Morgan

After a month of stagnancy, I tossed off my blanket and planted my feet on the cool hardwoods. Brody attended his morning team workout, and Paige busied herself at the coffee machine, so I snuck into the hall bathroom and stripped off Jim's shirt.

Air exposure prickled my skin and tightened my nipples, but my heart clenched. Despite the soft cotton's sleep comforts, keeping it this long was insane. I needed to let go as much as stop carving a groove in Brody's sofa. Paige could justifiably mooch off him, but his one-bedroom condo shrunk more each day I remained.

The undershirt's white edge brushed my thighs. His unexpected tenderness, slipping it on when I was half-comatose and buzzing with big-O bliss, wasn't supposed to happen. Neither was the glide of his fingers smoothing hair off my forehead or tucking me under the sheets. We'd soaked them with the musk of sweat and sex, but the gesture was...sweet.

An asshole would be easier to forget.

Spreading my freedom wings from the ashes of my life's failures, our night was the perfect mix of delicious, reckless choices. Purge my bookworm fantasies before facing the shitty responsibilities of adulthood...I hadn't realized how much pent-up frustration I'd been carrying until unleashing it with Jim, and I'd thanked him by fleeing in a panic.

One night was the agreement. It was – well, not a mistake, but our night wasn't like the books described. The reasons I'd never indulged in a one-night stand before or since our incredible night were painful and obvious – I couldn't stop thinking about a man whose identity I didn't know.

"Enough already."

Jim's shirt hit my trash can with a flop. My weird attachment didn't matter. I'd never roll in those sheets again, and no matter how comforting his man stink shirt was, I had no claim on it.

My morning insulin prick read normal, and I hung my head under the shower stream. Since I'd cataloged a subscription pile of clit flick material under 'thank you, Jim,' part of me didn't want the reminders washed away.

Grasping his hand, I'd demanded our dance, but he tethered me in one secure hold. One song melted into two, during which continuous heat from his body set mine aflame. His strong direction led us through the steps, and one sinful rod of temptation knocking on my panties rendered me out of my senses.

With an involuntary spasm, my core clenched around nothing, mirroring its reaction a month ago when he rose from giving me the most toe-curling wakeup between my thighs – some things were like the books – and climbed over me. Tingles ghosted the imprint of his warm breath, kissing the curve of my ear.

"I need you again."

He'd wrapped the statement in impatience coupled with the perfect pressure gripping my neck. It wasn't painful or restricted my breathing, just secured me with no hesitation. His wicked fingers plunged in deep, curling and thrusting until I sparked like a live wire, then pushed my release onto my tongue.

Yeah, his fingers were my favorite...unless I thought about his dick doing the plunging.

Time never stood still, no matter how much I savored the moments steamier than my finger's best efforts. Courtesy of the shower's pulsating setting, I enjoyed one more highlight reel, rinsed off the evidence, and slacked my neck.

In theory, my one-night stand couldn't have gone better. Phenomenal sex, hot but considerate guy, and a harrowing escape were book swoon-worthy...until those toothbrushes appeared. The lingering pit of emptiness returned as I shut off the shower.

Paige was gone when I emerged dressed, but she left traces of kindness with a hot tea in a thermos and a note.

Today's THE Day! Good luck!!

I should have known whether today's appointment was an interview or my first day, but, like the rest of my life, I had no clue. Dressed for the interview, a pair of scrubs made my purse bulky.

The address on the eastern outskirts of San Francisco was easy to find, but the shiny, standalone building looked out of place from the woods surrounding it. I scrolled past Paige's life coach-worthy encouragements and confirmed the address. Thrice.

It looked like a sports complex, not a dentist's office. Beyond a front desk and security scan, a maze of white-walled corridors led me past offices on the upper level overlooking the main level. My heels clicked over cement floors until strain warmed my calves.

I passed a full-sized gym, indoor pool, food court with a coffee bar, and an ice rink. Where was I?

