Page 34 of Doctor Charmer

“Reggie!” I hear her voice above the music, above the loud gossipers who don’t have the decency to wait until I exit the room. “Wait up!”

I ignore Ivy. It’s an ass move. Especially since I’m the one who pushed her to come to the party. Especially because I’m the only person she knows in the room. Then I remember Darwin. I remember Ivy is never alone. She’s always a flirty smile away from her next best friend.

Twenty-four hours. That’s how much time Dr. Riggs has given me to fall in line.

I bypass the elevator and open the door to the steps, taking them two at a time. I leap four steps to the landing and laugh out loud. My chuckle echoes off the walls.

It was a mere three days ago I got the alert for the MVC call that brought Ivy into my emergency room. It took less than seventy-two hours for her to kick over the carefully constructed apple cart I’ve kept in front of me to hide my insecurities. I’m exposed. I have no moves left. This isn’t a situation I can charm my way out of.

Twenty-four hours.

If I don’t think of a way to get a man who never backs down to take a step back, my career will be over.

I’ll never sign the HR paperwork. I can’t. I won’t. And that’s one secret I’ll never tell.

Chapter Eigthteen

Ivy

“What the hell was that?” I shout, entering Reggie’s office, holding my three-inch heels in my hand. I can’t believe he ignored me and left me behind. Had me chasing after him down the hospital halls, dressed like Cinderella at the ball, only this time, I’m the one chasing after the princess. And his pumpkin was an elevator. Or rather, a staircase that I nearly tripped down in these stupid heels.

“Everyone heard it. If you didn’t, I’m sure you can get the update from the bartender.” He doesn’t dare look at me while he spews such nonsense. He stuffs a laptop into his briefcase and then stares at the walls as if considering grabbing his degrees. He’s literally taking his ball and going home.

When he continues to ignore me, any thought of giving him grace flies out the window. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those tiny, insecure men with trust issues? Tell me now and you’ll never see me again.”

I know he’s not a fan of ultimatums; who is? But I need to see if he’ll let his ego-fueled stubbornness blind him to what is at stake. His shoulders sag, defeat weighing heavy on him.

“I’m an ass. Don’t you see that? Ask anyone in the building.” His words are strategic. He doesn’t believe them, but he doesn’t want to wage a war with me knowing his biggest fight is with the administration. He’s wrong.

“Why do you do that?” I drop my shoes to the floor and march right to his desk, my fists pounding across the top.

“What?”

He can’t be this dense.

“Why do you embrace a reputation that isn’t true?” My fists open, and I press my palms to the desktop. “The charming playboy who wants to bed every female that crosses his path?”

“I’m not sure why you have a problem with it—it appears to be spot-on. We even made a bet on it.”

He’s trying to push my buttons. He wants me to walk out. Is this what he does? When things get too serious, he walks away. “You work damn hard to perpetuate the myth.” I jab a finger at him, my voice rising with my blood pressure.

“It’s not a myth.” He lowers his bag on the desk, his gaze finally meeting mine. His eyes are red. I can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol or this conversation. “I’m not a good man.”

“Says the man who works Christmas and New Year so others can be with their families.” His brow rises, and I’m sure he wonders how I know. Darwin, the bartender. “A man who spends his own money to throw monthly colleague mixers, so no one feels left out. That man?” Darwin told me that Reggie foots the bills for every mixer and pays the bartenders and waitstaff triple wages for working the holiday reception. “Those sounds like the actions of a good man to me.”

He dismisses my words waving the back of his hand in the air, but it’s too little too late. The power of the truth knocks him back onto his chair. He plops down hard, the chair rolling backward.

I lower my voice, hoping to appear calm. “What are you afraid of, Reggie?” I pray he sees I’m not here to fight.

“You.” His response is barely above a whisper. More of a concession than a declaration. He stands, the office chair rolling further back until it hits the filing cabinet behind him. “You, Ivy. I’m afraid of you.” This time, there’s no mistaking it. It’s a declaration. A heartfelt declaration.

How is this possible after only a few days? I hate the fact that my first thought is of him trying to charm his way out of this argument. “Why?” He approaches the desk from the other side, and I take a half step back. “Because I scare you? Or because I’m right. Because you are developing feelings for me?”

“Developed,” he corrects with a sobriety that tells me none of what he is saying is alcohol fueled. This isn’t him trying to charm me. This is him. Raw Reggie. “This isn’t a game to me. Not any longer.” The sound of defeat returns to his voice, and I wonder if it’s because I called him out. Forced him to reveal his feelings. Men hate that.

He digs into his bottom desk drawer, and I wonder if he’s back to packing up his office. He pulls out two folders, slapping them on the top of the desk. He rifles through them, grabbing a blue-and-white piece of paper with a gold certificate on the bottom corner. “I’m tired of playing games. Here, this is yours.” He holds the paper in the air between us.

“What’s that?”

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