Page 7 of The Season to Sin

I send a quick reply:

Noah,

I can meet with you again, but it will have to be in my office. Four p.m. works. Don’t be late—I have another appointment directly after.

Dr Scott-Leigh

I send it, pleased with the fact I’ve kept it so formal, pleased with the way my email doesn’t, in any way, shape or form, convey how utterly devastatingly sexy I think he is.

I’m proud and pleased as I load up the news browser I always read before starting work and Beatrice strides in with a coffee and bagel.

‘Morning, Holly,’ she says with a smile and leaves again without waiting for a response.

I love this woman so much.

She knows how desperately I need my sacred ten minutes without interruptions and I so appreciate her giving me that. Only now my brain is full of interruptions. Questions about Noah, his habits, his problems, his intentions, his needs.

I want to know him and I want to help him.

And I can’t be at my most effective, therapeutically, if other issues, like my raging desire and the fact I haven’t slept with a guy in over five years, take over my brainpower.

I employ mindfulness, breathing in deeply, exhaling slowly, counting beats and blanking my mind until I feel more like myself again.

But it’s a godawful day.

I feel like I’m operating at half my usual capacity. I drag my brain through appointments, eat a muesli bar between my two and three o’clocks and then, after my three o’clock leaves, make a quick phone call to the hospital to check on a patient of mine.

When I disconnect the call, Beatrice buzzes through that Noah Moore has arrived.

My pulse leaps immediately, my heart thumps hard against my chest and my fingers begin to shake. I cast a quick glance at the compact I keep in my top drawer, run fingers over hair I have today left loose and stand to greet him.

I didn’t know Noah Moore would book an appointment—it’s not for him that I’ve worn this outfit but, the second he enters the room, his green eyes skim over me and I get a kick of satisfaction at the speculation I see in his eyes.

Holy hell.

What am I doing?

I have no business feeling all warm and tingly because he’s staring at the way my leather skirt hugs my hips. It’s high-waisted—it comes up to my belly button—and I’m wearing a gold cashmere sweater tucked into it. It’s an outfit I would describe as perfectly professional but, the way his eyes light on my silhouette, I feel like a centrefold.

‘Mr Moore.’ My tone is cool. Good. Cool is good. ‘Please, take a seat.’

He strides into the room, looking dishevelled in a way that is sexy but that I have every reason to believe is the result of a sleepless night.

He throws his large frame into one of the chairs, his legs spread wide, his hands resting on his powerful thighs. Today he’s wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved top.

‘Holly—’ his lips flicker into a smile, but it’s over in a millisecond ‘—nice to see you again.’

I compress my lips. Normally, patients would express gratitude at the fact I’d squeezed them in under short notice, but not Noah.

&nbs

p; ‘Let’s get started,’ I clip. ‘How are you?’

‘Are you asking out of interest or as a doctor?’

My pulse ratchets up and I have to dig my fingernails into my palms to stop the guilty blush from creeping over my cheeks. ‘As a doctor.’ The words drip with ice.

His smile suggests he doesn’t believe me. Crap.