Stolen Summer, page 3
Janice’s eyes are round as saucers. “Nooo.” She wriggles, getting comfy in her black and white striped swimsuit. “No, I bet he didn’t.”
She waits for an explanation. I don’t offer one.
As an awkward silence stretches between us, I scan the courtyard. Better that than inviting any more questions. The pool is lined with deep blue mosaic tiles and filled with sun-dappled water; a stray leaf floats in one corner, spinning around the filter. It looks blissfully cool. Like sliding into that water would be a path straight to heaven—especially after the way my temperature climbed near Dr Whitaker.
I’m still flushed. Stupid hormones.
All around the pool, loungers are scattered beneath large umbrellas, half of them filled with dozing sunbathers. Down one of the garden paths, there’s a yoga group in session on a patch of grass.
Okay, I’ll admit it. It’s pretty nice here. So nice that if I were on vacation, I’d think I’d won the jackpot.
But this is no trip. The overlords have spoken, and Poppy Lennox can’t control her own life.
“So what are you in for?” I wince at my awkward question, but Janice hoots with laughter.
“This ain’t prison. You make it sound so bad. No, I’m here because…” She trails off, her smile fading. When she speaks again, her voice is so quiet, I nearly miss it. “I’m here for my husband. He passed last year.”
Janice sighs and peers out at the pool. I wait for her to keep talking, heartsick. I’ve never had someone close to me like that, never had my own special person, but if I did and then I lost them…
“I’m gonna swim,” she says suddenly, slapping her bare thighs. “It’s too hot to natter.”
“Sure.” I figure she’s had enough, but when Janice weaves past my lounger a minute later, a pink towel gripped in one hand, she grins down at me. “You coming in? Happy topics only, mind.”
…Alright. There’s a bikini back in my villa, and I’ve got nothing better to do until the doctor’s back and ready to admit that I’m right. Maybe I can float around and plan my revenge, picturing the look on my father’s face when it leaks to the public that he locked up his own daughter. Freaking maniac.
Those are happy thoughts, right?
“I’ll just be a minute.”
“No rush,” Janice calls as I leap to my feet, my flip flops slapping across the paving stones. There’s no straight path away from the pool: it’s a warren of sun loungers, and I feel like a lab rat bumping around a maze. “Take your time, hon. Not like I’m going anywhere.”
* * *
A shadow falls across my bare stomach a few hours later, and that’s how I know he’s here: the shivers. Sure enough, when I crack one eye open, Dr Whitaker stares down at me from the poolside, his expression unreadable. I shield my face as I squint up at him.
“I borrowed this float from Janice,” I say. “Borrowed. Not stole.”
I know what those notes say about me, but none of it is true. I’m not a thief, or a liar, or any of those other things. I’m just a girl with a secret passport and a desperate need to control her own life.
Dr Whitaker’s frown deepens. A breeze whispers through the courtyard as he squats at the poolside, his elbows resting on his knees. He’s so graceful, so lithe with every movement, his white coat pooling around his bent legs. Like a bronze-haired lion who went to medical school.
“I called your previous doctor.” I tear my gaze away from his thighs. “His receptionist told me he’s out of office. He won’t be available for comment for several months.”
My smile tastes bitter. “Weird, right?”
“Yes, it’s highly unusual. I could call your father—”
“No!” I wince and lower my voice. Janice is swimming laps, her blonde curls piled on her head like a poodle, but I know she’s eavesdropping. If she doesn’t concentrate, she’ll swim right into the side of the pool. “Don’t call him. He’s the one who sent me here.”
It’s crazy, I know, and I’m sure it sounds exactly like all the other paranoid delusions the doctor must hear every day. But those chocolate brown eyes are steady on me. He hasn’t shut me down yet, and as this man waits for me to speak, a seed of hope takes root in my chest.
“Did you take away my phone?”
He shakes his head slowly.
“My purse?”
Dr Whitaker rubs his jaw. “So let me get this straight. Your father took your phone and purse away, and sent you here with false records and strict instructions to medicate. Your father, Peter Lennox. The governor.”