"Dr. Gilbert, you have some explaining to do." I huffed at my contact's black letters on a glass door. Finally, I entered to...nothing. No lobby, no chairs, and no receptionist desk. Only a small room with a hallway. The saddest Christmas tree leaned against a corner, and a fat-bellied Santa wiggled in greeting.

In September?

My video interview with the specialty dentist was as confusing. He approached retirement, and while I couldn't replace a dentist, he wanted an assistant to reduce his routine cleanings workload and client-based travel. Were they private appointments?

"Ahh, Miss Hart." The endearing gentleman who I'd helped unmute his mic entered with blue eyes beaming behind his glasses. His face wrinkled with the kindest smile, and he embraced me with two weathered, sun-spotted hands. "Pleasure to meet you in person."

He was a hugger. And he smelled like toffee candy and coffee. "Same."

We separated before the door burst open with a bang. A beady-eyed man in a gray tracksuit and a whistle bouncing around his neck stormed in. Ruddy pink flushed on his cheeks, the bulb of his nose, and spread a rash across his furrowed forehead.

"Gilbert! What nonsense are you pulling here? Your contract states—"

"Coach Farris." Dr. Gilbert offered an impassive smile. "Berate me after I show Miss Hart around."

He led me into the hallway when a shrill tweet blasted my ear drums. Flinching, I cupped them while Mr. Whistle glared at me. "Gilbert, hiring additional staff is outside your jurisdiction. We have rules. We have NDAs. My players–"

"I'm within my right of concern about their oral health." Dr. Gilbert's calmness cut through the coach's storm of whine. "Which I've discussed with Klaus. Give him your concerns."

"No." Coach's gaze mirrored the way Paige looked at expired inventory as if I was an absolute waste. "Absolutely not. She-she-look at her!"

"Excuse me?" My collared, sleeveless silk shirt was tucked into my black pencil skirt, fitted but absent of any underwear malfunctions. The back seams on my stockings aligned, no tears, and the toes on my adorable platform heels peeked up.

Dr. Gilbert smiled when I patted my purse. "I have scrubs."

Coach Sunshine dragged a hand over his face, a deeper flush of red flaring up his neck. "She's—Gilbert, the boys can't be expected—"

"To what? Act professional in front of a woman?" Hello, misogyny, goodbye, filter, and Dr. Gilbert, hold my earrings. I cupped my mouth and faked a gasp. "With breasts?"

He closed his eyes and pinched his nose. "That's not what I meant."

There was no argument. None that I'd hear, so I dented his whistle into his chest with a finger poke. "If my being a woman is your concern, you'd better research how-not-to-be-a-sexist-chauvinist training. Having a dick doesn't make a good dentist, and acting like one is unprofessional no matter what...players you're placating to."

"You'll be a distraction, Miss Hart," he seethed.

His glare wasn't a deterrent. I fisted my hips and popped one for emphasis. "I don't care if your players are men, women, children, clowns, or baboons. If they have canines, incisors, bicuspids, and molars, I'm here to clean them, take X-rays, and assist in dental surgeries."

A flicker of a challenge appeared in his eyes. "Are you suggesting you'll maintain a professional stance?"

Professional stance? Who did he think I was? Dick milker wasn't the position I applied for.

Every muscle in me tightened. Contrary to one justifiable indiscretion, his accusations were out of line.

"Sir, I have an Associates' degree, a state license, and three years of experience working with patients. So, the real question about maintaining professionalism is: Can you and your players?"

His inhale was the only answer I needed. He didn't know my certification was from our tiny town's community college, and I only passed my license exam under Paige's constant scrutiny, but most employers didn't care where a degree was from.

I should've shut my flapping mouth, but this idiot pricked a nerve. Women could dress as professionals and work around men without being labeled promiscuous and desperate for dick.

"Indiscretions are grounds for termination, Miss Hart."

Ooh, the man was asking me to punch him. Dr. Gilbert cringed like the awkward friend silently apologizing for his asshole friend's existence, but they both should be embarrassed.

I would be fired for indiscretions. Just me. Message received loud and clear.

"I don't need this harassment."

