“I don’t know. As soon as I saw you walk through the door, my heart started fluttering. Is that a medical problem? Or maybe something you can fix by going out to dinner with me?”

Oh, my God, are you kidding me?

I force myself not to roll my eyes as he inches his way into my personal space, resting his elbow on the counter right next to me. I take a step back and look for the young kid who took my order, hoping he’ll hurry his ass up so I can get out of here.

“So, what do you say? Dinner and drinks tonight? You can bring your stethoscope and check out my heart,” the guy says with a chuckle, completely unaware that I’ve moved further away from him and I’m trying to figure out a way to escape before I vomit on his shiny black loafers.

Seriously, what is it with guys and nurse fetishes? Do they have any idea how unsexy it is to put in catheters and take a rectal temperature?

“Sorry, I’m busy tonight,” I mutter, not bothering to look at him when I speak.

“Tomorrow night, then. How about eight o’clock?”

I should probably be flattered that a relatively attractive man is hitting on me the first time I’m out in public alone without looking like death warmed over, but I’m not. I know eventually I need to get back on the dating horse, so to speak, but it’s not going to be any time soon, and it’s definitely not going to be with this guy. When I decide I’m ready to date again, it will be someone whose voice alone makes me weak in the knees and whose touch my body recognizes, craving the pleasure he can bring me with a single brush of his fingertips.

You had that once and look how wonderful THAT turned out.

An image of Cole and his dimples pops into my head and my skin starts to warm, remembering the feel of his hands on my body so long ago. The memory pisses me off enough that I lose whatever patience I have left.

“Look, I’m just hear for the fresh donuts. How about you take your creepy pick-up lines somewhere else?”

My words hit home and he quickly pulls back from me with a scowl. Before he can fire off the insult that I’m sure is on the tip of his tongue, the Krispy Kreme employee saves me.

“Ma’am, your order’s ready.”

With a quick thank you, I grab the green and white box from his hands and high tail it out of the building without a second glance at Mr. Charming.

Fifteen minutes later, I pull my car up to the huge, black iron gate at the address I programmed into my GPS and roll my window down, smiling at the guard in his little building right beside it.

“Good morning, I’m Olivia Lafierre, the temp nurse.”

The older gentleman leans through the open window of his building, flipping a page on his clipboard.

“Yep, got your name right here. You’ll be going to the guesthouse, not the main house. When I open the gate, just follow the driveway about a half-mile until you come to a fork in the road. Take a left, drive for another half-mile and you’ll see the house right in front of you. You can park in the turn-around in front of the porch.”

I thank him as he disappears inside the building and, a few seconds later, a buzzing sound fills the air and the iron gates slowly part until I can pull through.

“Jesus, welcome to Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous,” I mutter to myself as I inch my car down the blacktop driveway and stare at the professionally landscaped hedges and flower gardens along the way.

When I pull up to the front of the “guesthouse” a few minutes later, my jaw drops open. If this is what they use for the guests, I can only imagine what the main house looks like. This thing is easily ten times the size of my home. As I open my car door and step out onto the pavement, I stare at the white, Spanish Mediterranean-style house in front of me.

Reaching back into my car, I grab my medical bag and the box of donuts, bumping the door shut with my hip before making my way up the front stairs and under the huge stone archway that leads to the door. With a deep breath, I ring the doorbell and wait.

Something crashes on the other side of the door and I hear a few low, muffled curses followed by a loud thump. According to the information I received from the temp agency, the man isn’t able to get around very well and is need of physical therapy, so I wonder if I should just walk in.

Transferring the box of donuts to my other hand, I juggle it and my medical bag and reach up to knock on the door, speaking through the wood. “Hello? Is everything okay in there?”

When I hear another crash, this one louder than the last, my concern for the well-being of this man outweighs the inappropriateness of waltzing through a stranger’s door uninvited.

I quickly turn the handle and push open the door, sticking my head inside. When I don’t see anyone in the foyer or its immediate vicinity, I move the rest of the way inside, closing the door behind me.

“Hello?” I shout again, my voice echoing around the vaulted ceiling in the entryway.

“…fucking BULLSHIT!”

I hear the stifled tail end of another curse coming from a room down the hall in front of me. This guy could be in serious pain. What if he fell out of bed? I can’t just stand here, waiting for him to come to me. The last thing I need is for him to complain to the agency that his nurse didn’t come to his aid.

My decision made, I head down the hall in the direction of the noise. The first door I come to is cracked open, so I push against it with the palm of my free hand. The door gets stuck against something on the floor and, looking down, I see a pair of crutches blocking it from opening fully. I use the toe of my Nikes to move them out of the way, the door opening wide once the obstructions are gone.