I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood.
Because I know how it sounds, and I was such an idiot yesterday, stomping around and sniping at this man. I have given him zero reason to trust me. No reason at all.
But I nod anyway. Nearby, Janice bounces off the pool wall and says, “Oof.”
“Why would he do that?”
Because I made a tiny break for freedom. Showed the slightest interest in having my own life.
“Does it matter?” I rasp. When I suck in a deep breath, it smells of chlorine and citrus. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I don’t need to be here, Dr Whitaker, I swear.”
And maybe I’m long overdue for a break; maybe I’ve been unlucky for too long, and the universe owes me something good. Because the handsome doctor sighs and nods, and the seed of hope inside me sprouts a tiny green shoot.
“Yes.” His scowl makes my skin prickle. “I’m starting to believe that, Miss Lennox.”
Six
Whit
Two weeks later
“You’re such a good boy. Oh, you’re such a good boy. Look how handsome you are! Look at you!”
Yes, look at him. Hudson, the Honey Cove cat, is the most shameless creature in existence. His rattling purr is louder than a pneumatic drill, and his amber eyes have narrowed to blissed-out slits.
Then again, I’d be smug as hell too if Poppy Lennox squished my face into her tits like that.
“You’ll suffocate him,” I say. She ignores me completely, lifting the bundle of silver fur overhead, and a shower of cat hairs drift down to my office rug. “He’s not even supposed to be in here.”
Poppy shrugs. “Neither am I.”
That’s not strictly true. The working day is over, and as of eight days ago, this young woman is no longer my patient. She’s simply staying in a villa as a Honey Cove guest.
A very distracting guest.
And because Poppy isn’t my patient, since she passed all her assessments with flying colors, she’s not subject to the same rules. She can spend time with me. Can torment me, and I’m not crossing a line by allowing it. I’m not.
“Your father called today.” I watch as Poppy goes still, her back to me. Hudson mewls, pedaling her shoulder, his claws snagging in the blue cotton of her shirt. “He asked me whether you’re medicated yet.”
“Uh-huh.” She sounds strangled. “And?”
“And I told him I couldn’t give out confidential information.”
Should I be offended when Poppy slumps in relief? Haven’t I already proven that she can trust me?
As if I’d medicate a perfectly healthy young woman on command, all to make her more biddable. It’s super villain nonsense.
Hudson purrs frantically as Poppy rains kisses over his head, rocking him back and forth like a baby in the pink light of sunset. I want those kisses, damn it.
“We could go to the police. Could tell them what your father did, and show them the fraudulent medical notes.”
Poppy hums, noncommittal, and strolls around the side of my desk. A silvery cat tail lashes back and forth by her hip, and the floorboards sigh under her weight.
I straighten up in my chair, heart thumping.
It’s been like this for the last two weeks. Every time this girl is close, my body goes haywire, the lights flashing and sirens wailing deep inside my internal control room. My common sense needs to pull the fire alarm, stat.
Because I crave Poppy Lennox—her wry smiles, her brash laugh. The warmth of her body near mine is the sweetest torture.
“Such a handsome boy,” she croons into Hudson’s fur, and I force myself not to scowl at the cat. I will not be jealous of a feline.
My desk skids an inch across the floor as Poppy leans against the edge. She’s in her frayed denim shorts again: the ones that hug her ass and make my throat go dry. On top, she’s knotted a baggy blue t-shirt so that it shows a flash of tanned stomach.
There are silver hairs all over her—the mark of another male, I think, and then want to bash my head against the wall. Clearly I am unhinged and should check into my own institute.
Her bare legs cross at the ankle, those limbs stretching on forever, like a scenic highway I’ll never get to drive.
“Dr Whitaker has his grumpy face on,” Poppy whispers to the cat. Her gray eyes twinkle when they meet mine, and a fresh bolt of heat spears through my gut. “That means he wants us to go away and let him finish his work.”
