Chapter 12 #2
“That would be a nightmare, wouldn’t it? Bev would never leave me alone, and I’d develop a cinnamon allergy from all the rolls I’d have to eat. Plus, she grows way too many sweet potatoes in that garden. Nobody likes vegetables that much.”
“That is a weak argument,” I said, focusing on my breathing and not on how hot my cheeks felt. “He’s not that bad, and I doubt Bev would force you to consume sweet potatoes more than once or twice a week.”
“Brown sugar and marshmallows on a vegetable are unnatural,” he replied, taking his phone from his back pocket and opening a new solitaire game. “You should talk to this doctor, even if he is making us wait an obscenely long time.”
“It’s only been seven minutes. Plus—”
“Sorry about that wait, you two,” Dr. Lucas said, stepping into the room and running a large hand through his thick brown hair. He smiled, showing straight, white teeth, and I sat a little straighter in the chair. I’d never even thought about his looks or marital status, but now, I wondered.
As Dad discussed his recovery, I used the opportunity to glance at the doctor’s hand, noticing that there was not a wedding band, and he was young.
Almost too young to be a leading heart specialist. He wore round, wire-framed glasses and his blue scrub top pulled tight across his chest, showcasing his sculpted muscles.
Dr. Lucas was hot—damn near smoking. From his black sneakers to his tapered waist and up toward his strong jaw and casually tossed hair that looked to have subtle blond highlights from the sun.
He probably had all kinds of outdoorsy hobbies, like surfing or rock climbing.
I was sure my idea of downtime and relaxation drastically differed from his.
Regardless, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.
“I want to see you back in two weeks. And try not to stress about your diet. It’s a lifestyle change, not something that can be corrected in a month. I could never give up the raspberry lemon croissants from Sweeter Things, and I don’t expect my patients to, either.”
My ears perked up hearing the name of the bakery, and then I shook my head and tugged my blouse down, realizing that desserts had me more excited than noticing that the doctor was not married.
“I prefer the lavender lemon scones with a double espresso,” I said, taking in the full force of his smile. Having dimples that deep should be illegal. Seriously, was there some sort of secret doctor code that said if you were under forty, you had to have a built body and charming personality?
“Hmm. With sugar?” he asked, tilting his head and moving a step closer to me.
“Only if I’m in the mood to ruin the coffee, doctor.”
He smirked, one side of his mouth tilting higher than the other as his eyes moved from my face and slid down my body, obviously checking me out. My stomach swooped, being the focal point of his attention, and my dad chuckled, shaking his head as I side-eyed him.
“Please, call me Tom. You’re Mrs. Winston, right?”
“Ms.,” I corrected, not bothering to tell him the paperwork to change my last name wasn’t finalized yet. “But call me Summer.”
“Summer,” he said in a low, deep voice that rumbled against my skin, causing goose bumps to follow in its wake. “I go to Sweeter Things at least twice a week. Usually between seven and eight. Maybe I’ll see you there?”
I dragged my lower lip between my teeth and nodded as his smile grew. He winked, and my eyes widened before Doctor Tom turned back to Dad to finish the appointment.
What had I just agreed to? A maybe-but-maybe-not coffee date with my father’s doctor sometime between the days of Monday through Sunday and the hours of seven and eight?
That had to be a pity offer made to make Dad feel more comfortable before the doctor laid down the law about his health or diet.
Perhaps he was lulling us into a false sense of security before dropping a bombshell like the operation had failed, or the bloodwork showed that something seriously nasty had invaded his system.
My phone vibrated in my back pocket, and I shook my head, fishing it out, and frowning when I saw who the text message was from. This was not the type of distraction I needed. It had been hard enough to stay focused on this appointment as it was.
Douche Ex: Where are you and why is there a random guy answering the door?
I rolled my eyes, glad Dad and the doctor were deep into a discussion about his blood pressure medication.
Why couldn’t he just leave me alone? He had the house.
A new wife. A baby on the way. Even with the pending court date for the inheritance, there was no reason for him to keep in touch.
Did the narcissistic jerkface have some complex that wouldn’t allow him to stay away?
He was like a slow acting poison, worming its way under my skin and into my bloodstream until every part of me was infected.
Me: Neither of those things are your business.
Douche Ex: It’s my business if we need to discuss something and you’re not home.
Me: There is nothing to discuss.
Douche Ex: I want to know who this guy is and why he’s talking like he knows you.
Douche Ex: The ink is still wet on our divorce papers and you’ve got this caveman sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong?
Douche Ex: Answer the phone!
I silenced my cell and slipped it back into my pocket, shaking my head. Dad was frowning, and Doctor Tom’s hazel eyes darted between the two of us. An awkward silence filled the space, and I forced myself to smile, pushing those pathetic texts to the back of my mind.
“I’ll see you in two weeks, Mr. Winston. Keep monitoring your incision site and let us know right away if anything changes.”
“Sure, doctor,” Dad said, standing from the exam table and holding out his hand. Doctor Tom shook it, then turned to me with his hand outstretched.
I placed my hand in his, and he squeezed, rubbing his thumb along the outside of my hand.
The touch was unexpected, and I leaned closer, breathing deep.
Leather and spice—maybe cardamom or clove—invaded my senses, tickling my nose and making me scrunch my face.
Not that it was unpleasant, more like the smell made my nose tickle and my skin itch.
Something was just off about his cologne—like he was trying too hard to make a good impression.
“I look forward to running into you at Sweeter Things, Summer,” Tom said, letting his voice drop to a low whisper. “Perhaps sooner than later.”
Speak. That’s what I need to do, right? Use my lips to form syllables that, when strung together, make words. Any words.
“Sure, Tom. I’m sure we’ll see each other soon.”
He smiled, passing Dad a clipboard with his paperwork attached as well as an appointment reminder, before he opened the door and motioned us to leave.
I followed Dad, twisting my hands together as he checked out and we went to the car, wondering what ever-loving nightmare I had just gotten myself into.