Chapter Seven Jeremy
I’m not surprised to see the doctor, I’m shocked.
Not once, in all the years I’ve watched Musical Mondays at Drexel Theater, had I seen anyone from my athlete life. Not that people who love hockey or work with athletes can’t love musicals, or vice versa.
More like this crowd is a little fanatical about the routine, so the usual couples or groups of friends have been coming for years. I’m used to seeing the same people. And it’s more of a neighborhood hang out than a public event because the owners are old school cheap, so the event is never advertised.
“See you next time, Jeremy,” Rose says while her husband tucks her hand in his elbow.
“Bye, Rose. See you later, Ken.”
“Don’t take two months to come back,” she reprimands me.
“I’ll try.”
“It’s hockey season, honey,” Ken interjects. “We’ll see him regularly in the summer.”
“How is your mom? Is she visiting any time soon?”
“The holidays, maybe. She’s busier than I am.”
Ken shakes his head and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Instead of following them out, I stay at the aisle and watch Dr. Kapur approach, brows so lifted they’re almost touching her hairline.
“Are you following me, Dr. Kapur?”
She blinks quickly, taken aback by my playful greeting. Before I can apologize for the tenth time today, she quips, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing here. Following you around town is a more likely activity than enjoying a film, just as stripping is more likely to happen than a medical exam. Your logic is flawless.”
Maybe I shouldn’t find that funny, but I can’t help my smirk. In response, she tilts her chin to signal me to get moving.
“After you, doc,” I say. “Haven’t you had enough of my backside? After all, you’ve been stalking me all day.”
Her disgruntled “ha!” is followed by an exaggerated eye roll. The doctor steps into the aisle like she got pushed from behind. In a blink, she’s by the exit.
“Hey, I didn’t mean for you to run off. Wait up.”
She stops so abruptly, I nearly crash my front to her back.
“Where are you off to?” I ask.
“Home. I walked here and stumbled into the show. You?”
“I come every chance I get.”
Going to Musical Mondays is, for me, like going to church on Sundays for most people. In other words, it’s a weekly ceremony drilled into my psyche since childhood that I rarely have the time to attend now that I’m an adult.
“Didn’t think you were a musical kind of guy.”
“Why not? What would a musical guy look like?”
She pauses thoughtfully. “Smaller.”
It’s my turn to sound indignant. “That’s very superficial, Dr. Kapur. I didn’t realize you were so judgmental. Actually, wait…”
The corner of her lips twitches up before she says, “Have a good night, Mr. Lopez.”
“Jeremy.”
“Good night, Jeremy.”
“Did you say you walked here? How far is your house? I know the neighborhood.”
Depending on where she’s heading, she might need an escort. Westside is the residential area where people like Ken and Rose have lived for decades, but northbound is closer to the rowdy college housing.
“I’m happy to walk on my own. Thank you.”
“Got time for a drink?” The words tumble out before my brain catches up. Why not take the opportunity to fix my shitty first impression?
“I don’t drink.”
“Ever?”
“No. I don’t drink with patients.”
“Not even coffee?” She rolls her eyes before turning away. I rush my next plea. “I was a complete ass today. Let me grab you a coffee and we can start over.”
“You’ve apologized numerous times, Jeremy.” Her brow twitches slightly, like she’s trying not to roll her eyes in exasperation. “Please don’t mention it again.”
I open the door for her. Dr. Kapur strolls past me and swears under her breath. It’s raining hard. We’re watching and feeling the downpour while under the Drexel overhang because the heavy raindrops are bouncing off the pavement.
“You know what they say about Columbus…” I offer.
“What?” She’s zipping up her hoodless jacket and assessing the streets.
“If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes.”
“Is that so?” She shrugs. “Then I’ll wait it out or call a cab.”
“I’ve got a better idea. Let’s get some shelter. If in ten minutes it gets worse instead of better, I’ll lend you my umbrella from my car or drive you home.” Before she can object, I add, “Today’s my birthday. You don’t really want to deny me my birthday wish, now do you, doc?”
I’ve gotten used to her rejection all day, but her silence surprises me. She hesitates, which I’m taking as an opening to make good on my peace offering.
“You moved here recently, right? I’m going to assume you haven’t been to Modern Morsels.”
“You make a lot of assumptions, Jeremy,” she says, pushing her hair away from her face.
It was in a neat, low ponytail earlier today, so I hadn’t noticed how long and thick it is, with large curls at the ends. They fall over her breasts, which I am definitely not looking at.
“Well? Have you?” I double down on my invitation.
“No. What is it?” she asks curiously.
“It’s a cookie shop. They’re open till midnight, mostly for the college kids. Nothing like a warm cookie to get you through a study session.”
“That sounds good, actually,” she mutters, eyes lighting up.
Well, look at that. It turns out this cold doctor can’t resist a warm cookie. She’s human after all.
“It’s half a block away,” I point down the street. I remove my jacket and hold it over her head, trying to be all chivalrous and shit, but she’s already walking briskly.
We get to the Modern Morsels window that offers a glimpse of the simple decor inside. The owners renovated it from an old ice cream parlor and kept the basic elements of a glass counter and sparse seating. When we push through the glass doors, the smell of vanilla and chocolate and cinnamon overwhelms the senses. It’s like being smacked in the forehead with domestic bliss.
“Do you have a favorite?” she asks.
“I love them all. I’ll grab us a sample dozen. Want a coffee or hot chocolate?”
“A dozen? Are you crazy?”
“How are we going to decide your favorite if we don’t try at least a dozen?” This is a sound argument she can’t deny.
