One Moment Please Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Amy Daws

  All rights reserved.

  Published by: Amy Daws, LLC

  ISBN 13-Ebook: 978-1-944565-30-5

  Editing: Kelley Harvey and Jenny Sims with Editing4Indies

  Proofing: Lydia Rella

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design: Amy Daws

  Cover Photography: Wander

  This book is licensed for personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. The only exception is by quoting short excerpts in a review. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please go to www.amydawsauthor.com to find where you can purchase a copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to all those who need an escape.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  More Books by Amy Daws

  Acknowledgements

  More About the Author

  “Holy dip on a carrot, I did it!” I squeal softly to myself as I finish the edits on the last line of my thesis and click save nineteen times. After nearly three months of killing myself and creeping into this hospital cafeteria to work because I couldn’t seem to write this godforsaken paper anywhere else, I have finally completed my master’s thesis.

  Dip on allll the carrots!

  Intense, sweet relief shoots through my veins. I could stand on my chair and blast light from my fingertips. Instead, like the mature graduate I’m on my way to becoming, I sit back and bask in my achievement while observing my fellow cafeteria diners. These people have unknowingly kept me company as I’ve suffered through this paper. And I never would have had the guts to come here to work if it weren’t for Kate.

  With a grin, I pull my phone out of my laptop bag and type out a quick text.

  Me: I did it. I finished.

  Kate: Aww, see? I told you if you used the bigger attachment on your vibrator, you’d climax quicker.

  Me: I’m not talking about masturbation, you perv.

  Kate: Perv? You say that like it’s a bad thing! Don’t you realize that being called a perv is basically a compliment to an erotic romance novelist? Actually, you’ve just inspired me to get it embossed on my business cards.

  Me: I’m talking about my thesis. I finally finished!

  Kate: Holy shitballs…congratulations! That’s better than an orgasm!

  Me: I know, right?

  Kate: And let me guess, you’re at the hospital cafeteria again?

  Me: I’m embarrassed to admit it, but yes.

  Kate: I told you not to feel bad about writing where the words flow. My smutty words flow at a tire shop waiting room, and yours flow at a hospital cafeteria. We’re productive millennials, Lyns! Which is more than I can say for the rest of our generation. You totally owe me a fruity beverage, by the way.

  Me: That’s exactly what I was thinking! Hang at my tiki bar tonight?

  Kate: Can’t tonight. Miles put a roast in the crockpot, and he’s embarrassingly proud of himself about it.

  Me: That sounds so domestic and boring. How is cohabitating with your lover going, by the way? It’s only been a week since you moved out & I already miss my best friend. My tiki bar is sad too!

  Kate: I miss you too! But I’m getting sex on the reg now, so I have to admit, I don’t miss you that much.

  Me: You’re disgusting. I hate your happiness.

  Kate: That’s because you need sex! Call Dean and make him be your wingman tonight. Get out of your house and away from the tiki bar to celebrate this achievement. It’s about time you were wooed by something other than a fruity beverage and the Womanizer Pro40.

  Me: You’re the worst.

  Kate: Later, whore

  Me: Later, perv

  I can’t help but laugh as I shut off my phone screen. Kate always brings a smile to my face. She is so unapologetically herself twenty-four seven. It’s incredible, really. She’s basically loaded from writing erotic romance novels but still loves going to a Tire Depot Customer Comfort Center to write because the coffee is complimentary, and she hates paying for Starbucks. But that’s Kate, through and through.

  We met almost ten years ago as freshmen in the undergrad dorms at the University of Colorado Boulder. She was this bold, outgoing redheaded cartoon character who was gorgeous and fearless with everything. I was the awkward, soft-spoken kid with mousy brown hair and a penchant for slouchy shoulders.

  Kate and I were total opposites who somehow connected instantly and balanced each other out. She would tell me when I was being too timid, and I would tell her when she was being too crazy. That’s why I wasn’t even surprised when she started sneaking into Tire Depot a few months ago because she claimed the waiting area cured her writer’s block.

  Honestly, it’s not the craziest thing I’ve seen her do. And it paid off because, in the end, she did more than just finish her novel. She fell in love with a hot mechanic named Miles. And now those two lovebirds are living together in his house outside of Boulder in some sexy, tire-lovin’, burnt rubber-scented candle sin.

  Life can be seriously unfair sometimes.

  The closest I’ve come to sparks flying at my writing hangout was when an elderly man’s portable oxygen tubes fell off his face while he was reaching for a piece of pie. I bent over to pick them up for him, and when I attempted to hand them over, our fingers brushed, and I felt a gust of air blow right between my legs. The moment was ruined when I looked down to see that I had yanked the tubes out of the tank, and it was blowing fresh O2 right in my special place. Not quite the same as fainting in the arms of a hot and sweaty mechanic, which is literally what happened to Kate.

