Page 2 of Doctor's Baby: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

“Nate?” she whispers. “What are you doing here? I thought the nurse said Dr. Winthrop was in.” There’s a hint of judgment in her tone.

Judgment I know I probably deserve.

“I am Dr. Winthrop,” I explain calmly. “I’m covering for Pops. He’s out for a couple of weeks with a bad back. He slipped in the shower.”

Eve sets her jaw. She looks like she wants to say something but refrains from doing so.

“Is he all right?” she asks after a moment.

“He’ll be fine. Just needs a lot of rest and a couple painkillers.”

“So, you’re back?”

“For a while, yes. Just until Pops gets better.”

“When did you get back to Haven?”

“A couple of days ago.”

“Are you staying somewhere in town or with your parents?”

I manage a chuckle. “I’m in town. Is this an interrogation or something? I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to read me my rights first.”

Eve nibbles on her bottom lip, appearing deep in thought. I can’t help but watch as her teeth graze her lip. It’s such a simple action, yet I’m thoroughly entranced. Conflict’s written all over her face. Her eyes rake over me, something heated behind them that she’s clearly struggling to keep contained.

“You know what, never mind,” she mumbles quickly. “I’m just going to go.”

“Don’t you need to see a doctor?”

“I’ll deal with it.” She turns on her heels quickly to try to make for the door.

She takes a single step forward before her knees buckle out from beneath her. I’m quick to move, throwing my arms out to catch her. I catch a whiff of her hair. She smells like a wonderful combination of coffee and vanilla cake.

Did she come here straight from a café?

Eve clings to my arms, her button nose scrunched up in pain. I support her weight easily. She’s a lot lighter than she looks. I can probably pick her up and place her on the table myself if it comes down to it.

“Sit down,” I say as I gesture toward the exam table behind her.

She refuses to, pulling away as far as she can to lean against the edge. Her whole face has turned a lovely shade of pink, the tips of her ears burning red hot. I’m fairly certain she’s holding her breath. Her pupils are dilated, and her jaw is set so tight I can see the tendons in her face tensing.

Yeah. I’ve got that effect on women.

“Let me go, I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’ll wait for your father to come back to work.”

“You almost face-planted right in front of me. I don’t think you can afford to wait that long.”

I stare her down. I’ve been dealing with prima ballerinas all day long, and I’m not about to let another one prevent me from doing my job. The first couple to pay me a visit wouldn’t stop crying over their broken toenails. I know how much it hurts. I’m not exactly unsympathetic. Good doctors understand that pain makes people say and do silly things, even to their own detriment. But the ladies I dealt with earlier effectively cleaned out the rehabilitation wing’s supply of tissues, and it isn’t even noon yet.

I honestly don’t know how Pops does this every day. He’s been working with the Haven Ballet Academy for almost forty-five years and seems to genuinely enjoy what he does. I can’t understand it. Pops could be making three times as much working at a large hospital like me. He’d probably make even more if he opened up his own practice. But Pops is a kind soul, a very likable guy. He isn’t one to complain about much.

I personally don’t like dealing with dancers because they all seem to have a flair for the dramatic.

Please give me good news, Doctor. Will I ever be able to dance again?

Is my time in the spotlight over? Oh, woe is me!

I mentally roll my eyes. If I were Pops and I had a choice, I’d stay as far away from this place as possible. I’ve only been covering for him for the past couple of days, but I’m already sick and tired of the pretentiousness.

“I’ll ask again. Tell me what’s wrong.” I watch her like a hawk, amused by how she continues to nibble on her bottom lip and start to pick at her fingernails.

Eve glances away and picks a spot on the wall behind me to glare a hole into. “Shin splints. I’m recovering from shin splints.”

I furrow my brows. “How long have you been recovering?”

“A little over a year.”

This raises several red flags. As an orthopedic surgeon, I know shin splints normally heal within three to six months.

“If that’s the case, you shouldn’t be dancing,” I inform her sternly. “You’re only exacerbating the problem.”

Eve looks at me like I’ve just budded another head. “I can’t stop dancing. That’s not an option.”

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