“Just one to go with a decaf coffee, please. You choose. Anything but oatmeal raisin, which is the devil’s baked mush.”
I gasp incredulously, hamming up my reaction to her harsh words.
“I’ll have you know they are famous for their oatmeal raisin cookie. Are you trying to get us kicked out?”
She snorts, not giving my indignation any mind. “I’ll grab the booth that freed up.”
When I bring a half dozen cookies with her coffee, Vanya opens the box like a kid on Christmas morning. Her eyes sparkle while she links her fingers in front of her chest and wiggles herself on the chair. It’s adorably unexpected. I bet not everyone gets to see this serious doctor’s candid delight over cookies. The sense that I’m catching a glimpse of something rare is weirdly pleasurable.
For a record number of times today, my body reacts inappropriately. I get a flash memory of Dr. Vanya Kapur pressed against me. Her eyes had been wide with surprise and her full mouth slightly parted. My fingers tingle, recalling her supple curves in my grip.
I’m suddenly a horny-as-fuck teenager fighting down a reaction.
Ed Sheeran croons through the store speakers. I try super hard to focus on what he looks like. Not saying he wouldn’t be attractive to someone, but he doesn’t do it for me.
Vanya reaches over to take a bite of the salted caramel pretzel cookie and moans so sexily, she might as well have tugged at my cock. Her high cheekbones hollow slightly while she chews. Her pink tongue sticks out to lick a sliver of caramel on her bottom lip.
Shit, Ed Sheeran is no longer enough. Oh fuck, oh fuck, think of something else.
Closing my eyes, I conjure an unsexy British trio. Ed Sheeran. Jamie Oliver. King Charles .
That does it. Whew.
“Is everything OK?” she asks after swallowing her bite. “Did you want the one I picked?”
“No! I, um, I was just…” Fighting a boner by envisioning the royal comb-over.
“I just remembered something,” I offer vaguely.
“I would have studied a lot harder and longer if I could stuff my mouth with something this delicious,” she says, licking a stray crumb from her thumb.
It’s hard to look away from the sheen on her bottom lip. My comprehension evaporated after she said “stuff my mouth.”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Anything,” I answer, intrigued by her conspiratorial tone and happy to stop thinking of her mouth.
“Today is my birthday, too.”
“No way, really? Look at us, two Scorpios.”
“Indeed.”
“I’m twenty-six today. You?” I blurt automatically. Wait, that was inappropriate to ask, right? My mom would smack me on the head if she was here.
But instead of being insulted, Dr. Kapur leans in. “Guess.”
I take the word as an invitation to stare at her leisurely. It’s hard to describe her features, because her expression seems older than the details of her face. As in, her eyes are clear and the corners are unlined, and yet they also convey the sternness of a middle-aged librarian telling you to shut up.
“The big three-zero,” she announces hurriedly because I’m taking way too long to answer.
“Happy Birthday to us!” I raise my coffee cup to meet hers.
“Thank you,” she says with a smile. “Or maybe that’s premature gratitude. This is walking distance from my place and therefore dangerously tempting. You might have introduced me to a new vice, Jeremy.”
“You think the salted caramel cookie is a vice? Try the chocolate espresso.”
I point to the warm, gooey masterpiece with large chunks of milk chocolate and the aroma of a café.
“Split it with me,” she says and pulls half off. I take the other half. We playfully clink our cookies and stuff our faces. She moans again but this time I’m ready, clearing my throat to muffle the sound.
“Where do you live?” I ask, taking a sip of my coffee.
“Cassidy Ave, two blocks west of Main Street.”
I grab a napkin just in time to catch my surprised spurt. “Cassidy? I live on Cassidy. 508.”
“What? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not. That’s the house I grew up in.”
“Based on that number, I think we’re across from each other. I’m at 503A.”
“You live with Professor Sorel?” I blurt in surprise.
“I’m renting it while he’s on sabbatical. I can’t believe I never saw you. I was in and out all weekend. It’s a friendly street. The three girls who live on the other side of the duplex say hi every time they play outside. And Mr. and Mrs. Rahn dropped off a casserole the second night I moved in.”
“Oh, no,” I exclaim ominously. “Not their sweet potato with green bean casserole!”
She chuckles. “The dish contained, from what I could discern, sweet potatoes and green beans.”
“I’m so sorry. They bring that to every potluck, and no one has the heart to tell them those are good together on a Thanksgiving table but, like, separately.”
“It was still nice of them. I ate a bit and then froze the rest. I’ll be too busy to make myself dinner one of these nights and would love nothing more than a Thanksgiving-themed casserole.”
“They mush them together, Vanya! To-get-ther,” I slow down to emphasize my point.
She smiles and shrugs. “Anyway, I’m surprised I never bumped into you.”
“We came back from a long road trip last night,” I explain. “Although, wow, what are the chances. That’s kind of…”
“Crazy!” she says the same time I say “Awesome!”
She has a subtle laugh that’s more in her eyes and the shake of her shoulders than an actual sound. It’s a nice laugh, and one I didn’t expect to hear after our rocky start. There aren’t a lot of things a warm cookie can’t fix.
“Do you come here often?” she asks.
“The team dietitian forces me to watch my sugar intake, so I rarely pop in.”
She looks concerned all of a sudden. “Why? Are you glucose sensitive?” Vanya reverts to the stern doctor from earlier today. “Inflammation issues?”
She has no idea.
“Yeah, inflammation is shit for my nerves,” I confirm.
She closes the box and pulls it to her side of the table. “Well, for your benefit, it looks like I’m taking the leftovers.”
“That was always the plan,” I say with a wink.
This time, she doesn’t bother hiding her eye roll.