3. Kodi
CHAPTER 3
Cracked Pipes? Waterworks at Tuft Swallow’s Newest Business
Word on the street is that Tuft Swallow’s Most Eligible’s “bachelor” status is fresher than we’d previously reported! This little birdie (or rather, the bright yellow evening grosbeak perched outside his window) heard quite the kerfuffle last night when a tall, dark, and handsome man was seen leaving the second-floor entrance of Dr. Gosling’s home with a moving box around 6:30pm. Now, we’re not ones to speculate, but it is suspicious that a mere hour later, The Plume N’ Zoom’s entire stock of Chunky Monkey ice cream was sold out.
Could this have been a lover’s quarrel? Perhaps any virile Tuft Swallow males who identify as “friends of Dorothy” should make an appointment sooner rather than later!
Happy Courting,
The Nosy Pecker
“Oh now, that’s ridiculous.” I scoff at the paper. Reporting a little town gossip here and there is one thing. But outing a new neighbor to the entire town is another.
This Pecker is really getting out of hand.
Lily sniffles beside me, mascara stains running down her cheeks in water black streaks.
“He’s gay?” She blows her nose. “Why are all the good ones either gay or taken?”
I hand her another tissue and roll my eyes. “Really. You’re just going to take the word of this gossip rag? This is all total speculation. Besides, he could be bi.”
Lily gives me an exasperated look. “Please, Kodi. There’s no such thing as a male bisexual.”
A few encounters I witnessed at the football team parties back in high school could serve as evidence to the contrary.
I’m never one to assume someone’s sexual orientation–likely because as a former star softball player, I grew used to people wrongly assuming mine. I open my mouth to correct her when the squeaking of Dr. Cratchet’s orthopedics echoes down the hallway.
“Quick, put it away!” I hiss, reprimand forgotten, as I shove my own Pecker into my bra.
“Miss Gander! Socializing is for when you’re off the clock!”
“I was just scheduling Lily here for a check up,” I lie. “She has a bit of a cough, and it’s really been bugging you hasn’t it, Lily?”
She shoots me a quick glare before feigning a dainty ahem-ahem. “Oh, yes, it’s persistent, too! Hopefully it’s not contagious.”
She directs another fake cough into my face.
“That’s the third one you’ve had this month, Miss Cooley. Are you sure you’ve been taking your antibiotics as directed?”
I let their voices fade into the back room, mouthing a silent thank you to Lily as she covers for me once again. I keep telling her she needs to stop coming in to gossip while I’m at work. Every time we’re caught, we have to pretend she’s here for an appointment. If she keeps it up, we might have to have her tonsils taken out just to keep up the cover story.
I untuck the Pecker from my cleavage and continue to read up on Dr. Gosling. If the paper is to be believed, then the poor man was dumped by his boyfriend after moving to the neighborhood for him.
Ouch.
This only confirms why dating isn’t worth the hassle, I tell myself, before googling the new doctor’s practice on my work computer. One nice thing about working for Dr. Cratchet is that I never have to worry about him checking the browser history on the office equipment. Poor man can’t even remember his own email password. I swear this place would collapse without me.
I page through the website, scanning paragraphs about the virtues of a holistic approach to wellness and Dr. Gosling’s many certifications in chiropractic, soft tissue manipulation, and physical therapy. Wait. Physical therapy?
I rub at my knee, which has been throbbing continuously at around a three-out-of-ten on the pain scale since I started running cornhole practice. Last night we’d all met up at the local park again to do accuracy drills. Overall, I’d say the team enjoyed those more than running laps around the fitness trail. But I’d been forced to cut the training short at two and a half hours after a few of them complained that they needed to put their kids to bed.
Honestly. Haven’t the people in this town ever heard of babysitters?
My knee twinges again.
Back when I’d first torn my ACL, I’d been rushed here to the clinic so Dr. Cratchet could handle first aid. He confirmed what my coach had feared: short of surgery, my knee was ca-put. I’d never play softball again.
I got the surgery, but PT afterwards had been a nightmare. After six weeks of little improvement, insurance stopped covering it, and Dr. Cratchet gave me an open script for muscle relaxers for when my knee would flare up.
Sleigh bells jangle through the quiet office, alerting me to someone entering the waiting room. I jump, quickly closing the browser window, only to look up and see the very man I was reading about waltzing through the door. My breath catches in my throat.
He’s much more handsome in person than the photo on his website. Instead of scrubs, he’s dressed in well-tailored jeans and a bright green polo shirt, which is the perfect color to highlight the green of his eyes. Unlike the clean-shaven face shown in his bio, his real-life jaw is scruffy with well-cultivated stubble. His brown hair has grown out a little, too, short-ish on the sides of his head and slightly messy on top.
I straighten in my chair. Regardless of how hot Dr. Gosling may be, it is a bad idea for him to be in this waiting room. My boss will freak if he sees him.
