“Fazielah, pick your jaw up from the floor right now and stop staring! Wait, did I brush my hair this morning? Good Gods, this man is HOT!”
Those were the rambling thoughts running through my lust-addled mind as the elevator doors of your Nan’s hospital opened on the totally shaggable doctor one fine winter’s day in 2016, Kids.
Typically, it was once again one of those bloody days I hadn’t bothered to do much more that put my long hair up in a ponytail and just about remembered to slap on some lip gloss before visiting your grandmother to collect my Harry Potter cosplaying tools.
As the elevator whizzed up to the eleventh floor, I was in a bit of an insomniac-induced stupor and barely paid attention to the frantic new father or senior patients who got on-board.
The doors opened on the ninth floor and there he was: Dr Sexy himself – in all of his effortless white collar shirt; form fitting jeans; stethoscope casually hung around his neck; bemused blue eyes and Lord Farquaad-flowing blonde haired glory:
He stopped for a split second, smiling his million dollar smile at me (I am pretty sure I heard a chorus of angels singing Hallelujah at that very moment!), before boarding the elevator.
I wish I could say that I had said something smart or smiled back at him but judging from the rueful grin and head shake from the frantic father next to me, I pretty much just drooled back at Dr Sexy whilst imagining all kinds of naughty scenarios that you don’t need to know about.
As I finally disembarked on the eleventh off while trying desperately not to look back at my five second crush, I tripped over my own feet …