Your eyes burn.
They’ve been burning since yesterday morning, ever since your eyes landed on what was inside that damn folder. And they continued to burn through today’s morning practice and all your classes.
And they’re still burning now, probably even more than they were before as you stomp through the main hallway of the surgical center.
“Excuse me, Miss, you can’t go through there,” you hear a female voice call after you, but you don’t stop.
“Miss, office hours are over. You cannot go in there!” she repeats.
Her words still don’t stop you. You can’t stop. Not when you’re cranky and pissed off and the very cause of your crankiness and anger is right here in this building. You hear her shuffle behind you, presumably to chase after you. But you still keep going.
You didn’t sleep last night. You couldn’t. At all. Not even for a little bit. And now your feet won’t stop moving. Your fingers won’t stop twitching. And your fucking eyes won’t stop burning behind your glasses.
You ride up the elevator and bend into a familiar corridor, practically stomping the entire way there, and you push the door open without a second thought. Your eyes immediately land on your target.
Dexter fucking Frost.
He looks up at you from behind his desk as soon as you’re inside. Our eyes lock, and all at once, you feel the strangest mix of feelings you think you ever have at the same time. You’re really not even sure which you feel more of; rage, confusion, frustration, and the most unsettling—immense attraction.
You’re breathing hard, and each exhale leaves your lungs in an audible huff. You angrily throw the folder on his desk right in front of him.
“What the hell is this?” you demand.
You know damn well what it is. You read each and every single word in it at least five times—mainly to make sure you weren’t going crazy or suddenly dyslexic. But more than anything, you think you’re having quite a bit of trouble wrapping your mind around the simple fact that the fucking folder even exists to begin with.
You’re also having quite a bit of trouble understanding why he’d send it to you through his “buddy” Minderah, of all people, so he’d better have a damn good explanation for this.
A moment later, you hear the same nurse’s voice behind you again, only this time, she sounds extra pissed.
“Hey! You cannot go in there! If you don’t get the hell out right now I’m going to call security—”
“It’s alright, Brenda,” he interjects, rising from his chair and gesturing for her to calm down.
You want so badly to turn around and tell the bitch that she’s the one who needs to get the hell out right now, but you don’t. As tempting as it is, she’s not the one you’re mad at. All the fault lies with the blue-eyed douchebag standing opposite you who she also obviously answers to. He’s the reason you’re here at all.
You hear her mumble something under her breath and make an annoyed sound right before you hear the sound of the door close behind you. A short silence ensues, punctuated only by your harsh breathing and frantic heartbeat.
The full extent of the current situation quickly dawns on me; once again, you find yourself in a closed room with this man, only this time, it’s for a different reason. A very different reason.
“Sit,” he finally says, calmly taking his own seat once more.
“I’ll stand,” you say defiantly.
You watch his large frame easily fill his leather chair, and his body language is so relaxed and uncaring. You, on the other hand, are one hell of a jittery, fidgety mess.
Why the hell is he so calm? Does he not know what’s in that folder?
He shoots you a hard look, and it has so much power that you actually take an involuntary step back. The intensity in his eyes is just too much. You don’t know if you’re more turned on by them or afraid of them right now.
He speaks again, and his voice is deeper this time, if that’s even possible.
“Sit,” he repeats. His tone is hard and incredibly commanding, completely opposite from the way he’s spoken to you during your previous encounters.
The firmness in his voice really catches you off guard and takes you aback, and combined with the blatant stare down he’s giving you, you know without a doubt that he’s not fucking around.
He’s got this dangerous look in his eyes, and suddenly you feel like you just made a big mistake barging in here. But you absolutely refuse to be intimidated by him—or at least, let him see that you’re intimidated by him.
As you approach his desk, you feel your heart picking up its pace and racing even faster now, and it’s not just because you’re pissed anymore. Now you’re pissed, a little scared, hella confused, and undeniably turned on—and you absolutely hate that you are.
You take a seat opposite him reluctantly, still maintaining what you’re positive is the angriest frown that has ever found its way on to your face, and there’s absolutely nothing fake about it.
He simply continues to look at you, calm as ever.
You feel like you’re in the fucking twilight zone. This seriously can’t even be happening right now.
Once you’re seated, he goes back to doing whatever he was doing before you came in. You wait for him to say something; to fucking explain himself and the unbelievable, mind-blowing contents of the folder, but he ignores you for several moments, simply going on about his business as if you’re not even there.
You let out a frustrated sigh.
You’ve just about had it with people treating you as if you’re some invisible nobody. First Vito, then Mindy, and now this asshat of a doctor. Mondays have definitely gotten to a whole new level of shitty for you.
He finally looks at you again, giving you his undivided attention. His stare is so cold and penetrating that you almost wish he would go back to doing his work if it’ll take the intense focus off you.
He doesn’t touch the folder. He doesn’t even look at it. His unwavering eyes simply remain on you. You’d feel totally creeped out by them if they weren’t making your panties go damp.
He finally speaks, his voice deep and calm as ever.
“You’ve obviously read the contract in the folder,” he begins. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. So you know exactly what the hell this is,” he says, repeating your words from your initial outburst.
“Ask me another question,” he says without breaking his stare.
You avert your own eyes from his, because if you don’t you’re going to end up drenching this chair you’re sitting on.
You shake your head. “I don’t understand,” you say.
“That’s not a question,” he counters.
Your eyes shoot back up to his again, and you can’t help but glare at him. He really has some nerve trying to be smart with you after sending you something like that. But you decide to go along, because the faster you can get the answers you need from him, the sooner you’ll be out of here.
“Alright,” you say sternly, crossing your arms over your chest defiantly. “Why?”
He frowns. “Why, what? You’ll need to be a little bit more precise when asking me a question.”
You can’t stop yourself from yelling. “Why the fuck did your buddy, Mindy, come to my apartment yesterday to give me a folder from you? A folder that contains a contract that’s blatantly soliciting me for sex?”
His tone is firm and unapologetic when he answers. “Because I asked her to.”