“Hello!” I chirp, jumping up from my wheely chair. Stab. And I crash right back down. “Ah!”
“Woah, are you okay?” Brian Gosling dashes over, darts his head through the window, and leans over the counter into the office, staring down at me clutching my leg in distress. “What kind of pain? Shooty? Stabby? Dull or sharp?”
“It’s nothing,” I grit out through clenched teeth. “Just an old injury that acts up sometimes, I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
I look up to reassure him that I really don’t need his help, but he’s no longer in the window.
No. He’s heading right through to the back hall and walking into the office, concern etched on his face. Before I can inform him that it’s a really bad idea for him to be back here, he’s kneeling beside me and holding his hands out next to my leg.
He’s fast.
“May I?”
“You really–” I stop dead as I lock on to his gorgeous eyes with my own. Wait, what color is that? What at first appeared to be a vibrant green when he walked in the door is now almost blue-gray, as if the difference in lighting made them change color. And despite the confidence in his demeanor, they seem a little reserved. Almost sad.
They take my breath away.
“It’s okay, I’m a doctor.” The corner of his full lips tilt in a cocky little grin that gives me goosebumps.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Uh, right. Like I said, it’s an old injury. I’m used to it. I just need my pills.”
His smile flips upside-down even more quickly than it appeared, matching his serious eyes. “How old are you?”
What does that have to do with anything? “Twenty-four.”
“And how long have you been taking pain meds regularly?”
He’s still holding his hands out, I realize, and I gesture my consent for him to examine my knee. His care and concern are surprising, but also refreshing. Even in my short stint in community college for hospital administration, professors were raising the alarm bells about opioid addiction and how it often started with over-dependence on prescription medications, especially in small towns like ours.
Not that Dr. Cratchet ever seems concerned about it. But the fact that this doctor is asking these kinds of questions makes him seem more trustworthy than the average stranger. I suck in a breath through my nose as he presses gently on various spots around my knee.
He smells good. Warm and clean, like fresh linens and sunshine and warm bread.
Despite the fact that I’m clearly affected by how close he is, his hands feel almost detached. They’re warm, but not too warm. Firm and comforting, but completely devoid of any awkwardness or attraction.
Unlike his sad eyes, which burn into mine as he waits for my answer.
“They aren’t pain meds. They’re muscle relaxers. I only take them when I have flare-ups, which isn’t super often. I’m very careful about that.”
I’m telling the truth, and after studying me a moment, my answer seems to satisfy him. His expression softens, and he lowers his attention back to my knee, which peeks out from under the mid-length sundress I wore to work today.
“Hmm.” His fingers zero in on a knot outside my lower thigh and press, hard. I groan.
Not in a sexy way.
In a holy-shit-that-fucking-hurts-get-the-hell-off-of-me way. He freezes and looks up at me. He meets my gaze.
And, noticeably, doesn’t move his fucking hand.
“Ow! Stop, stop!” I hiss, all too aware of the fact that Dr. Cratchet is just across the hall with Lily, and will likely be coming out any second to see his brand-new arch nemesis kneeling in front of me with his hands up my skirt.
“You’ve got some angry tissue right here.”
“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock!” I bat away his hands and scoot my chair back, immediately lowering my fingers to rub at the sore spot he found. “What the fu–I mean, ugh!” I remember in a rush that I’m still at work. No cursing on the job; Dr. Cratchet was just lecturing me about that. No matter how much pain I might be in, I need to act professionally.
Despite the fact that a literal stranger was just groping me when he’s not even allowed to be here.
That’s not fair. He asked permission. And you totally wouldn’t mind him touching you in a less clinical setting…
I shake my head. I’m not sure what exactly has my ovaries standing at attention all of the sudden, but I need them to ease off, pronto. This is the same man who, according to the town rumor mill, just broke up with his boyfriend last night. I need to get my mind out of the gutter and back in the office. “What are you doing here, Dr. Gosling?”
The chiropractor straightens, slowly rising back to his feet. “You know who I am?”
“Duh. You’re in the paper.”
He looks like he doesn’t quite know how to process that. I sigh, grabbing my Pecker that had floated to the floor when I’d crashed into my chair earlier. I hand it to him. “Welcome to Tuft Swallow. We don’t believe in privacy here.”
His eyes widen as he scans the paper, and—is that blush creeping up his cheeks? Good Lord, he’s way too adorable when he blushes.
“Where did you get this?” He practically whispers, pure terror building in his face as he scans the article.
My face scrunches in pity. “Oh, honey. They’re everywhere. Those gossip rags get passed out like candy at a parade every morning.”
He hands it back to me, and if looks could kill, that Pecker would catch fire right here and now. He raises a hand to his head and runs his fingers through his hair, holding them there and staring off into space for a moment as if his whole world just came crashing down around him.
Which I suppose now that I think about it, it has. He’s just had a very private moment with his boyfriend announced to an entire town full of strangers.
