"Now what?"
"I'll let you know when he responds."
I felt a burst of nerves explode in my gut as I thought about hot Doctor Buttchin looking at my photo. What if he didn't think I was cute? I shoved down the insecurity and turned my music back up, pushed myself to finish the piece I’d been working on. I had a good life with or without Dr. Buttchin. I’d be fine. I’d get a dog, just to throw everyone off.
I needn't have worried. Max called me back an hour later. "It's on. Saturday night. You're meeting at McDaughtry's at eight."
"The team bar?" McDaughtry's was an Irish pub in the Gaslamp Quarter where Max's team, the South Bay Sharks, tended to hang out.
"I want to keep an eye on you."
"Fair enough." I thought about Max watching me have a first date. I would be glad to know he’d be there if the guy pulled out a machete or something, but I didn’t necessarily need an audience if things went well. “A teeny bit weird though. And I thought you wanted to be anonymous.”
“I’m there to protect you. Don’t point me out and we’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
Now I just had to handle my nerves and insecurity until Saturday.
Chapter 3
Paging Dr. Buttchin
Cat
I arrived at McDaughtry's with crazy nerves shooting around inside me. I'd dated. Like, a lot. But there was something about Max's confidence that this guy would be the one that had my mind flipping over itself with possibilities. I was thinking about tiny little chin-cleft kids and family vacations. And I realized that was nuts considering I hadn't even met the guy.
"Your brother is pretty smart," Mom had said when I'd called to tell her about the experiment. "And he's been quizzing me about love since he was a little boy. I actually think it makes perfect sense that he'd find a way to combine his aptitude for numbers with his deep interest in love."
"Don’t you think it’s weird that Max has a deep interest in love?"
Mom laughed. "I don't know if it’s weird. I think it has to do with losing your dad. It’s a way of mourning, I think, of trying to understand the loss. He's been digging into the topic with his scientist's mind since he was a kid, in one way or another."
She was right. Max did always ask my mom strange questions about Dad, about how they had been together, about why it had worked.
So with Mom's blessing, I had dressed in a flowy red sundress that showed off my legs, matched it with red lips, and styled my hair in long waves over my shoulders. If this didn't get Dr. Buttchin's attention, nothing would.
I stepped into the bar, pausing just past the threshold for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dimness. My brother sat at the bar facing me and gave me a little salute as I looked his way. I lifted my hand at my side, keeping it low in case the good doctor was already watching me. I didn't want him to think I knew everyone in the bar. Drunk floozy was not the first impression I was aiming for here.
The space was pretty big, with several seating areas scattered around the main bar in the middle. I scanned the tables and my eyes stopped on a head of dark wavy hair just as bright blue eyes met mine. A little shock ran through me as our gazes met, and I took it as a good sign.
The doctor stood and smiled at me as I approached, and my stomach dropped. He was tall, and dark, and so much more handsome than his photo revealed.
"Hello," he said. "Cat?" He looked just the tiniest bit uncertain, and it just about charmed the pants right off me.
"Yes," I said. "Todd?" Because Todd, after all, was Dr. Buttchin's real name.
"Guilty," he confirmed. He grinned, revealing the dimple beneath his lips and two more in his cheeks, and I swear I practically swooned. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Sure," I said, moving to sit down. "A glass of pinot noir?" Just as I was about to tuck myself into a spot, Todd stopped me.
"Oh, wait, no."
I straightened back up. "Sorry?"
"Do you mind sitting on my right side?" He smiled apologetically, but didn't offer an explanation.
"Sure," I said, moving to the other side of the small table.
"I'll be right back with that drink." He strode off toward the bar, affording me a very nice view of his backside, covered in chic dark slacks and perfectly round and tight beneath the fabric. Here was a guy who took care of himself. He’d surely be good at taking care of a family. Or that is what I would have been thinking if I was having neurotic and inappropriate thoughts about having a family with a man I’d met two seconds ago.
"Here you go," he said, placing a glass on the table before me as he slid back into his seat.
"Thank you," I said, and then I touched the rim of my glass to the top of his pint glass and we were underway.
He made a strange face as I did so, his lip wrinkling the tiniest bit and then returning to normal.
We talked, laughing and exploring our commonalities and differences. I had to hand it to Max, Todd did seem like a great match for me. He adored art, loved animals and wanted children. And then there was his ridiculously handsome face and the body to match. The only thing that should have tipped me off to the fact that Todd was not, in fact, a good match for me, was the way he insisted on wiping down the table with sanitizer wipes he pulled from his pocket.
I’d been in the middle of telling him about the art show coming up in Santa Monica, but found myself struggling mid sentence. “And it’s just a big deal because… I…”
He lifted my glass to wipe beneath it and offered me an encouraging smile. “Go on. It’s amazing you have a solo show already. You’re so young.” He folded up the wipe neatly and placed it on the very far edge of the table.
“Right,” I said, trying to push away a growing concern over Buttchin’s need for cleanliness. I took a breath and went on, explaining the way I’d decided to approach theme for the show.
But as I talked, a teeny tiny alarm was sounding in my head. He’d even reached out once and wiped down my glass for me. He was protecting me from bacteria, I supposed. Not weird, right? Charming. I was going with charming.
He was a doctor. He treated patients with all kinds of terrible diseases, and probably had learned to be extra careful about germs.