That is never what any of my faces mean. And I don’t want her to go, so I offer up a small truth.
“Actually, I had a rough session today.”
Poppy knows I can’t give details, so she doesn’t ask. Still, I jolt when she plops Hudson down onto the rug, the cat scampering to the open window with a scandalized yowl.
She brushes off her hands. More hairs flutter to the floor. “Your job seems super stressful, Doc.”
Her life seems super stressful, but I don’t point that out. No, I’ve turned to stone, sitting rigid in my desk chair as Poppy slides closer along the desk. She hops up to sit right beside my elbow, the wood creaking beneath her weight.
When she kicks her feet, her flip flops catch on my chair. The dark mane of her hair tumbles forward, wafting me the floral scent of her shampoo.
Jesus.
“So tell me: what do you do to relax, Dr Whitaker?”
Fucking hell. That husky voice. I glare at the plastic model of a brain sitting on my in-tray and will my body not to respond to her words. “I go running.”
“In this heat?”
Does Poppy know what she’s doing to me by sitting this close? By asking me these things? Is she torturing me on purpose? She doesn’t strike me as a sadist.
“I run at night, usually.”
That was true before I met Poppy, anyway. These days, I drag myself out of bed and hit the trails before dawn too, already climbing out of my skin with restlessness after a full night of sweat-soaked dreams. My cottage is half a mile along the coast from Honey Cove, and it still feels too close. Like I might wake up and find myself thumping on her villa door after sleepwalking all the way along the cliff side.
Poppy sucks her teeth. “I don’t know. That sounds more like punishment than relaxation. You should try—”
“Vengeance?”
I’m being an ass but she brightens. Tosses her head back and gives a throaty laugh. “Yeah! Why not? It makes me feel better.”
Does it? Because over the last week, Poppy has come to my office every night to reach out to reporters, trying to set up a meeting to expose her father. It should be irresistible: a governor’s daughter, locked away for ‘willful behavior’ like it’s the fifties. All Poppy did was book a trip.
But it’s proving a challenge. Most think she’s pranking them; others are too afraid of Governor Lennox to pursue the lead. Is that really relaxing for her?
She reads this all in my face and shrugs. “Well, my father paid for me to stay here for months, right? So I’ve got time to figure this out. I’ve got time.”
The last few words she says to herself, turning to frown at the wall. And I hate the way her shoulders are caving in, hate the doubt settling over her like a fine mist, so I override my better judgment and place a hand on her knee.
God, Poppy’s skin is so warm. So silky. I trace my thumb along the edge of her kneecap, and she inhales sharply and smirks down at me. “Oh, doctor.”
…Shit.
I snatch my hand back, cheeks on fire.
What the hell am I doing? This is my office. I’m at work. And Poppy may not be my patient anymore, but she was. I have privileged information about her—a duty of care—
“Forgive me.” Pens clatter over my desk as I shove to my feet, rocking the table. My chair rolls away behind me and bounces off the wall. “I shouldn’t have done that. I need to leave—right now. We both do.”
Poppy stares at me, her mouth curving down with dismay. As I stride toward the door, her hand settles over her bare knee, mimicking the touch I shouldn’t have offered.
Soft skin. The faint thrum of life beneath.
Poppy is always so alive.
My grip on the door handle is harsh, and my knuckles ache. I hold the door open wide, hating every second of this. Fuck, why did I touch her? I’ve ruined everything. “You need to leave too, Poppy. You can’t stay in my office alone. There are patient records in here.”
My words finally sink in and she slips down off the desk, her movements clumsy. When she ducks past me through the doorway, she doesn’t say a word, and not a single dark hair brushes against me. We haven’t kept that kind of distance for days.
“I’m sorry,” I call as Poppy Lennox hurries away down the darkened corridor, her wild hair dancing against her shoulders.
She doesn’t look back. I don’t blame her.
Seven
Poppy
“It’s not that I don’t like Dr Harrison. Or Dr Chang.” Janice sniffs, wiggling her toes where they’re propped on the edge of her sun lounger. The nail polish brush in her hand glistens sunset orange. “But all my big breakthroughs come with Dr Whitaker, you know?”