  Regardless, I deserve a reward for my accomplishment today. I push my computer and textbooks to the side and reach for the beautiful slice of French silk pie that I saved for this exact moment. I’ve come to cherish this delicious treat at the Boulder Medical Center cafeteria. They usually sell out before I get here, but somehow, I managed to nab the last slice today.

  I rarely let myself indulge in sugar like this. My mom was a total health nut and wouldn’t let my sister or me eat anything that didn’t come from our garden. Apparently, supermarkets are crawling with pesticides and germs, and we were busy following the biblical diet of Christ.

  It took rooming with Kate in college to indulge in my first Oreo cookie, and I’ve cursed her ever since. I gained twenty pounds my freshman year, and for someone who’s only five feet four, that was not a good look for me.

  After graduation, I found a balance with sugar and lost the extra pounds. Well…fifteen of them, at least. When I decided to quit my job in social work and go back to school for my master’s in psychology, French silk pie became my new bestie. Pie is much more mature than Oreos. Pie and beautifully constructed charcuterie boards. Those two items are my weakness now, and the direct reason my ass does that jiggling thing whenever I jog.

  My fork pierces the graham cracker crust just as a lunch tray crashes onto my table. My eyes go wide. The owner of the obnoxious tray is the perpetually angry doctor who’s been ruining the mood in the cafeteria for months now. I mean…I’m pretty sure he’s a doctor. He always has a stethoscope around his neck and wears blue scrubs with a white lab coat. That’s very doctory, right? People jump when he barks, and that seems doctory too.

  Regardless, this is the hot, seemingly always grumpy doctor who glares at me from across the cafeteria. I noticed him right away when I found my little writing haven because there’s no way not to notice a gorgeous asshole like him. A cross between Chris Hemsworth and Gerard Butler—and I’m pretty sure he has the body to back up that comparison. He really should have his own Instagram page, if he doesn’t already, because I’d follow the shit out of that!

  He’s the type of guy who rarely ever smiles. At first, I figured that might be judgy of me because he probably just has a lot on his mind. Hell, for all I know, he could have a terminally ill patient or be in search of the cure for a flesh-eating virus that the rest of the world doesn’t even know about. I wanted to cut the guy some slack for his decidedly surly attitude toward the world because well…he’s hot! Hot guys get hall passes—they don’t teach that in grad school, but they should.

  But then, his anger seemed directed toward me. I swore he’d scan the entire c
afeteria, and when our eyes would connect, his resting dick face would morph into a murderous glower. It’s freaky! I kept waiting for him to approach, thinking maybe this is some kind of kinky foreplay, but he always just watched me from a distance like a tiger stalking his prey. It’s unnerving.

  And hell, I have to admit…kinda hot! My Womanizer Pro40 got some good use out of those eye-fucking sessions.

  Angry hot-scrubs lowers his giant frame onto the seat across from me, all the while scowling at the food on his tray. A sad sub sandwich wrapped tightly in plastic props up a bruised apple. Even his water bottle lacks condensation…must be warm.

  Poor dickish yet delicious doctor with sad food.

  With a huff, he tears off the wrapping and rips open a packet of Miracle Whip.

  My nose wrinkles.

  What kind of animal prefers Miracle Whip over mayonnaise?

  I hesitantly let go of where my fork sticks erect from my pie and rub my sweaty palms over my denim-clad thighs as he artfully spreads Miracle Whip over his sub and then slathers on mustard. I can’t pull my gaze from the spectacle because first of all, he’s two feet from me, and secondly, this is the first time I’ve been this close to him, and I need to take in the view.

  His demeanor is more intimidating at this proximity for sure. He almost vibrates agitation. I wonder if the faint lines around his eyes mean he’s older than me? Makes sense, if he’s a doctor. I’m twenty-seven, so he’s maybe pushing thirty-five, which makes him all the hotter because I’ve always had a thing for older men.

  However, based on his body language, I probably shouldn’t get my hopes up that this is some sort of adorable hospital cafeteria meet cute. He wears the expression of a shark who smells blood.

  I swallow around the lump in my throat. What would Kate do in this situation? Maybe bait the shark?

  “Hello there.” My stupid voice cracks like a thirteen-year-old boy. I clear my throat and try again. “I mean, hi.”

  A grunt vibrates from the doc’s chest as he brings his sandwich to his mouth and takes an aggressive bite before finally lifting his attention to me.

  His gaze connects with mine, and his smoldering deep greenish-brown eyes overwhelm me. Framed by long, dark lashes, they seem at odds with his creamy skin and sandy brown hair. His square jawline is peppered with light brown whiskers, and his lips are full but not big. Just…perfect—even if they’re stuck in a surly scowl.

  Breathe normally. Just take in a slow breath and let it out at half speed.

  Frankly, his whole presence overpowers me. It’s like sitting front row at an action movie and not being able to take in the entire cinematic glory because it all hits you too fast.

