London's Most Eligible Doctor. Annie O'Neil

gave Igor a little scratch under the chin. It was five o’clock and about the ninety-thousandth time he’d checked his watch. He’d been itching to go out and check on Lina all day, but had thought she’d shy away from any sort of special treatment. He liked to be thrown in at the deep end and something told him—on that front—they were cut from the same cloth.

      She’d need to find out on her own if she was cut out for the job. Not that he would’ve been much help anyhow. At least with the technical side of things. Yes, he could’ve introduced her to everyone—but a quick interoffice memo did the same thing, and more efficiently. So, yes, it was throwing Lina in at the deep end, but he wasn’t in the business of coddling. So he’d done it surreptitiously. A handful of the therapists at EP had been in her shoes over the course of the years. Ballerinas, modern dancers, even circus performers who had, through either catastrophic injury or prescient decision-making, opted for a life in health care rather than completely destroy their bodies. Not everyone stayed. Not everyone left. He had to admit he hoped Lina would at least see through the week—and after that the three-month trial. At the very least, it would get her back out in the world and give her a bit of money in the bank. Not to mention buy her some time to think about her options, her future. As if it was any of his business and he cared at all. Which he did not.

      Igor stretched out on his desk, paying little regard to the files Cole had been trying to read.

      “Thanks for the respect, pal.”

      A light knock on Cole’s door brought the puppy upright with a small yelp.

      “Sorry, Igor. How’s the little bitty pooch-pooch?” Gemma crooned, all eyes for the puppy and none for Cole, whose office she normally wouldn’t have entered without an invitation. He obviously had some sort of invisible force field around him, screaming Give me my space,