Page 10 of The Polly Principle (The Laws of Love 2)

Chapter 3

Polly hurried along the hospital corridor, KeepCup clasped tightly in one hand and her bulky work bag flip-flopping over her shoulder.

As usual, she was late for a ward meeting and now her phone was trilling.

Spying an empty seat, she carefully placed her coffee down—you couldn’t afford to spill a drop this early on a Monday morning—and located her phone in the depths of her bag just as it switched to message bank.

But not before she’d seen the name “Joe” flash up on the screen.

Guilt jabbed at her gut. She’d been only an hour away from home on the weekend. She could have made a detour and seen her older brother and his wife, said a quick hi to Dad and Mim.

But after Solo had jumped out of her bed like he’d been attacked by a swarm of angry bees, she’d been too pissed off to do anything on Sunday morning other than hop in her little Toyota and speed back to Perth withQueen’sgreatest hits belting out at full decibels.

So no, she hadn’t gone home and she hadn’t seen Dad, and yes, she should have.

Polly sighed, glanced at the time on the top of the screen, quickly texted, “in meeting call you later” and then, with a couple of gulps of coffee, headed towards Echidna Ward.

When she sidled into her seat at the table, she realised Dr Death (Dr Jonathon Pritchard, head psychiatrist to everyone other than Polly and a few other staff she’d initiated into his alternative title) was nowhere to be seen.

She let out a sigh of relief, opened her bag and removed her notepad and a pen.

There were bound to be new patients after the weekend, and with the way her brain was feeling right now, it would be good to have a few minutes to reset.

Smoothing down her hair to ensure all the crinkles were safely caught in the up-do she’d scraped onto her head this morning, she smiled at Judith across the table.

Judith winked. “All right?” she mouthed, then leaned forward. “How’d the rest of your weekend shape up?”

Polly stifled the tingle of a blush. Judith had stayed at the bride’s parents’ place, no way would she know anything.

She jabbed a thumb in the air. “Great.”

True—until the fizzle of a finale. Amazing, actually. Better sex than she’d had with anyone in recorded history—so natural and easy and, yes, more downright playful than all her short-lived dates and even the six years of falling happily into bed with her dear old fuck-buddy, Jake. She’d reeled through the scenes shamelessly all yesterday: those long, lean limbs and his amazing six pack. And, holy shit, that mouth—hot and demanding, tongue sliding and coaxing, a perfect fit with hers and… and… that totally steamy look on his face as he thrust deep into her…

Oh, no,stop! Shut it down. Now.

Polly crossed her legs under the table and squeezed her clit into silence.

What a bastard, just upping and leaving before she’d had time to order from the dessert menu. No suggestion of “let’s exchange phone numbers, meet up again”. But why the hell was she bothered about that? She had Tinder, didn’t she?

Focusing, she realised she’d doodled phallic shapes all over her nice clean page.

What the hell was her problem?

The nose kiss. Just before he scarpered. That was the problem. It did something weird to her insides, and then there was the sad look in his eyes as he thanked her, like she’d saved his soul from hell demons or something.

Stop fantasising, she ordered herself fiercely as she made hmm-hah noises to Leon, the ward’s senior nurse, who was telling her that they’d had four new admissions over the weekend. Oh yes, and that Bernie Bullman had gone AWOL again and been found at the pub holding court over whisky chasers with the Western Dingos rugby team.

Good old Bernie. Made Jack Nicholson look like an amateur.

She’d just turned to a fresh page and was writing the date when she caught the sound of Dr Death’s low drone. But when she heard a deeper, smoother, and disturbingly familiar voice in answer, her body turned into static electricity. Polly’s head kicked up, her gaze locking onto Dr Death’s familiar bald head in the doorway, his beady eyes peering over the top of his glasses at the assembled staff.

And behind him… Christ… oh God, no.Him.

Polly’s stomach rode into her mouth.

Silver-eyed, piping-hot motorbike man with the perfect bod and stupid smoking habit was standing behind Dr Death, a head and shoulders taller—if you counted the spikes of his short dark hair—amazing pecs concealed under a crisp white shirt, suit jacket stretched over shoulders she’d bitten, yes, actuallybitten,as she rode her orgasm. Daring to stand there, all neat and tidy, with those hands that had been everywhere on her body clasped neatly in front of him. All serious andsoo fuck-ingprofessional.

Bastard.

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