I do know. I slurp on my straw, gulping down cool mouthfuls of cucumber water, and push a stray lock of hair from my eyes.
Another day by the pool. Another day of drafting emails in my head, ready to send to reporters from the doctor’s office this evening, the two of us wincing in the awkward silence.
“He’s very perceptive,” I say when it becomes clear that Janice won’t keep going without input. The pool area is quiet, our hushed voices drifting on the breeze. It’s mid-morning, and all around us, patients nap on sun loungers. They’re like zonked-out extras on a movie battlefield.
I don’t want to think about Dr Whitaker. But I also don’t want to think about anything else, so.
“My Arthur was like that.” Janice looks dreamy, her voice sad. The brush is steady in her hand, painting glossy stripes of color on her toenails. “That man could read your mind at twenty paces.”
Gah. My heart. It’s a bloody lump in my chest.
“You must miss him.”
She waves a hand, a drop of orange nail polish splatting onto her shin. “Back to Dr Whitaker.” Damn. “He wants me to do group sessions, and to keep a journal.”
“That sounds… fine?”
“Yes,” Janice says, exasperation thick in her voice, “but I can do those things at home. At Honey Cove, I want him. I want him listening to me.”
I can confirm: it is very intoxicating when he does that. Nowhere near as world-ending as when he puts his hand on your bare knee, but still. Janice doesn’t know that.
“You could ask for more one-on-one sessions?”
She snorts, those poodle curls bouncing. “On and on until there are no more hours in the day? Oh, listen to me. That man could listen to my nonsense twenty-four seven, and it still wouldn’t be enough.”
Same.
“He won’t do it, though,” she continues. “He won’t give me extra sessions. Dr Whitaker never plays favorites like that.”
No? I slurp hard on my straw, staring at the pool. There’s a hard knot in my stomach. Is that true?
Well, I guess I’m not his patient anymore, so our evenings in his office don’t count. But would I even feel guilty if they did—if I was still his patient? A snide voice in the back of my head whispers that no, I would not care an ounce about that. Sick little pervert that I am, I’d probably be into it.
Because I want to get my hands on his white coat. I want to sling a stethoscope around his neck and tug him down to kiss me. I want that deep voice asking me where it hurts.
I’m just as bad as Janice, panting after an extra ten minutes with Dr Whitaker. The look on his face when he touched my knee all those days ago…
I hope I committed every detail of that split second to memory, because it’s never gonna happen again.
“Of course, he likes you well enough—oh. Hi, Doc.” Janice grins over my shoulder, not guilty at all that we’ve been caught gossiping, and I know before I turn around that it’s him.
It’s the way shivers race over my skin. The way my belly tightens and my chest swoops. Even in the cool shadows by the pool, my blood rushes extra warm through my veins.
“A word, please, Poppy.”
It doesn’t matter how long I stay here. I’m never prepared.
* * *
This isn’t about The Knee Incident. That was four days ago, and Dr Whitaker has clearly opted for silence and denial about that. My sun lounger squeaks as I swing my legs around, the backs of my thighs sticking to the warm canvas, and ice rattles in my cup as I place it on the ground.
Two long legs encased in smart gray pants wait beside my lounger. His white coat is bright in the sunshine. Dr Whitaker is looming, and that means I don’t need to make eye contact yet.
Does he regret it? Touching me like that?
He must do, to be this weird about it.
“We got a reply,” the doctor says a minute later as he leads me across the courtyard. I hurry to keep up with his long strides, my damp hair dripping on the paving stones. “A journalist from the city paper wants to meet. Specifically, she wants to come here.”
And talk to us both.
I swallow, mouth dry, and wring out my hair while Dr Whitaker keys in the code to his office building. For the first time, it hits me that he’s risking a lot by doing this for me—putting his whole career on the line to expose my father. He’ll be in the governor’s cross hairs after this, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that my spite is hereditary.
