That was the beginning of the end for me and why I was currently in the middle of the longest dry spell of my life. My dick had seen her, and he was like Pavlov’s fucking dog, remembering the teenage fantasies featuring her insane body that I’d jerked off to three…four…five times a day.
And now, despite the fact that we were both adults and I hadn’t seen her in fourteen fucking years, nothing and no one else would do.
My brothers were still talking, trying to get my attention, but just then, she glanced up and our eyes connected. I felt the same zing of awareness I always did when she was around—a zing that said my worthy adversary was here and ready for whatever I could dish out. Ready and willing to give it right back.
She froze for half a second before narrowing her eyes on me, all joy wiped clean from her stupidly beautiful face. Then, gaze still locked on mine, she reached up and scratched her nose. With her middle finger.
A slow smile spread across my face, and I shot her a wink. A wink she returned with a scowl. Goddamn, why was pissing her off more fun than my last dozen dates combined? And why the hell did it get my dick harder, too?
Chuckling under my breath, I watched her storm away, the sway of those thick hips making my mouth water.
Two minutes ago, I’d been lost in a rant, ready to burn this day to the ground. But after that little interaction with Quinn, I felt lighter than I had since stepping foot in the store—even though I’d run into my ex, gotten conned into attending her wedding, and now had to figure out this fundraiser thing on my own.
It probably made me every bit the ass Quinn thought I was, but I couldn’t deny how much I loved that my mere presence got a rise out of the unflappable Dr. Quinn Cartwright.
CHAPTERTWO
QUINN
If there wasone thing I hated, it was an overconfident man with small-dick syndrome, and the jackass I was currently working for must’ve had the smallest dick of all.
Unfortunately, if I had any hope of taking over this practice from Dr. Dinsmore—or Dr. Dicknose, as I affectionately referred to him—I actually had to play nice, which made dealing with his daily bullshit all the more frustrating.
At best, it was a minor inconvenience I struggled with on the regular. At worst, it had drastic and sometimes catastrophic repercussions for the patients he’d sworn to serve.
Which was the entire reason I was back in my hometown in the first place.
As much as I hated that his female patients had suffered at his hand often enough to file formal complaints, I was just grateful I was finally here and able to clean up some of his messes. And in my short time back, I’d found a metric shit-ton of them.
I knocked on the door to exam room two and stepped inside, greeting his-turned-my patient with a warm smile. “Hi, Jada. How’re you doing today?”
“Hi, Dr. Cartwright.” Uncertainty and defeat hung heavy in her dark eyes as she sat on the exam table, wringing her hands in her lap. Her long black locs were pulled up into a twisted bun on top of her head, and the gold dusted on her cheekbones set off her deep-brown skin. “And I guess that depends on what you’re about to tell me.”
I pulled out the rolling stool and took a seat, setting her chart down on the counter behind me. “Well, I actually have news, so we’re coming out ahead of where you’ve been stuck the past several years.”
Since the closest OB-GYN was a few towns over, Dr. Dicknose had been completing Jada’s yearly exams—same as many of the other women in town. She’d been complaining of painful, irregular periods, weight gain, and unexplained acne for years. And for years, the tiny-dicked weasel had told her that her issues were because she was overweight or just something she had to deal with for being a female.
Even after her complaining of worsening symptoms, which now included her and her husband’s inability to conceive even after more than two years of trying, he still blamed it on the fact that her BMI wasn’t below twenty-five and told her if she just lost some weight, all her problems would be solved.
He’d dismissed her very real pain, brushed it aside as if it were a minor inconvenience. She’d become just another fat girl in his eyes, and he’d treated her issues as if they were the cause rather than a symptom.
I wanted to strangle the jackass, especially when a simple blood test would’ve diagnosed this when she’d first complained of these problems, and she and her husband could’ve been well on their way to a family of three.
I knew her pain all too well—literally—which only made me more frustrated. I’d been given the same runaround while dealing with the same symptoms and the same condition. Had providers brush aside my complaints and not look deeper because I wasn’t a size eight. I’d spent my teenage years and early twenties in misery because no one would take me seriously, and I didn’t have the kind of parents who would advocate for me.
It was what pushed me into medicine in the first place. I hated the idea that women weren’t being heard or treated appropriately because their concerns were ignored.
“Okay.” She nodded, the exam table paper crinkling under her as she shifted. “I’m ready to hear it.”
“The results from your bloodwork came back. Your cholesterol looks great, and you’re active, which is what we love to see. But the details of your ultrasound combined with some of the numbers on your bloodwork prove your symptoms have not been caused by weight and aren’t something you just have to deal with because you’re a woman.” I winked at her. “But you and I both already knew that…”
She breathed out a laugh, her bottom lip quivering as her eyes grew glassy. She cleared her throat a couple times, accepting the tissue I offered her with quiet thanks. Dabbing her eyes, she said, “Sorry about this.” She circled a hand around her face. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that. After years of being told it was nothing—” her voice cracked, but she cleared her throat and continued on “—it’s such a relief to know everything that’s been going on isn’t all in my head.”
With a reassuring smile, I patted her knee. “I’m grateful I’m able to finally get you some answers.”
Clutching the tissue in her hand, she inhaled deeply, then blew it out in a slow exhale. “So, you have a diagnosis?”
“I do.” I nodded and reached back, grabbing the pamphlet I’d brought in and handing it to her. “You have what’s called Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. You may have heard it called PCOS. It’s fairly common in women our age, but it is heavily underdiagnosed because…” I huffed out a humorless laugh. “Well, I don’t have to tell you why. In your case, I hope we’ve caught it early enough to avoid any permanent damage. And the good news is it’s manageable. Now, we just need to find the right treatment plan for you…”