Paige would kill me for blowing another job prospect, but this environment wouldn't work. As desperate as I needed a job, I couldn't settle for being treated less than unprofessionally.

No one should.

I turned, my nose flaring with each breath. What a sexist oinker.

"Prove me wrong, Miss Hart."

His challenge punched the back of my head, bunching my shoulders. I should've ignored the dangled carrot and kept walking, but my dumb mouth opened.

"If your players have similar attitudes," I said over my shoulder. "I won't hesitate—"

"As you shouldn't." Dr. Gilbert beamed. "Miss Hart has established her professionalism, so let's proceed with getting her acclimated."

Coach and I mirrored gaping, dumbfounded looks. "I have the position?"

"Your spirited display more than earned it. Maybe you could convince those overinflated windbags to take their oral health seriously." Dr. Gilbert bounced on his feet, curling his fingers, and springing Santa into another dance. "Follow me, please."

What was happening here? Ten minutes into an argument, a headache threatened to split my head open.

I avoided ramming my heel onto Coach's foot as I passed. He clenched his teeth and dipped his chin. Good.

We passed – finally – two rooms with dental chairs, an x-ray machine, and familiar supplies, but Dr. Gilbert didn't stop. "We also use the medical room for emergencies."

In the hallway, a rank smell teased my nose. Rotten eggs? No, not a burned or moldy-food-related scent. Those I knew in my sleep, but musky, humid, and increased in potency at the end of the hall. It permeated from the door across from the one marked 'Medical' where Dr. Gilbert stopped.

What was this smell? It was ghastly unfamiliar.

Coach Farris stopped at the other door, which buffered the sound of loud conversations and laughs. He opened the door, and my eyes burned and watered at the unfiltered version. Shouts and laughs escalated and...

Wait a moment. Men's voices.

"Coach Farris?" Dr. Gilbert frowned. "I don't think—"

Coach gave a nonchalant shrug and gestured me in. "She might be required in the locker room for emergencies during games, Gilbert. Might as well start sooner than later."

I bristled at the word 'might.'

Something stunk here. Beyond the smell burning my nostrils. No dental-related purpose existed in a men's locker room during the middle of the day. This smelled like – well, rotten eggs and extreme man stink, but a test. A personal test bordering on the unprofessional.

'Prove me wrong,' my ass. I wasn't biting this dick-bait.

"No." I shook my head at Dr. Gilbert. "I am declining the position."

Shame burned my cheeks, which I hated, but I crossed my arms and marched a reverse route. My heels clicks led me out of this toxic workplace environment, and I walked as fast as possible.

"Hey!"

Unbelievable. Coach's...hazing wasn't an equality issue, but a human decency one. Mental note on the job searches: add a sexist douche filter.

"Wait!"

Heavy, wet-slopped footsteps approached from behind. A tall figure emerged with a plume of steam from the locker room and a white towel wrapped around his hips. Rivulets dripped down dark locks, dampened into tendrils on his forehead. A large hand with swollen knuckles tamed them back with a slow sweep and lowered with water trailing over the edge of his fingertips.

A clench locked his chiseled jaw, sharper with a line of fine stubble than the equivalent hidden under a wooly mammoth beard. Dark eyes flitted before each step until they landed on my toes. Their intensity burned an upward trail over my skin, making me hold my breath.

I was hyper-aware of his one-thousand percent nakedness beneath his towel, water droplets licking downward rolls over his body, and my familiarity with it.

His thick torso carved into rocks of muscles.

His broad chest expanded and contracted where my hands palmed the wild beats.

The sinful cut of his hips undulated in and out of definition, meeting mine thrust for thrust as I writhed on his dick like he was a mechanical bull.

His handsome face, or its hairy version, was wrenched red, soaked with sweat and satisfaction.

Fuck, it couldn't be–Here?

Jim's mouth – his wicked, wicked mouth – rounded. He dragged another hand through his wet hair, the satisfaction of certainty burning in his eyes. The same confident grin that folded me like a lawn chair on the dance floor carved crescent-shaped dimples into his cheeks.

"Taylor."

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