“Yes. And if you don’t mind, I’m looking for Dr. Logan.”
He hums. “You’re early.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“But in case you aren’t actually here to see Dr. Logan and just snuck in to get me into bed,” he says lightly, “you didn’t have to go through all this effort. You could’ve just asked.”
“Sneaking in here?” I sputter. “You must be delusional if you think I planned this. I’m not here to sleep with you—or entertain someone who peaked in high school and has been coasting on his jawline ever since.”
“My jawline, huh?” His smirk deepens. “So you noticed.”
“It’s hard to miss when it’s attached to such a massive ego.”
“You know what they say about big egos…” He lets the sentence trail off, eyebrows lifting suggestively.
“That they’re compensating for something? Yes. I’m familiar with the saying.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Okay. I like you, Ivy.”
He steps closer, his presence overwhelming enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
Coming here was a mistake. A terrible, horrible, mortifying mistake.
“Nice meeting you…” He leans in, eyes locking onto mine. His breath is warm against my skin. “Ivy.”
The way he says my name feels indecent—like he’s stripping it for sport. He straightens, crossing his arms, muscles flexing. I swallow and force myself not to look away.
“And you must be?” I say. “It’s only fair you tell me yours now that you know mine.”
“Declan Hawthorne.” He gestures lazily at his nearly naked form, from head to toe. “In the flesh. Note that.”
My eyes betray me, tracking the movement of his hands and cataloging every detail. The mischievous green eyes. The broad shoulders. The massive tattoo sprawling across his chest and down tight abs. The strong legs—and the very deliberate suggestion of what’s hidden beneath the towel.
Heat creeps up my neck as I take a step back.
Of course it’s Declan Hawthorne. Marcus’s best friend. The one my brother refuses to bring home because he’s a notorious playboy. The exact type of man he’s warned me away from with increasingly creative threats.
This isn’t just a disaster. It’s a heart-pounding, dangerous temptation.
I want to throw something—anything—at him. The massage oil. The useless towel. Maybe my entire body. Instead, I summon my most brittle smile, the one reserved for irritating thesis committee members.
“Already noted,” I say coolly. “Inflated ego. Zero professionalism. Probably operating with a feather-light brain.”
His laughter fills the room—richer this time, genuine amusement cutting through the arrogance.
“You’ll fit right in here, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. The word slithers through the space between us like smoke.
He steps closer, his gaze sharpening. I inhale sharply, forcing my eyes to stay on his face. His proximity makes it hard to think—harder to breathe.
Leave, Ivy. Now.
I grab my bag and hold it to my chest like a shield.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say tightly, “I have actual work to do.”
As I turn for the door, his voice follows me—teasing, almost tender. “Careful, Doc. Places like this can bruise more than just bones.”
