm in this weather.”

“Judging by your outfit, I highly doubt that.”

He smirks mischievously, a devilish twinkle in his eyes. “Clothes aren’t necessary when you’ve got someone else’s body heat.”

My cheeks flush at the image of exactly how he could do that. How his thick arms could reach out and wrap around me, pulling me into his sweaty wall of muscle without a word of complaint. How his large hands could trace down my spine as I pressed against his hard body, breathing in his purely masculine scent.

It’s hard not to get lost in the fantasy, but I shake the thoughts away, reminding myself of our past.Rising from the couch in a rush, I gather things without looking up.

“Well, I’m not sure where you’re going to find another body,” I stammer, clearing my throat as I practically sprint towards the condo, “but it certainly won’t be mine.”

And as I’m halfway through the sliding door, I swear I hear him say, “We’ll see about that.”

Chapter 12

Beau

Sometimes I’ll stare at an object in a trance as I wonder about its history. Who invented it? What led them to the idea? How long has it existed?

Right now, I’m sitting in my truck staring at the love of my life, beef jerky, as I consider those very questions. It’s practical, portable, and fucking delicious. Not to mention the fact that it’s got minimal carbs, something that’s constantly on my mind given the diabetes that has plagued my body since age ten.

Up until this week, the circle of people who knew about my diagnosis was pretty small—just my folks, my brother, and a few old roommates from college. It’s not that I’m secretive about my illness, it’s just that I don’t see it as a big deal, so I don’t feel the urge to bring it up. But now that I have a new roommate, I figured I should give Claire a heads up, just in case she has to shove sugar down my throat or something.

Truthfully, the only way that you would know something was wrong with me was if you saw the quarter-sized monitor on the back of my upper arm. It’s so inconspicuous that I don’t think Claire even noticed until I pointed it out to her. The device continually checks my blood sugar and sends notifications to my phone when my glucose goes out of range. Not that this has been particularly helpful in surgeries that have me tied up for hours at a time, but at least it allows me to completely forego finger sticks. I’m no pussy, but pricking yourself multiple times a day fucking sucks.

All I can say is thank god for modern medicine. Now all I have to do is give myself a long-acting insulin shot to keep my blood sugar regulated through the day. If I decide to eat whatever I want and completely disregard carb counting, I also have quick-acting insulin to bring the numbers down. If I go too low, I keep Skittles on me at all times to pump my numbers back up. It’s a constant game of regulation, and while it sounds exhausting, I try to look on the bright side—I’m alive.

As the street light turns green and I pull out of the hospital, Parker’s name pops up on the console as an incoming call.

I press the answer button on the wheel of my F-150. “Please say you don’t need me to come back. I’m finally leaving.”

I was just at the hospital for the past twenty-four hours, and though there’s a team of general surgery residents that Parker could call if there was an issue, I did have a few consults today that I passed to his team. In theory, I could have missed something that was orthopedic-related and be completely fucked.

“Dude chill, I’ve been in the clinic all week,” he laughs into the speaker.

Fucker.

“Must be nice,” I grumble as I turn onto Peachtree Street, grateful that Parker’s condo is only a five-minute drive from the hospital. If it was any further, I might pass out from exhaustion.

“Sure is, big guy,” he replies, clearly amusing himself. In the background, I hear clattering and a muffled curse.

“Everything okay?”

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