Chapter 339: Oliver’s Fixation

"Then..." April murmured, her eyes locking onto Oliver’s behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "Will you help me try them on?"

The entire suite went dead silent.

Oliver froze. For a man whose composure was practically forged in steel, the subtle, microscopic cracking of his clinical facade was a glorious sight.

For the first time since she had met him, the brilliant, arrogant Dr. Oliver Baxter was genuinely short of words.

"Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll help you put ’em on," Nat offered immediately, a dark, dangerous grin spreading across his face as he made a move to step forward.

"No, I will do it for you, April," Xavier countered instantly, his voice laced with protective authority as he blocked Nat’s path.

"Neither of you is touching her feet," Alexander cut in smoothly, though his jaw was set tight as his blue eyes glinted with irritation. "Allow me, April."

April slowly shook her head, a faint, mischievous curve touching her lips as she looked directly at Nat. "When you bought me the silver necklace, Nat, you helped me put it on." She turned her gaze back to the stunned doctor. "And Oliver bought these heels. So he should be the one to put them on me. Right, Oliver?"

Oliver swallowed hard, his throat working as an inaudible gulp passed down his throat. The pink on the tips of his ears rapidly spread down his neck. He reached up, adjusting his glasses with a single, slightly rigid finger to buy himself a second of composure.

"R-Right," Oliver managed to say, his voice losing a fraction of its smooth clinical detachment. "I will... assist you."

Ignoring the murderous glares radiating off Xavier, Nat, and Alexander—and the stoic, icy stare from Samuel—Oliver retrieved the clear, acrylic heels from the box. He walked over and knelt before April’s chair, dropping onto one knee with structured precision.

"Raise your leg," Oliver instructed softly, his voice dropping into a raspy, low register.

April obliged, lifting her leg slightly. The soft fabric of her yellow dress pooled over her knees as she extended her foot toward him.

Oliver reached out, his broad, warm fingers gently grasping her ankle to unbuckle the yellow block heels she was currently wearing. He set the old shoe aside, but instead of slipping the new heel on immediately, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pristine, white cotton handkerchief.

Carefully, reverently, Oliver began to wipe down her skin, his thumb tracing the smooth curve of her arch, her heel, and the delicate tops of her toes. The intimate, meticulous gesture sent an electric shock straight up her spine. He was being so careful.

Oliver’s eyes compulsively tracked upward—following the smooth, taut line of her calf and the soft golden hem of her dress—before he forced his gaze back down to her foot.

He slid the acrylic heel onto her foot. But as his fingers worked to adjust the delicate, clear strap over her ankle, his hands began to tremble.

He trembled.

This was a man who had held human hearts, severed arteries, and scalpels in high-stress trauma bays without a single flicker of hesitation. His hands had never once shaken during surgeries, experiments, or intricate sutures.

Yet right now, simply cleaning a woman’s foot with his handkerchief and fastening the strap of a heel, his fingers were noticeably, undeniably shaking.

Systemic neurological interference, Oliver analyzed frantically in his head, his chest heaving as he tried to keep his breathing steady. Localized muscular tremors... involuntary muscle spasms caused by extreme autonomic arousal... Why are my hands failing to maintain baseline stability?!

"Hey, Doc," Nat sneered, his voice dropping into a terrifying, gravelly growl as he loomed over them, his large fists clenching hard enough to crack his knuckles. "Are you fitting a shoe or are you trying to feel up her entire leg? Because you’re taking an awfully long time down there."

Xavier’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "If your hands are too unsteady to perform a simple task, Dr. Baxter, step aside."

Oliver, however, refused to break under the immense pressure. A quiet, provocative smirk suddenly touched the corner of his lips as he used his thumb to smooth down her calf, making a slow, deliberate show of checking the ’ergonomic fit’ of the strap.

"I am merely ensuring the footbed aligns correctly with her vascular structure and that her skin is clean," Oliver drawled smoothly, looking up at the fuming men with cool, infuriating satisfaction. "I am simply doing as I was told. Unlike the rest of you, I have been granted explicit permission."

"You white-coated bastard—" Nat growled, stepping closer.

"That’s enough," April said, her voice smooth and commandingly soft.

She flexed her ankle in the invisible heel, the clear straps catching the light so seamlessly it created the breathtaking illusion that her long, bare leg was naturally ending in a towering, arching posture.

Oliver remained on one knee, his hand still resting possessively around her ankle, his dark eyes looking up at her with an intense, raw fascination that completely shattered his former detachment.

And before he even realized what he was doing, driven by a purely instinctive, uncharacteristic impulse, he lowered his head and pressed his lips reverently against her toe.

"Exceptional," he muttered against her skin.

A heartbeat passed with no reaction but that was the thing.

Oliver froze. The room dropped into a suffocating, absolute silence so profound you could hear a pin drop.

Slowly, the fog of hyper-focus cleared from his mind, and the reality of his actions crashed over his cold, analytical brain like a tidal wave. He had just—in front of all of them—kissed a woman’s foot. In public. On his knees.

Every single eye in the suite was locked on him in utter, stunned shock. April’s eyes were wide, her usual calm cracking into pure disbelief as she stared down at the top of his head.

"You..." April began, her voice trailing off.

Before she could finish her sentence, a massive, vein-popped hand shot forward. Nat grabbed Oliver by his white coat collar, yanking him up off the floor with enough violent force to lift the doctor almost entirely off his feet.

"You unhinged freak!" Nat roared, his eyes burning with pure, murderous fury as he slammed Oliver back against the edge of the mahogany table. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?!"

Alexander had already surged forward, shoving himself between them, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles pulsed. "Get your hands off him so I can beat him myself, Nat!"

Even Xavier seemed aggressive, his eyes fixated on Oliver with a razor-sharp, lethal glare. Behind April’s chair, Samuel’s stoic face had turned completely to ice, his posture rigid as if awaiting the signal to eliminate a threat.

Oliver, despite being hoisted by his collar with a ferocious beast breathing down his neck, somehow managed to adjust his wire-rimmed glasses with one finger. The flush on his face had spread all the way down to his neck, but his clinical mask desperately tried to claw its way back.

"It... it was a localized reflex," Oliver croaked out, his raspy voice betraying the utter chaos raging inside his chest. "A tactile... quality control test."

"Quality control test?!" Nat snarled, his fist tightening around Oliver’s lapels as he bared his teeth. "I’m going to test how well your jaw holds up against a wall!"