Chapter Sixteen
Lady Luck must be on my side today.
She so rarely is that I seize the moment, lengthening my strides and picking up speed, my heels forming a staccato beat against the sidewalk.
“Hey, Dr. Vasquez,” I call, since we’re just outside the building where he works, even though it’s after hours. But then it feels oddly formal for someone I might be about to ask out. “Carlos?”
He slows and turns, and it hits me that he’s not dressed in his normal garb. Instead of slacks, a button down, and the white coat that deepens the bronze of his skin, he’s wearing mesh shorts and a sleeveless tee that showcases the muscle definition in his arms.
The smile he flashes causes a stutter in my step and my breath. “Mia, buenos días. I was just thinking about you, wondering how you’re settling in.”
My misgivings melt away, my steps lighter and more confident as I close the distance. “Aww, that’s so nice, thank you. I’m adjusting well enough; the real trick has been adapting to the fact that my failsafe methods don’t work on rebellious retirees.”
“Hey, if you figure that out, do me a favor and please let me know,” Carlos says with a chuckle.
“They didn’t exactly teach me in med school how to successfully argue with patients who refuse to listen and think their age means they know better than I do, so they’re not going to follow my instructions anyway. ”
“Seriously, getting them to do anything they don’t want to is like convincing a sloth to run a race—everybody loses in the end.
” While venting about stubborn seniors hadn’t factored into any of the smexy scenarios I conjured in my head, I didn’t realize how much I needed the validation until he gave it to me—working with them was not for the faint of heart.
It also feels like we’re more and more in sync with every interaction we have, and my skin hums with the desire to find out more.
Since I’ll lose my nerve if I get too focused on all the possibilities of an us rather than the steps needed to get us there, I veer our small talk back in a more premeditated direction.
“So, what are you up to this fine sunny afternoon?” Florida’s days are all fairly similar, which is hardly a complaint from this strictly seventy-degrees-and-above gal. “I thought maybe—”
His smartwatch vibrates, and a quick glance at the screen has him squinting and shaking his head before he lowers his arm and gives me a sheepish smile.
“Sorry. One of my diabetic patients keeps messaging me photos of their dinner. I told them I’d help with carb tracking until they got the hang of it, and now I get a visual log every evening. ”
My insides go ridiculously gooey. “That’s kind of adorable.”
“It’s a lot of…bologna sandwiches.”
I crinkle my nose, and he laughs.
“Can’t say I’m a fan, either, or that she’s using bagels for the bread…” He sighs and runs a hand across his jaw. “Anyway, you were saying?”
Now I’ve got to work up my bravery once again, and my rapid pulse seems to be racing on without me. “Right. I was just wondering if you’d like to grab dinner or a movie, or I’m open to whatever–if you even have the time, because I know you’re super busy.”
Great. That last part sounded more desperate than accommodating, and I’m questioning if I read the vibes right, because what if he went out with me only because my grannies coerced him?
Intrusive thoughts are piling up in my brain, admonishing me for thinking I could pull this off, as my insecurities form a blockade in my throat.
Embarrassed heat blazes through my cheeks, and ugh, I have enough on my plate without having to obsess over the awkwardness I’ve just caused between us.
“Actually,” Carlos replies through my haze of self-flagellation, “I’m headed to the tennis courts and was just wishing I had a partner.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” I say with a swipe of my hand to show it’s not a big deal and I totes understand, even though he sidestepped answering the question. Less humiliating than flat-out rejection, I suppose.
His lopsided grin spreads as he steps close enough I have to peer up at him, and obviously there’s a joke I’m not in on.
I definitely want to be, I decide, as he skims fingertips down my arm and threads our fingers together, so similar to the night at the salsa club.
“I’d love for you to join me. I even have a spare racket in my car. What do you say?”
…
Twenty minutes later, I squeeze the handle of my borrowed racket as if a tighter grip will somehow make me better at tennis.
Across the net, Carlos bounces the ball against the court and catches, bounces and catches, the move practiced and efficient.
By the time I realized he was asking me to join him for a game, it seemed rude to refuse, especially given my invitation was what prompted his. It did, however, leave me with a whole new dilemma—I am absolutely disastrous in the athletic department.
But once he enthusiastically offered to snag his spare racket from the car while I ran home to change and grab my sneakers, that’d sealed my fate.
Go big or go home, right?
Is it too late to go home?
Nervous energy churns my gut when he asks if I’m ready, prompting me to toss out another disclaimer. “Like I said, I’m not very good at sports. I’d go so far as to say I’m very not good.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy on you.” His wink makes me think he doesn’t understand how bad a person can be. Thanks to high school, I’m not only painfully aware, it spikes my anxiety.
Almost as hard as Carlos is going to spike the ball at me, I just know it.
Or maybe that’s only in volleyball? I blacked out most of gym class to preserve my dignity.
A twang accompanies his serve, and I have no doubt he took it easy, but it’s more difficult than I expected to run toward the ball when every instinct is shouting at me to run away.
I swing and miss and then I’m chasing the bright yellow ball across the court like a toddler, taking two steps and bending a second too late, and how far is it going to roll?
At long last I seize the damn thing and turn to show it off, like otherwise Carlos wouldn’t have seen, only he’s no longer on his side of the court.
He’s on mine.
