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Hot Stuff
Author: Max Monroe

 


September 13th

Lauren

 

I grab the iPad chart from the rack next to the door and scroll through the details of my next patient, making a mental note of the pertinent details.

Thirty-seven-year-old male. No history of smoking or drug use. Career in firefighting suggests higher risk of smoke inhalation and lung scarring, but last physical at a previous practice showed no sign of abnormalities, and vital signs and blood workup were unremarkable.

I blip over the rest to the patient concerns, of which there are none, and then blink back to the name on the top of the file.

Garrett Alexander.

It doesn’t ring any bells, but then again, it wouldn’t. I know with his career choice it’s likely he works at one of the local San Diego firehouses, but I’ve barely been back in town long enough to recognize what street I live on, let alone some random public servant.

Quickly, I rap the knuckles of three fingers against the teal wooden exam room door and wait for a response before entering.

“Come on in,” he offers cheerfully, so I step inside without delay.

“Hi, Mr. Alexander,” I greet, sticking out my hand for him to shake. “I’m Dr. Lauren.”

“Dr. Lauren?” he prompts. “That’s an unusual last name.”

“Ha, no. Lauren is my first name. Carroll is my last.” I laugh a little at my faux pas, turning to the sink to wash my hands in an effort to avoid exposing my blush. “I used to work in a pediatric ward, and the tiny humans appreciated a more personal approach. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

I grab two paper towels from the holder next to the sink and wipe off the water droplets as I turn around, and for the first time since I walked in, the freakishly handsome nature of Mr. Alexander hits me like a wave.

Good. God.

He’s, like, seriously pretty—strong jawline, clean-shaven, dark hair framing the most startlingly piercing light-blue eyes. I’m actually wondering if he’s one of Edward Cullen’s tanner, Southern California-based, sun-accepting relatives because I swear there are golden flecks of glitter embedded across the bridge of his perfectly proportional nose.

Sweet bazookas—I wonder if his skin is like that everywhere…even his balls?

Odd, I know, that my brain immediately goes straight to a guy’s balls, but hear me out.

How many people can say they’ve cradled a ball sac on their first day of their new job?

Okay, now tell me how many people can say they’ve cradled two?

How about three?

Seems crazy, right?

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I’m here to tell you that nothing is crazy in medicine.

In fact, if anyone is wondering, I, myself, am up to four pairs of dangling wonders on the day—and, as you can see, lucky number five is right here, sitting in front of me with his super-handsome face and crazy-perfect skin.

Apparently, when you’re the new doctor in the family practice, no matter if you came to said practice to continue working with pediatric patients like you did at your previous job, you get zero variety in your assignments. Yearly physicals for adult males of all ages are, for today, my sole bread and butter. And, if you’re keeping track, you’d understand that every yearly physical includes a full-body check, testicular assessment included.

Which means, you’re about to get up close and personal with Mr. Hot Stuff’s real flipping soon…

Goodness. I am losing it. I shake my head to clear the insane thoughts, patting the sweat off my palms onto the fabric of my white coat discreetly.

“Dr. Lauren. That’s cute, actually.” His words pop the silence bubble before it borders on awkward. “I’m not a tiny human, as you can probably tell,” he says with a grin.

“Oh yeah, that’s pretty obvious.” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them while my eyes flit toward the way the muscles of his arms bulge beneath his white T-shirt.

He chuckles softly, and I want to smack myself in the face.

Get it together! the rational side of my brain shouts, suddenly at war with the irrational, harlot thoughts threatening to seep into my head. Whatever you do, do not keep thinking about how attractive this man is because that will only lead you on a disastrous path. First, his big, strong biceps, then his broad chest, and before you know it, you’ll be fantasizing about his freaking penis. There’s practically a whole addendum to the oath as a doctor that says you don’t get intimately involved with your patients! Think about where it got Izzy Stevens! Big penis, small penis, red penis, violet penis, it is not your business.

“And I think I’m a fan of the personal approach, Dr. Lauren,” my far-too-attractive patient comments, pulling my focus back to, you know, my job. “So, I think I’ll just keep calling you that. It’s friendly. I like it.”

A tiny grunt gives way as I attempt to speak, still sucked in tight to my poem-like ode to phallic members, so I clear my throat and try my best to don a professional smile. “You can call me whatever you’d like, Mr. Alexander.” Yet, the words that come out of my mouth are the complete opposite of my face.

Call me whatever you’d like? I repeat the words in my head. Sweet mother of mercy.

My stupid mind has turned treasonous, and the pervy bitch is trying to take me down with her.

“Garrett,” he corrects, and all I can do is nod.

At least, I try to. What I actually do is pop a glove while I’m trying to put it on and hit myself square in the forehead.

Ow.

Thankfully, a man of some tact, evidently, Garrett ignores my mismovement.

Unfortunately, I, on the other hand, continue to mentally berate myself.

What the hell is your problem? You’re never clumsy and awkward or inappropriate during patient care. Ever. Now you’re snapping yourself in the face with gloves like a jizz-shot-taking porn star?

Then again, I’ve spent most of my time as a physician interacting with children. A certain amount of drama and flair make those visits work. Maybe all that time pretending to be a clown or a circus ringmaster or one of the Three Stooges while trying to ease my young patients’ nerves just masked the fact that I didn’t need to pretend at all.

Whatever.

The sooner I get on with this exam, the sooner I get Garrett out of here. Then I can stop acting like a spaz and move on to my sixth encounter with cojones like none of this ever happened.

“So, Garrett,” I emphasize while trying to convince myself I can play it cool, and he smiles, hitching up one corner of his mouth in a way that would instantly make other females think of wild, sweaty, hot sex with him.

Not me, though. No way. I’m not thinking about that at all. And the only reason I look away from him and toward the wall is to…make sure the wall looks…sturdy. Sturdy walls are very important.

Uh-huh. Sure they are…

I clear my throat and try to trudge on, right into the opening of my annual physical spiel. “How are you doing? Any concerns or problems you’re having? Something we need to be aware of? I know you’re here for your yearly checkup, but really search your mind. Is there anything that hasn’t been feeling right?”

“Nope. I feel great, actually. Best I have in years.”

“That’s terrific.”

“I think so,” he says cheekily, and once again, I have to look away. But I can’t deny the reality—Garrett Alexander is a stone-cold fox, and I haven’t developed the proper coping mechanisms to deal with it. His looks are so freakishly good, it’s like they’re magnetic, and my eyes might as well be two ginormous hunks of metal.

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