Dr. Good by Flora Ferrari

Chapter One

Macie

I sit in the waiting room of the fertility clinic with my hands in my lap, wringing them together as anxiety surges through me and threatens to make me leap to my feet and make for the exit. It’s a wonderful day outside – the sun gleaming brightly, birds tweeting – but in here it seems closed off and musty.

But that’s probably my nervousness coloring my perceptions, making things seem far worse than they are.

I have to remind myself I’m the one who chose this clinic, who chose the renowned Dr. Miller Marshall to help me pursue my dreams of becoming a mother. I know it’s not the most conventional route, seeking artificial pregnancy at twenty-one when I haven’t even got a boyfriend, but I’ve wanted a family ever since I was a girl and I lost mine.

My aunt Jackie took me in after my family died, but she was busy with her script-writing career, spending her time in various Bohemian getaways around America and sometimes in Europe. She was always loving and kind… when she was there. She simply wasn’t there that often.

I let out a shaky breath, glancing at the poster on the wall of the cute-as-heck baby, his eyes half-open and a heart-melting smile on his face. I have to force myself to breathe slowly when my eye strays to the poster on the left, capturing Dr. Miller Marshall in all his rugged handsome silver-fox glory.

He’s forty-five – I did some internet digging – and around six and a half feet tall, with intense dark blue eyes and silver hair cut short. His mouth twitches into a smirk in the photo, and even without the aid of video, I can imagine the way his muscular body must be pulsating under that doctor’s coat.

I swallow as I study the source of my nerves.

Not the prospect of becoming a single mother at twenty-one.

This is what I want, what I’ve dreamed of for more years than I can believe, bringing life into this world and flooding a home with happiness. And when Aunt Jackie passed she left me enough money to make my dream come true.

So what if it’s not the done thing? So what if it’s not normal?

Even at twenty-one, I’m sick and tired of waiting for Mr. Right to come along, because it’s like they always turn out to be Mr. Wrong in the end, from the bullying douchebags in high school to Derrick, the freak who made me his obsession, the freak who made me never want to get intimate with a man.

It’s not what I’m going to do that floods me with nerves.

It’s the interview Dr. Marshall requires of all his prospective patients before he agrees to help them pursue their dreams of becoming parents, especially in the voluntary single mother cases. His website states that he will not help anyone unless he has spoken with them first and he refuses to budge on this matter.

I know this because I spent a lot of time on his website last night, staring at his various photos.

The best was from a charity event he did at a local gym, leading a fitness class that was free to all.

There was one photo where he stood at the front of the class, his T-shirt soaked with sweat, the fabric hugging his body tightly to show the outline of his bulging muscles.

I couldn’t help myself as I stared at it, heart hammering in my chest, making every part of me tingle.

I lay back and slid my hand down my body, palming my sex, imagining his hands smoothing up and down my hips and then over my breasts, squeezing onto my nipples as he gazed at me with those unflinching predator’s eyes.

It’s craziness, of course.

I know he hasn’t got a wife – she would be mentioned online – but he probably has women throwing themselves at him all day every freaking day. He’s been on TV hundreds of times. He’s written bestselling books. He’s a celebrity as much as he’s a doctor, and if it wasn’t for Aunt Jackie’s inheritance I wouldn’t even be able to afford him.

He’s more than twice my age.

That doesn’t bother me. My insides shiver at the sight of his silver hair, at the experience in his eyes, but I bet it would bother him.

He’d probably laugh if a twenty-one year old inexperienced woman even deigned to offer herself to him, not that I’d even know how to go about doing that. I’ve never been very good with men, despite what Derrick said, that freak, the twisted pedestal he’s put me on.

I sigh and glance down at my interlocked hands, forcing myself not to look at the photo of Miller again. I can’t stand to look at him for too long, especially not when I’m out in public and the receptionist is just a few feet across from me, tapping away at her keyboard with her fake nails.

Maybe she’ll be able to tell if the lust-filled light prompted by Miller’s photo starts to surge around me with too much flaring heat, with too much possessiveness, as though at any moment he’s going to step from the poster and charge across the room.

I imagine him hauling me to my feet and bending me over the chair, smoothing his hands up my thighs and gripping onto them firmly.

“Fuck,” I imagine him snarling. “You’re already soaked for me.”

I repress a breathy sigh, biting my lip, trying to think of calm ocean waves and chairs and freaking matchsticks… anything so I don’t have to think about the way I touched myself again and again last night thinking about Miller Marshall.

I guess this is the price I have to pay for wanting to be a writer. Not of scripts, like my aunt, but of novels.

My imagination is far too vivid and real-like as if things dreamed up in my mind can spiral into reality at any moment and there’s nothing I can do about it. I forcefully remind myself that if I voiced my innermost thoughts – my throbbing need for Dr. Marshall and his rock hard muscles – he’d kick me out of his office, maybe laughing at me, maybe shouting.

Whatever the case, it would be nothing good.

The receptionist clears her throat, peering at me over the top of her desk. She’s a beautiful glamorous woman, with shiny teeth and perfect skin and a sleek figure, the sort of figure that makes me feel frumpy and inadequate.

I bet she thinks I look like the biggest dork in the universe in my cargo pants and my hoodie, but, screw it… they’re comfy. Plus I got carried away writing this morning and almost missed the appointment, and these were the first clothes I grabbed.

“The doctor will see you now, Miss Grahams,” she says.

I nod, standing, willing my legs not to shake too much.

Maybe I should have found a different clinic once I’d searched for Miller Marshall online. I should’ve known I wouldn’t be able to face him without having the most pathetic panic episode in the universe.

I’ve never been any good at talking to men, especially not hulking behemoths with possessive eyes and iron-colored hair like Miller.

What the heck am I saying?

I’ve never even tried talking to a man like Dr. Miller Marshall before.

I walk across the office, wishing I could stop my hands from worrying at each other, but I’m afraid if I let go of my tight-clasped hands I’ll do something silly like grab the poster from the wall and hold it against my chest, against my heart, like I’m his number one fan or something.

There it goes again, my overactive imagination, throwing up nonsense.

I shake my head, willing myself to focus on the moment.

But then I reach the door and, before I can open it, Dr. Marshall pulls it wide open and stares at me.

He’s even more enthralling in the flesh, with the light shimmering across his strong jaw, glittering silver with a faint shadow of facial hair. He’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing me his irrepressible forearms, and his eyes narrow as they move over me.

Something inside of me sinks, a bitter voice whispering, You see. Of course, he wouldn’t want you.

It’s worse than that, even. It’s like he’s angry that I’m here.

I wonder if I’ve interrupted something, like a phone call with a lady, an important meeting, because right now he looks like he’d rather be doing anything than standing opposite me.

“You must be Macie,” he says, his voice deep and husky, just like in the interviews I watched last night.

“Um, yes,” I murmur, silently cursing myself.

Why did I have to say um?

“Okay.” He nods, stepping aside, waving me into his office. “After you.”