“Sorry,” I say at his approach, despite the many years of untraining myself to apologize for everything.
“You’re all good. You told me you were new to tennis, and I’m happy to give you a few tips.”
New to the sport is such a nice way of saying it, but my go-to for dealing with feeling self-conscious will always be jokes and sarcasm. “Is the first tip not to take up tennis?”
He laughs, the sound rich and full, and it eases the giant knot of tension in my chest. “All you need is help with the basics.”
“Story of my life,” I mutter, and he laughs again.
Snagging hold of my arm and positioning me in front of him, he takes over the glide of my racket. “It’s all in the wrist.”
The heat of his body seeps into my skin, tempting me to melt into his embrace instead of paying attention to his instructions.
“Unless you’re as uncoordinated as I am.” I twist my neck, acutely aware my lips are mere inches from his clean-shaven jaw, inhaling the crisp masculine scent of his aftershave. “Then it’s all in my butt, because if I’ll just sit my ass down on the sidelines, it’ll be safer for everyone.”
“You don’t strike me as a sidelines person.” His voice is a delicious rumble that sends aftershocks through my core, and without the hitting and swinging and chasing the ball, tennis really isn’t so bad.
I lick my suddenly dry lips, the loud hammering of my heart attempting to give me away. “If there’s a spotlight involved, I am. I’m more of a behind-the-scenes mastermind, coordinating and pulling the strings.”
The stretch and flex of his muscles transfers to me as he continues to guide my wrist and the racket through the motions. “But then you miss the rush of the game.”
“I’d rather put in the hard work prepping and planning beforehand, so I can spin, fix, and control every aspect I can.” I let my lips lightly graze his cheek as I add, “Even if that makes me too uptight.”
That dimple pops in his cheek, even swoonier from this close up. Neither of us are swinging the racket anymore, although I don’t dare let go because it’s brought me this far.
“As a fellow uptight person,” he says, and I immediately doubt it’s at the same level, but it also doesn’t sound like it’ll be a problem if things go any further. “I’ve gotta say, I find that refreshing. And passion and ambition like that? Total turn-on.”
My stomach takes the elevator all the way to the top.
“Right back at you,” I stumble over the words, completely flustered but attempting to flirt despite it. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, celebrating the bob in his throat as his eyes track the motion. “You were saying it’s all in the wrist?”
Victory screeches through me when he has to clear his throat.
“Right. Now, bend the knees a little—not that much.” Carlos winds his arms around my middle and lifts me into a barely there crouch that sends my butt right into his crotch.
Second base for my second-ish date, and I’m as surprised as anyone it’s going so well.
“Yep, that’s it. Staying low keeps you lighter on your feet so you can shuffle whichever direction the ball goes. ”
Doing as instructed leaves me semi-seated on his lap. “That’s a theory I’ve heard before on the sidelines of a basketball court, yes.”
His huff of laughter stirs the hair at my nape as he puts my arm through the motions again, our breaths both faster and shallower than last time. “Just like that. Feel it.”
I feel it all right, along with another part of his body, if I’m not mistaken.
My starved libido’s chiming in with unhelpful things like faster, harder, longer.
Heat flares, and between the tummy flutters and intoxicating zips of electricity, I’m coming a bit undone.
I’m attracted and intrigued, yet I hesitate to toss back a racy retort that’ll get us in deeper—and not just because I can’t think of one.
The Cronies would be thrilled about me seizing and living in the moment so fully, but the overthinker in me is trying to complicate it before anything’s even begun.
Then his lips brush the shell of my ear, causing a full body shiver when he says, “See, you’ve got it.”
I do have it, so I’m just going to go for it, but with the guy, not so much the tennis.
Loosening my grip on the racket, I begin to pivot in his arms…
The watch on his wrist rings, and he tenses slightly as he rolls the screen toward him to check who’s calling him.
“Emergency?” I ask.
“Hopefully not. I have a patient who ended up in the hospital while visiting her daughter, and she says she doesn’t trust the doctors there. She keeps leaving messages at the office, so I forwarded it to my cell for the evening.”
“You can answer if you’d like—or if you have to go, that’s fine, too.”
He appears torn, a look I’ve also worn when someone makes me choose, which is why I’d never ask.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, releasing me and jogging toward the bench.
By the time he jogs back, whatever intimate moment is gone, and while the lights are turning on for the evening, I’m a lot tired and a little unsure of myself.
But during the call, as he paced the court, another idea hit me, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
“As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’ve been organizing various workshops to help members of the community,” I say.
“With health a major concern, I hoped you might be willing to put on a clinic where we train interested residents in CPR and other basic first aid care.”
My mouth is off and running, my nervousness growing when I can’t read his expression.
“I’m sorry I can’t offer a speaking fee, and as you saw, the sex seminar was a little rocky, but I’ve made strides”—and accepted bribes—“and the body positivity presentation went much better. Plus, attracting new residents equals job security, and if we invite the larger community, it’ll also foster a better relationship between them and Lakeview’s residents. ”
Firm fingers wrap around my shoulders as he meets my eyes. “Relax, I think it’s a great idea.”
Being told to relax isn’t my favorite, as if I wouldn’t love to be able to do exactly that. Much like “stop stressing,” or “calm down,” those aren’t options installed in my mainframe. “How do you feel about a week from Saturday?”
His grin melts my insides. “It’s a date.”