  The hot doctor stares at me as he chews his food, and it’s…really weird. I avert my gaze to my pie and yank up the fork only to drag the prongs through the whipped topping. I need something to focus on besides watching him chew.

  “How’s your day going?” I try again, my nerves skittering sideways.

  His eyes have moved from me to my pie.

  He takes another bite and grunts again.

  Is he mute? Or is he just so polite that he refuses to talk with food in his mouth?

  I lick the whipped cream off my fork and prop my elbows on the table with a bit more determination this time. “My name is Lynsey…what’s yours?”

  I plaster on a super-fake smile as he tilts his head and takes another bite, eyeing me as though I’ve just murdered his entire village. My gaze casually drops to his hands.

  No ring.

  What the hell is going on with this guy? He’s single. He’s a doctor. He’s hot. What’s he got to be so sour about?

  “You’re a doctor here, right?” I try to fill the silence. My eyes flick to the name badge hanging on a clip from the breast pocket of his scrub top. It reads “Dr. Richardson” with a whole battery of letters after his name. I don’t have a clue what any of them mean, but they’re probably important.

  He continues to stare at me the same as always, though it’s more uncomfortable now because he’s so damn close.

  Definitely not foreplay.

  I shift in my seat. After months of sitting on these chairs, the plastic has become uncomfortably hard only this very second. I may be chafing.

  Can a hard glare from a hot guy cause chafing?

  What is this guy’s deal? I’m a nice person, not that he’d know. He’s never even given me a chance to show it. The way he’s looking at me reminds me of all the boyfriends my sister would sneak into our house when she was supposed to be babysitting me. They looked at my presence as though I was ruining their whole damn day.

  A wave of warmth floods my body. It’s as though I’m in an interrogation room being questioned with a hot light above me that’s making me sweat. Except no one’s asking me questions.

  Why is he still not talking? This is weird! And rude. Yes. Very, very rude. And hell, I was sitting here first. If a person decides to invade another person’s space, the least said person can do is speak.

  My patience snaps, and my tone is a lot less friendly. “I just thought since you decided to sit at my table without asking, you’d be polite enough to introduce yourself.”

  “Your table?” he grunts. His baritone voice sends a shiver through my body as he finally breaks his silence.

  He drops his sandwich and reaches for his water bottle. I can’t help but stare at his Adam’s apple as the water slides down his thick neck with each long drink. He catches me gawking, so I quickly fork a bite of pie into my mouth.

  “I was here first,” I mumble around the silky pie and gesture with my fork to my schoolwork strewn all over the table as proof.

  “You’re always here from what I can tell,” he huffs, setting his water bottle down and grabbing his apple. He sits back in his chair and rubs it on his chest before taking a bite. “Always here and always eating pie.”

  “I am not always eating pie!” I exclaim defensively around another forkful of pie. Jesus…when did that get in my mouth?

  The doctor laughs, but it doesn’t reach his granite facial features. His mouth doesn’t even curve up around the edges…As a matter of fact, it wasn’t even really a laugh. It was another grunt.

  “Umm, okay,” I reply dumbly, wiping the crumbs from my lips. What else can I do at this point? “I’m sorry, but did I do something to offend you?”

  His eyes cut to my slice of pie. “You could say that.”

  I look at my half-eaten dessert. What about it could have this guy so riled up that he’s confronting me in the middle of a hospital cafeteria? Glancing around the room conspiratorially, I lean across the table and lower my voice to ask, “Do you want my pie or something?”

  Throwing his head back, he releases a genuine laugh—a deep, full-bodied sound that vibrates the area between my legs at a really inopportune time. Then he stops abruptly and pins me with a serious look. “No, I do not want your pie, Lynsey.”

  I sit back and roll my eyes. “Okay, I get it…that was a dumb response. My mind is a bit absorbed with what I was working on, so maybe you could cut me some slack and save your riotous laughter for another table companion.”

  It’s impossible to hide my agitated tone. This guy is unapologetically harshing my happy, thesis-completed vibe and taking me to a place I don’t appreciate.

  Why is he so grumpy anyway? We live in Boulder! People here are always happy. Legalized marijuana has basically guaranteed that.

  All humor drains from his face as he narrows his stormy eyes. “What were you working on exactly?”

  My face heats under his stare because—dammit, he’s sexy. But I straighten my spine, pretending he hasn’t affected me by jutting my chin. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve just finished my thesis.”

  “Thesis?” he barks with a disbelieving tone. “Thesis on what exactly? Munchausen syndrome?”

  My brows furrow. “Munchausen syndrome? No…why would you—”

  “What’s your deal really?” he interrupts, his upper lip curling with disgust. “You have some kind of Grey’s Anatomy fetish?”

  “What are you talking about?” My confusion transitions into frustration.

  He shrugs and audits my body in a way that exposes me as if he sees those five extra pie and cheese board pounds. His voice is crisp when he replies, “Munchausen syndrome is when you fake an illness so you have an excuse to come to the hospital.”