I place my hand on his forearm in what I hope is a comforting gesture. “Listen, on behalf of this entire ridiculous town, I apologize. Truly, I do. I’ve lived here my whole life, so I understand just how devastating it can be to have your dirty laundry aired to everybody.” I remember being the subject of a few issues of the Pecker myself. The very same day I lost my softball scholarship to UCLA, the whole town knew about it. For weeks I couldn’t go anywhere without everyone asking me about my injury, how I was holding up, what my plans were now that I couldn’t go to school for softball anymore.
I look up and meet the withered gaze of the man before me. Suddenly, it’s like all the anger and sadness I felt back then hits me like a tidal wave. I know how he feels right now. Or at least, I have an idea.
This poor man. This is no way to start your life in a new town.
I slap my hands on the armrests of my chair, and the noise makes him jump. I can’t fix what the gossip-hungry townies did to Dr. Gosling, but I can show him that not everyone in Tuft Swallow is a rumor-spreading asshat. “Have you had lunch yet?”
“Lunch?”
“Yeah. Lunch. You know, after breakfast, before dinner?” I pull up a fresh tab in the browser on the desktop (thanking my lucky stars that I already closed out of the last tab I had open) and type in the name of the best diner in town. He snorts as I point to the screen.
“Easy Swallow? Really?”
“Trust me, it isn’t the worst pun you’ll find in this town. But the food is legit. My treat.” I check the clock. 11:45. A little early, but no one’s due for an appointment until one, and it’s imperative that Dr. Cratchet doesn’t see this man standing in his office. So I leave a sticky note on the computer screen informing him that I’m going out for my lunch break and move to stand and grab my purse.
That’s when I remember that my knee is not at all interested in cooperating today. My shoulders tense in anticipation of the impending collapse…
But it never comes. What? I look down at my knee, supporting the left half of my body just as it should be.
Huh.
The chiropractor reaches out a hand. “Feeling better?”
I let him support my arm as I take a few careful steps toward the coat rack. It’s sore, and a little wobbly, but it isn’t buckling like it did before. “That’s weird.”
“It’ll probably be a little tender for a while. Just be easy on it. And you should probably make an appointment at some point so we can actually diagnose what’s going on there.”
“What did you do?” I move us as fast as I can on my suddenly-not-throbbing leg across the waiting room, breathing a sigh of relief as the sleigh bells play us out without the boss spotting us. I continue to lean on Dr. Gosling as we proceed down the couple of steps to the sidewalk and down the street to the Easy Swallow.
“Just a little acupressure. Doesn’t feel great in the moment, but you can’t argue with the results.” He smiles at me, and it’s as if a switch has flipped. This guy’s the real deal. Barely five minutes ago, he looked like he was about to have a breakdown, but now he’s grinning at me and talking about my injury as if there’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be.
“You really love what you do, don’t you?” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, looking him up and down with fresh eyes. My knee is feeling more and more sure with every step, even though I can definitely feel that I overworked it yesterday.
Something is nagging in the back of my mind, but I can’t put my finger on what it is, except that it’s decidedly different.
He cocks his head at me, and I realize I’ve been staring at him for too long. His hand returns to his hairline, a nervous tic. “I like helping people feel better. Chronic pain is… well, it’s a pain!” His voice gets breathy when he says that, half-laugh, half-speaking voice. He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a business card. “Here. You really should make an appointment. And I’m not just saying that because I’m new in town and I need the business, although…” He shrugs, and his lips tug up in that intoxicating smile again. I feel a weird little flip-flop in my stomach as our fingers brush when I take the card. “Well, I am trying to build the business. But that situation there?” He gestures to my knee. “You could use my help. Twenty-four is too young to lose your leg.”
I nod, speechless.
I’m sorry, Kodi. You can keep up the exercises, but… you’re probably going to be in some kind of pain for the rest of your life.
“Well, I’ve got more of these to hand out.” He pats his shirt pocket, and for the first time I see the outline of the stack of business cards he has there.
“You don’t want lunch?” It’s a physical effort to drag myself back to the present and realize he’s saying goodbye.
Another flash of that sadness in his eyes, which now shine a stormy gray in the bright midday sun. “No, that’s okay. I’m not really hungry.”
Disappointment tugs at my stomach. That’s weird. Maybe I just need some food.
“Oh. Alright, well. Thanks for your help! It was nice meeting you, Dr. Gosling.”
“Call me Brian. And you are…?” He leaves the word hanging, and I stick out my hand.
“Kodi Gander. Rain check on the Easy Swallow?”
An emotion passes across his face, too quickly for me to recognize what it is. But he shakes my hand.
“You have my number.”
He lets go, but I can still feel the reassuring warmth of those fingers grasping my palm. At once clinical and caring. Unlike any handshake I’ve ever felt in my life.
I’m beginning to think there’s more to this Dr. Gosling than they’ve been clucking about in The Nosy Pecker.