Page 1 of Doctor’s Orders

chapter

one

Lizzie

“So tell me something,” I say to him, planting my hands on his table and leaning towards him. Those silver eyes of his flicker with amusement. “Are you going to just sit at this table eye-fucking me all night, or are you going to invite me back to your place?”

For a moment, I can’t believe those words just came out of my mouth. Who am I right now? I don’t go home with strangers. I certainly don’t go up to men—regardless of how stupidly hot they are—at bars.

The man in question sits at the small table like he’s never had to make excuses or apologies for taking up space. A man-spreader, but not just because his massive thighs are open. He’s enormous. Huge shoulders and biceps, meaty pecs and a dad-bod belly that makes him look like he’d be perfect to nap on. Strong enough to protect me from anything. Tall and broad, with closely trimmed brown hair and a beard, both silvering in the sexiest of ways.

The stranger’s eyes flash, as he tilts his head back and laughs. Loudly. It’s a full-body laugh that inexplicably makes my eyes sting with tears.

I’m about to tuck tail, turn around and walk away. But then the chair across from him slides out next to my hip. I didn’t see him move the chair, it just slid out. Does he have sentient chair servants like the Beast? Should I expect singing and dancing from the salt and pepper shakers next?

“Sit down, sugar,” he says. His voice is a rich baritone that makes me think of decadent dark chocolate.

Sitting my denim clad butt on the chair, I give him what I hope is a cheeky grin. I say hope, because I’m not used to flirting with strangers. I’m a single mom. My two kiddos are with their paternal grandparents for the week of Thanksgiving.

That’s a holiday dinner I used to be part of, back when my ex and I were still on speaking terms. Back when my not-in-laws were still clinging to the illusion that I’d be able to reform their wayward son and make an honest man out of him. Btw, wayward is their term not mine. I wouldn’t call Billy wayward so much as a womanizing, manwhore.

Nevertheless, Billy and I officially, finally-and-forever broke up when I found that when I was in the hospital giving birth to our son, he hadn’t been in Dallas on a work trip, but rather in Miami with a Russian whore.

Okay, I don’t know for sure that she was Russian or a whore. I’m extrapolating based her name, accent, and attempted blackmail.

My point is, once my not-in-laws realized I couldn’t magically transform their son into the man they wanted, I got cut from the family holidays. So, for the first time since I became a mother, I am on my own for nearly a week.

I didn’t stop at this bar on my way home after dropping off my kids with the goal of picking up a one-night stand. I stopped for a drink because driving straight home to cry all by my lonesome just seemed pathetic. But after one drink, I met this guy and here we are.

“I have been eye-fucking you,” he admits. His large hand holds his glass of amber liquid—Scotch? Whiskey?—casually. Using that hand, he points his glass at me. “Noticed you straight away when you walked in wearing those tight as fuck jeans that mold to every tempting curve.”

I try to come up with a sassy or sexy, flirty thing to say, but all I can think about is crawling into his lap and having those meaty arms wrapped around me.

“What’s your name, sugar?”

“Liz.” I don’t really know what makes me say that. I mean, it’s not NOT my name, but no one calls me Liz. Ever. Elizabeth, sometimes. Lizzie, most of the time. But never Liz.

“Liz,” he says my name as if he’s tasting it. “Graham.” He reaches across the table and I let him take my hand to give it a firm shake.

“Nice to meet you, Graham.”

“Likewise. I’m glad you came over to my table,” he says.

“Were you planning on inviting me to go home with you? Or do you make a game of turning women on and then leaving them to fend for themselves?”

I honestly don’t know where this brazenness is coming from. No one has ever accused me of being a shrinking violet. I can hold my own with most people. But I’m not bold or demanding. There’s something about this man, though, that makes me want to go after what I want. And I want him.

For tonight, at least.

He leans forward, his thick, corded forearms on full display. He’s got what I’m assuming is a tattooed sleeve on his left arm. A surprise in some ways because this man reeks of money. Or maybe I’m assuming that because of where I am. Crescent Bend is one of the most exclusive communities in Texas. It’s nestled up against a gorgeous lake and the ultra-rich from all over Texas own vacation homes here.

In any case, I guess I just didn’t expect a forty-something year old rich guy to have a full sleeve of ink. Maybe I’m just used to the pretentiousness of Houston.

“Do you need me to take care of that ache for you?”

Damn. Those words from that man have me feeling needier than I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe ever. He hasn’t touched me. Has barely spoken and yet I want to take all my clothes off and lay myself out on the table in front of him to feast on. A man his size definitely has a hearty appetite and I’m a hearty girl.

“Need?” I say with a light laugh. “No. I’m quite good at getting myself off.”