Page 2 of Saving His Heart
“Nice to meet you, Preston.” I can tell by looking at his shoes he is light years out of my league, so I take a step back.
His chuckle is deep and soulful. It makes my toes curl … like, actually curl. I thought that was only something that happened in Sloane’s dirty books. Remembering he never asked for my floor, I take a step forward to push the number eight when I realize he has already pressed it. Knowing the eighth floor on the west wing of Mass Mercy Hospital is only for cardiac, I assume he must be a sales rep. I wonder where his samples are?The thought has me choking on my own spit.
Suddenly, I feel his presence invading my space. “I would love to know what just went on in that gorgeous head of yours,” Preston whispers before wrinkling his nose.
I’m so out of my element, I laugh. Not a pretty laugh, either. I laugh like a crazy hyena. He takes half a step closer, and I’m hit with a pungent smell that makes my eyes water. Glancing up, I can see he has a finger under his nose, attempting to mask the scent.
“D-Did you …”
“Me? Sweetheart, I thought that was you.”
I’m used to terrible smells. As a surgeon, you become desensitized to burning flesh the first time you have to cauterize an artery, but this? This is the sewer, rotting flesh, and dead fish all rolled into one, and my gag reflex kicks in.
Doubled over, I can’t control the dry heave as Preston rubs my back.
“Why the hell is this elevator so slow?” he grumbles, now covering his full face with his hand.
That’s when we hear it. It starts off low, just air, then slowly escalates like someone pinching the sides of a balloon. It ends on a high-pitched squeal. With my hands on my knees, Preston’s hand on my back, we both turn our heads to the left.
“I’m sorry,” a little old lady smirks, “it’s this new medicine they put me on. I can’t control the flatulence.” She giggles, which turns into an all-out laugh. “Farts are funny, young man. Start laughing every day, and you’ll live longer.”
The door pings just before it opens, and I rush through it. Heading straight for Dr. Terry’s office, I can feel Preston staring at my ass, but I don’t dare look.
As I reach for the heavy door, a dark-clothed arm comes around me and pulls it open. “Farts are funny,” he says in that voice that has my ovaries doing the tango.
I pause to look at him, trying desperately to contain my laughter.Good Lord, how can he say fart and still turn me on?
“Right. Okay, thank you,” I manage with a straight face as I head for the front desk. “Hi, Carla,” I say to Dr. Terry’s receptionist.
“Hi, Emory, so nice to see you, hun. Glad to see you two have met.” She glances at one of the elderly men sitting in a chair.
Is that Mr. Westbrook?
Turning in place, I take in all the patients in the waiting room. As I expected, everyone but Preston and I are getting on in years.
“What a mighty fine looking couple you two make,” comes a voice I recognize.
“Fred! Oh my gosh, I didn’t know you were coming in today,” I say, making my way over to one of my favorite patients. Well, ex-patients now. I’m surprised when I feel Preston following me.
“I was so sad when Dr. Terry told me he would take over my care. He isn’t nearly as nice to look at as you are, Red,” Fred tells me cheekily.
“I know. I’m so sorry about that.”
Fred doesn’t respond; he just looks over my shoulder at who I assume is Preston.
“You going to put a ring on it soon, or what, young man? Dr. Ems here is one mighty fine woman, you know. You’re liable to lose her if you don’t get your shit together, no matter how smart you two look side by side,” he scolds, and I suddenly feel sick, realizing he thinks Preston is Donny.
“Oh, no, Fred—”
Preston cuts me off, “That’s the plan, Fred. That’s the plan.” He places an arm around my shoulders.
I’m trying to shake him off when the door to Dr. Terry’s office opens, and he steps out. Surveying the situation in his waiting room—me standing with Fred, and Preston standing a little too close with his arm around me—he shakes his head.Shit! I cannot let him get the wrong idea.I’m trying desperately to shake him off, but he persists, and Dr. Terry chuckles, waving his arm for me to come in.
“I see you’ve met Mr. Westbrook, Emory. He is his father’s son. There is no mistaking that,” Dr. Terry laughs.
I’m so shocked, I trip over my own feet, thankfully catching myself before I hit the ground. I take a second to process what he just said, then look back and forth between Preston and Dr. Terry.
“D-Did you say Preston is Mr. Westbrook?” I ask incredulously.
