Chapter 3: Seducing Him
Carol’s POV
"Nicholas, I think I'm having a heart attack."
I clutched my chest like a drama queen as I burst into the ER for the second day running, rocking my tightest red dress and killer heels. The nurses at the desk rolled their eyes—word had clearly spread about yesterday's "headache" stunt.
Nicholas glanced up from his chart, and I swear his jaw tightened. "Miss Wilson. What's the problem today?"
Miss Wilson. God, I wanted to smack that smug jerk. We'd shared breakfast at the same table this morning, and now he was acting like I was some random patient.
"Sharp pains in my chest," I gasped, pressing my hand over my heart and making sure the dress pulled tight across my boobs. "Started about an hour ago. I'm freaking out, Doctor."
He set down his clipboard with a sigh that could chill a room. "Any shortness of breath? Sweating? Nausea?"
"A little," I fibbed, stepping closer until I caught a whiff of his cologne. "Maybe you should listen to my heart? Make sure it's beating okay?"
For a split second, his eyes dipped to my chest before snapping back up. There it is, you cold bastard. I knew you weren't totally dead inside.
But nope—he grabbed his stethoscope and kept it all business, checking my pulse and listening with the passion of a robot.
"Your heart rate's a bit high," he said flatly, "but that's probably just anxiety. Cut back on the caffeine and get some rest."
I wanted to scream. "But Doctor, what if—"
"Miss Wilson," he cut me off, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous growl that flipped my stomach, "if this isn't a real emergency, stop wasting hospital time. Other patients actually need help."
The brush-off stung like hell. I stormed out, already plotting round two.
Fine, asshole. Game on.
Day three, I went full throttle. Tiny black skirt that barely covered my ass, a silk blouse that hugged every curve like a second skin, and makeup screaming "come and get it." I'd even rehearsed my pitiful voice in the car.
"Doctor Anderson," I whimpered, slipping into his office, "I haven't slept in days. I think I need a real thorough check-up."
I shrugged off my jacket nice and slow, giving him the full view—the way the blouse clung, how the skirt rode up when I crossed my legs. His eyes followed the motion before he caught himself.
Gotcha, you bastard.
"Insomnia can be serious," he said, but his voice had a rough edge now. "Tried any sleep aids?"
"Nothing works," I breathed, leaning forward on his desk. "I keep thinking about... stuff. My body's just wired."
The air between us crackled with tension. He was fighting it, but I could see the cracks.
Then the jerk ruined it.
"Miss Wilson," he said, shoving his chair back so fast it rolled, "this is inappropriate. Find another hobby."
Okay, Nicholas Anderson. If straight-up seduction won't crack you, time for a new angle.
That night, I "fired" Molly, our housekeeper—okay, I gave her a paid two-week vacay to see her sister. Same difference.
"From now on," I announced over dinner, "I'm handling the cooking and cleaning while Mom and Dad are away. Least I can do."
He looked up from his pasta, eyes narrowed. "Since when do you cook?"
"Always have," I lied with a straight face. "Just never got the chance with Molly around."
He grunted and dug back in, but I caught him sneaking glances when he thought I wasn't looking.
Next morning, I was up at dawn, brewing his coffee just right—black and strong enough to wake the dead. I packed his lunch in a cute container with a note: Have a great day! - Carol
When he came downstairs in his scrubs, hair still damp from the shower, he froze at the sight of everything laid out.
"What's all this?"
"Breakfast," I said sweetly, in an adorable sundress instead of my usual skimpy stuff. "You work your ass off; figured you deserved some pampering."
He eyed me like I'd lost it, grabbed the coffee and lunch without a word, and bolted.
Baby steps, Carol. Baby steps.
For the next week, I nailed the perfect homemaker role. His favorite breakfast ready every morning, dinner hot when he got home, clothes cleaned and pressed. I even stocked his bathroom with that fancy body wash he loves.
The first few hospital lunch drops? He shut me down cold. But I kept at it, all smiles, no pressure.
"Made your favorite," I'd say brightly. "Turkey and Swiss on sourdough."
"I can buy my own lunch, Carol."
"I know! I just enjoy cooking for you."
By day five, he quit fighting. By day seven, he actually muttered, "Thanks."
Progress!
That night, I was buzzing with excitement prepping his dinner. The ice king's walls were crumbling, and tonight? I'd smash 'em wide open.
"This is actually pretty good," he admitted over my homemade lasagna, and I nearly fell out of my chair.
"Thanks! Found the recipe online—thought you'd like it."
He nodded, digging in, but the vibe between us had shifted. Less prickly, more... charged.
Tonight's the night, Nicholas Anderson. Your hard-to-get bullshit ends now.
I waited till 11 p.m., when the house was dead quiet. Nicholas always showered around then—I'd been creeping on his routine for weeks like a total stalker.
I snuck down the hall in my shortest silk nightgown, heart pounding. His door was cracked, and I spotted a lump under the covers.
Perfect. He's in bed.
I slipped in, holding my breath, and tiptoed over. Plan: pull back the covers, straddle him, and rock his world.
I yanked the blanket and pounced—only to hit a pile of pillows.
"Looking for something?"
I jumped like I'd been shocked, whipping around to see Nicholas fresh from the shower, towel slung low around his waist. His dark hair dripped, water beading on his shoulders, and holy hell, the guy was built like a Greek god.
My mouth went dry, eyes raking over his broad shoulders, chiseled chest, and abs that begged to be touched. That towel hung dangerously low, teasing that V-line that made my knees buckle.
Holy shit. This is what he's been hiding under those scrubs?
"I... I thought you were..." I stammered, my brain blanking on any excuse.
"In bed?" He stepped closer, his body wash scent hitting me hard, water trails glistening on his skin. "Sorry to disappoint."
My mind fried. Here he was, half-naked and looking like every dirty dream I'd had, and all I could think was running my hands over those abs.
"Nicholas," I whispered, voice all breathy and needy. "Can I... touch you? Just once?"
He froze, gray eyes locking on mine. For a heartbeat, something raw and hungry flashed across his face. His hand twitched like he might grab me.
He wants this too. I can feel it.
Then his jaw clenched, and he snatched my wrist before I could make contact.
"Don't," he growled, voice low and rough, sending heat straight between my legs. "Go back to your room, Carol. Now. Or I swear to God, I'll fuck you so hard you won't walk for a week."
Threat or promise?
