I opened my mouth to offer a rebuttal of, “Um, Remy is my brother,” but quickly thought better of it and stopped myself.
It wasn’t any of his goddamn business.
And why in the hell did he sound so pissed about it?
Whatever. Maybe this is what I need to hold him at arm’s length since I’m so obviously failing at doing that on my own.
I set my phone on my desk and handed Mitchell’s MRI report to him. “I think he should be good to play by Phoenix.”
He quietly read the report and then looked up to meet my eyes. “You don’t think he can play the game against Minnesota this weekend?”
“No.” I shook my head and focused on what I knew would be a fight. I hadn’t planned this discussion, really, but it was obviously one we needed to have and one I knew wouldn’t go easily. “I think he should sit out one more week and continue to go through physical therapy sessions twice a day.”
“This report is telling me otherwise, Dr. Winslow.”
Go figure, I was Doctor now. It seemed Wes referred to me as Dr. Winslow when his stodgy, pissed-off persona came to visit. Basically, it was the equivalent of my mother using my full name, Winnie Marie, when I was a kid and in a shitload of trouble.
“Yeah, well, that report is just that, a report,” I retorted hotly. Unfortunately for everyone, the bad in him seemed to bring out the antagonism in me. “I’m looking at the full scope, the big picture, and I’m assuming you want Mitchell healthy and playing for the duration of the season, and hopefully, the postseason.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Well, it goes without saying that I want that too,” I reminded him. “Which is why I’m not clearing him to play until Phoenix.”
“You’re not clearing him?” He held up the MRI report. “After reading this report, that decision seems a bit conservative, don’t you think?”
I shook my head and crossed my arms over my chest. “No. I don’t think it’s conservative at all. I think it’s the right decision.”
A humorless laugh left his lips. “Why even ask me to look over the report if you were already set in your final decision?”
“Ultimately, it’s your team. I just figured you’d like to know.”
And I wanted you to come into my office so I could ogle the way you fill out your pants. Son of a bitch.
“That’s right, it is my team,” he repeated with far too much venom. “And I’ll be honest, Mitchell sitting out in Minnesota doesn’t sit well with me.”
“It doesn’t sit well with me either.”
He tilted his head and scrutinized my expression. “Are you sure? Because from here, it doesn’t seem like you’re having too difficult a time digesting the news.”
I stepped closer to him, meeting his eyes without flinching or backing down. “I actually got this report two days ago. I’ve been mulling over this decision for the last forty-eight hours.”
“Interesting.” He stepped closer, and his voice dropped a few octaves when we were practically nose-to-nose. “And you didn’t think to ask me to discuss this forty-eight hours ago?”
“No,” I whispered angrily. “I didn’t need your assistance, Mr. Lancaster.”
“Well, Dr. Winslow, next time, you let me know the second these kinds of reports come in.”
“Fine,” I snapped.
“Fine.”
Neither of us moved, our faces mere inches from one another. It was a world-record-worthy stare down, and the longer we held it, the heavier the air seemed to become. My breaths came out in exaggerated waves, my chest practically heaving up and down and brushing up against the buttons of his dress shirt.
I wanted to smack him. I wanted to swallow him whole.
He blinked. I blinked.
My cell phone vibrated with a call against my desk, but it didn’t even register on my radar.
His eyes searched mine until they flickered down to my lips, to my heaving chest, and then back up to my lips again.
I wanted to crush my mouth to his so I didn’t have to listen to his fucking questions.
I wanted him to kiss me.
His mouth moved infinitesimally closer. My mouth followed suit.
He was close, so close now I could feel the warmth of his breath brush across my lips. One more inch and our mouths would be touching. One more inch and we’d be sharing the same air. One more inch and I’d know what Wes tasted like against my tongue.
One more inch…
The obnoxious ring of my desk phone broke our ridiculous trance, jolting us into action—and away from each other. Concerned it might be Lexi’s babysitter, I walked around my desk on shaky legs and picked up the receiver. “Dr. Winslow.”
“Winnie,” Georgia’s voice filled my ear. “Why aren’t you answering your phone? And why are you at work so late?”
“Because I’m busy working, Georgia.” I sighed and stared out the floor-to-ceiling window of my office. I couldn’t decide if it was the best-timed phone call or the absolute worst.
“Can I call you back—”
“No!” she shouted into my ear. “This is an emergency, Win!”
“It is not an emergency.” Cassie’s annoyed voice joined the line.
“Go ahead and take the call, Winnie,” Wes interrupted. My eyes met his and we searched one another’s gaze for something, but I wasn’t sure what. Desire? Want? Need? Regret?
His eyes flickered down to the hand clutching at the silky material covering my chest, and I abruptly let go, feeling like an idiot for being so affected by him. The green notes of his hazel eyes flared brighter as he briefly looked at my lips again, but any depth of warmth disappeared as his gaze met my own. “I’ve got to head out anyway.”
“Who is that?” Georgia questioned.
“Is that Wes?” Cassie chimed in. “Are you in your office with Wes?”
“I’ll call Mitchell on my way home,” he added.
“Holy shit! That’s definitely Wes!” Georgia’s voice shrieked, and I had to pull the receiver away from my ear before my eardrum started to bleed.
“Are you playing naughty secretary and naked boss tonight, Win?” Cassie singsonged.
“She’s a physician, Cass. Not a goddamn secretary.”
“I know, Wheorgie. It’s called role-playing.”
Even without the help of speakerphone, their voices echoed inside my office. I quickly tapped the hold button before they started saying things I’d prefer Wes not to hear.
“You’re going to call Mitchell?” I asked, curious what exactly he was going to tell him.
He nodded. “I’ll let him know we’ve decided that he won’t be ready to play in Minnesota, but if he follows your orders and physical therapy schedule, he should be good to go by Phoenix.”
My eyes widened in surprise. “We’ve decided?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “We’ve decided.”
My brow furrowed in exasperation. Partly because of our ongoing battle, and partly because I couldn’t read him like I so desperately wanted.
Obviously, he knew my decision was the right decision, but why in the hell did he always have to find an argument with everything?