CHAPTER SEVEN
“Should I call him?” I turn the card in my hand over and over. It’s already a little worn around the edges from me handling it so much.
“Oh my Lord, if you don’t do it, I will.” Hayley laughs. “What’s up with you? It’s not like you to be so indecisive. Don’t tell me I used my entire fifteen-minute lunch break to call you for a supposed emergency, and this is the emergency.”
“Do you really only get fifteen minutes?” I whisper, horrified.
“Stick to the subject—and yes, pretty much, I eat while I’m working.”
As it is, I can hear her fingers hitting keys while she’s speaking. Lord only knows what super-important thing she’s typing up.
“I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone.” She clicks her tongue like she’s annoyed. “No, really,” I insist. “I’m not being pissy, if that’s what you think. You’re right. I’m being indecisive, and that’s the last thing I need right now.”
“Exactly. You haven’t had the best luck so far, and your ankle has you laid up for a few days anyway. So, no chance of meeting up with anybody new until you’re up and around. Why not strike while the iron’s hot and call him up? You’re the cute girl he met yesterday. He’ll remember you.”
“You think so?”
“I know he will. You’re calling him. Right?”
“Right,” I groan.
“Today?”
“Today.”
“This afternoon?”
“Hayley.”
“It has to be this afternoon or else you’re going to lose your nerve. I know it. And we’ll end up having this same conversation tomorrow, and I’ll want to seriously slap some sense into you by then. You don’t want me to slap some sense into you, do you?”
“If I can avoid it, I’d rather not.”
“There you go.” I hear voices in the background. “Gotta scoot. Text me when you call.”
She’s gone before I can say good-bye. The life of a lawyer.
This leaves me with the doctor’s card still clutched in my sweaty palm.
Why am I so nervous about this?
Oh, right. Because he’s easily the sexiest man I’ve ever met in person, and I’m afraid of making myself out to be a total idiot.
But.
I have a book to write.
He’s a doctor who gave me his card.
I have a book to write.
He’s hot.
I need to know what his skin tastes like.
I have a book to write.
Yes! So I need to know what his skin tastes like.
It’s research.
Argh! I can’t even pace the apartment with my foot propped up on pillows, the way Matt insisted it be whenever possible.
He’s been super helpful since he brought me home yesterday and now I’m not sure if he’s being nice or worried I’ll make his life a living hell.
Maybe we can call it even for me blasting the marching band music through the wall.
Since I’m afraid he’ll barge in and find me doing something I’m not supposed to do and since I can’t really walk anyway, there’s nothing but sulking on the couch with my laptop to sustain me in this moment of crisis.
I can’t even take an old toothbrush to the grout around the bathtub, which is always a calming exercise.
The thing is, I know I’m making way too big of a deal out of this.
It’s like standing outside myself, looking in.
Shaking my head in despair. That part of me knows this will all be over once I make that phone call.
Once the ball’s in Dr. Sexy’s court. And I’ll laugh at myself for ever taking this so seriously.
I have to rip off the bandage all at once.
I have to jump in, no matter how cold the water is.
I have to get it over with.
So, I do.
“Don’t pick up, don’t pick up,” I whisper, eyes squeezed tightly shut, fingers crossed. I might stammer my way through a voice mail, but it’d still be easier than this.
“Hello?”
Oh, help me. That deep voice of his. How did I not notice its rumbling quality yesterday? Because I was too busy holding myself back from humping him like a deranged monkey. Right.
“Hi. Hello. Uh, Dr. Becker?”
“Speaking.” He sounds busy but friendly. Not put out. A good sign.
“This is Kitty Valentine. I saw you in the ER yesterday. The sprained ankle. I’m sure you had a million people to take care of—”
“I remember you,” he assures me with a soft chuckle that does things to me. I’m serious. A yearning in my core magically appears at the sound of that chuckle. “Is everything okay? Has the swelling gotten worse?”
It’s so unfortunate that he keeps talking about swelling.
“No, it hasn’t,” I whisper. My throat’s suddenly so dry.
Darn it, I should’ve been better prepared for this.
A glass of water, a cold shower. Something.
“Everything’s the way I guess it should be.
I wanted to reach out and thank you for how kind you were.
I was hurting, but you calmed me down and made me feel better.
My neighbor too,” I add for some reason I can’t imagine.
“I sensed he was upset,” he admits. “And I’m glad you feel better, though I didn’t do much. If anything, I should apologize for not having the opportunity to check in on you before you were discharged.”
“It’s not a problem.” Though I have to say, my heart sank through the floor when I realized I wouldn’t be seeing him again. Just to get one more look at him. How does anybody get any work done in his presence?
“Still, I’d like to make it up to you.”
Yes. Yes, yes, yes, let’s do that. Make it up to me. I have to literally dig my nails into my palm until it hurts, just to center myself enough to respond without giggling like I’ve lost my ever-loving mind. I mean, he’s probably used to women losing IQ points while in his presence, but still.
“How would you do that?” I finally ask once I’m fairly sure I won’t giggle like a maniac.
“Well, I was thinking lunch sometime soon. I have this weekend off …”
I have to hold the phone to my chest for a second while I fist pump and repeatedly mouth the word yes. “That would be nice,” I agree. “I should be up and around by then, right?”
“There’s no reason you can’t be—unless you overwork the ankle during the week. Be sure not to overdo it, okay?”
“I’ll be sure.” Oh, you bet I’ll be sure. I’ll be the best patient he’s ever seen and sit on the couch all week and type if that’s what it comes to. I’ll fester in the same clothes I’m wearing right this very minute. Anything so long as I’m able to make myself presentable for our lunch.
He promises to call with firmer plans later in the week—by Friday at the latest—leaving me with nothing to do but hyperventilate when the call is finished.
My instincts were right on the money for once. I’m not usually good at picking up signals from men, probably because I don’t spend a ton of time around them—or frankly, anyone. I wasn’t kidding when I called myself a troll during that disastrous coffee date.
Hayley needs to know about this.
We’re going to lunch this weekend! I text with shaking hands, even squealing a little.
See? I should’ve known, she replies.
Known what? I ask.
Given enough time, you were bound to meet a doctor. All you have to do is step outside your apartment, and the odds go way up.
I roll my eyes at this, though she’s obviously right.
Now that the most heart-clenching part of my day is done—and I was right; I feel totally relieved and annoyed with myself for hemming and hawing—it’s time to dive into character profiles.
This book isn’t going to write itself.