Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: New Adult Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

Chapter Eighteen

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My heart is still racing as I head to my car.

I'm shaky all over, my hand visibly trembling as I reach for my door, and I know it's not because of the cold, despite the fact that the temperatures have dropped to below freezing right now.

I can't get the look of his eyes out of my mind. They literally scare me...but they also make me feel something else; something I know I shouldn't be feeling. Something I don't think I've ever felt before. The way he looked at me was just...crazy. Straight-up crazy!

I know it's mostly in my head and probably my subconscious' way of looking for attention. That would actually make sense, since I was clearly looking for attention from an absolutely unattainable source. It's probably for the best, anyway. With my aversion to love, I suppose I'd rather crush on a guy who I know I can't have.

But is 'crush' even the appropriate word for what I'm feeling? Boys haven't mattered to me in that way for a long time now, so I can't be sure.

Boys.

I chuckle to myself suddenly, thinking about how absurd the use of the word is to describe Doctor Frost. He's clearly anything but a boy. That much is beyond obvious.

All the same, it's been a while since I last looked at any guy who made my face heat up from thinking the kind of thoughts I wouldn't even share with my best friend.

Speaking of Trixie, I really hope she's okay. And more than that, I really hope she doesn't run into Gina, and if she does, I really hope it's not on campus. I know for a fact that it just won't end well, and Trixie sure as hell doesn't need any more drama with the university's student conduct department.

One unfortunate incident her freshman year at a ridiculous frat party gone apeshit pretty much put her under a bit of a microscope with the School of Music's administration, and any more incidents—even minor ones—have the potential to wreck her record, and her future.

And I can't have that. She's too dedicated and works too hard for it to all get fucked up over some chick who seemingly can't keep her legs closed.

My mother really disliked women like that, and had no qualms about making her feelings known on the matter. Mary Maladines, she called them; after the prostitute, Mary Magdalene. Only, they were supposedly much worse; unrepentant, unredeemable, and came with a host of maladies.

To be fair, she was never specific about what kinds of maladies.

She always stressed that I dress and behave appropriately and ladylike—meaning super-duper conservative—so that I wouldn't ever become a Mary Maladine. Then again, she was raised uber Catholic, so I dunno.

I let out a deep sigh. I don't want to think about my mom right now, especially when I'm having such a hard time keeping the good blue-eyed doctor out of my head as well.

I turn the key in the hole and the engine roars to life, bringing my little old car into motion.

I head straight to work, cutting through traffic as best as I can on the highway and through downtown as I make my way to the Mushroom.

It takes a good twenty minutes, and by the time I arrive at work, I still have plenty of time to spare before my shift begins.

By some miracle, the parking spot directly in front of the back entrance is vacant today despite the shit weather. I can't stop myself from doing a silent fist pump; my small—and probably lame—gesture of gratitude for this small sprinkle of fortune in an otherwise horribly shitty day.