"Thanks," I said, unable to avoid addressing the sanitization of our environment any longer. "Is it flu season?"
"It's always flu season," he said, grinning as if he were joking and then not offering anything else to explain the increasingly sanitary nature of our table. He even pumped a little bit of sanitizer out of a bottle from his pocket once when he thought I wasn't looking.
I had one hand on the booth next to where I sat, and now that I was thinking about it, I noticed it was just slightly moist. I lifted my hand to my nose and sniffed lightly, confirming my suspicion that my seat had, indeed, been wiped liberally with sanitizer before I'd sat down. No wonder he wanted me on the right. He must have wiped down the side where he assumed I’d sit.
"So what kind of medicine do you practice?" I asked him, expecting him to be an infectious disease specialist or maybe a pediatrician, given the focus on infectious germs.
"I'm an ophthalmologist," he said.
So there went that theory.
But if you touched eyes, you had to be very clean. I knew this because I habitually felt guilty over my own ghastly habits where my contact lenses were concerned. It was a wonder I hadn't lost an eye yet. I took a moment to suffer a pang of guilt once again and resolved to improve my habits, if not for myself, then out of deference for Todd. Clearly the germ situation in San Diego was worse than I’d imagined.
"Would you maybe want to get out of here? Take a walk or something?" Todd's blue eyes glimmered in the low light, and between the encouraging smile on his lips, the scent of something spicy and manly emanating from his very broad chest—and if I'm being honest, the two glasses of wine—I found myself nodding.
Once we were out in the clear air, I was sure Todd would be able to focus on me, on us. And while he was quite fastidious,
he was also a catch. He was successful and attentive, handsome and gentlemanly. We all had our faults, and cleanliness was certainly not akin to alcoholism or anger issues, right? If Todd was a good kisser, I’d say yes to a second date.
Yes, I thought. Max really was a genius. This would be great. I gave my brother a wink as we went out, and felt my phone buzz in my purse in response. He had promised to keep tabs via text if we left the bar, and I knew if I didn’t text him back in an hour, he’d be calling out the cavalry (in the form of the South Bay Sharks, his soccer team, members of whom were every bit as intimidating as cops with guns.)
Todd and I walked around the Gaslamp Quarter for a bit, strolling and enjoying the vibrant crowds and energy. It was amazing. We talked, we flirted, he held my hand. After a while, he asked if he could drive me home, and after texting Max, I accepted, since I had ubered to the bar.
Todd's car was nice. Pristine, actually. It was a Lexus, some kind of fancy sedan that practically screamed "doctor." Inside, the dashboard and console were spotless, glimmering in the lights from the street as Todd opened the passenger door for me. I was just about to slide in, when he stopped me. "Just one second."
He leaned down and reached into the glove box, and pulled what looked like a large rubber glove from inside, smiling at me as he proceeded to cover the passenger seat with the thin protective barrier.
"You put a condom on your seat?" I asked him.
He laughed as if this was the most insane thing he'd ever heard, shaking his head as he helped me slide in and sit on the latex-covered seat. And then he said, "Yes."
The door closed and he walked around to the driver side. After covering his own seat with a protective barrier as well, he got in.
"Are these ribbed for my comfort?" I asked him, not really sure what to make of the car condom situation.
"Very funny," he said, but there was a note of irritation in his voice.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he drove, my mind spinning around the strange focus on sanitization, and offered directions to my house. I wasn't ready to write the guy off—I mean, safety was important and germs were a real threat, after all. But really, I wanted this to work. I wanted to find the right guy, and so much else about Todd was great. I was attracted to him, he seemed interested in me, and if I was really honest, I didn’t want to have to tell Max he’d been wrong.
So I invited Todd in.
Todd looked around as he stepped into my house, and I had a sneaky suspicion he was analyzing the potential for germs on every surface he saw, but he smiled and turned to me. "This is really nice," he said.
"It's not much," I said. "But I like being close to the water, and the sound of the ocean helps me work sometimes."
We stood awkwardly near the door for a moment. "Can I get you a drink maybe?"
Todd was staring intently at my face now, his eyes dark in the low light. "Actually, I've been hoping for the past hour or so that I might get a chance to kiss you, Cat."
Oh. Well. There was that. I liked his honesty, and my stomach resumed its nervous flipping as I smiled up at him. "I think that'd be good," I said.
He reached out a hand, letting it brush my shoulder softly before moving down to land on my waist. I stepped nearer to him, and his other hand cupped my jaw. I looked up into those deep blue eyes, lifting my chin slightly in anticipation. The air was buzzing between us, charged and electric with anticipation, and I could feel the heat emanating off Todd's strong chest.
It was happening—it was like magic. It felt so right, so natural, so—
"Cat?" Todd stepped back, dropping his hands from me.
And the romance I'd been enjoying came to another screeching halt.
"Um, yeah?"
"I forgot to wash my hands." Todd looked apologetic. "And I touched your face, so you might want to, like...take a shower."
"A shower?"
The easy smile was back. He nodded.
"You think I should take a shower?" I said it softly, in a near whisper, most likely revealing my disbelief. We weren’t there yet romantically, that was for sure. And if this was a sanitary kind of shower…I felt the door inside me snap firmly shut. This. Was not happening.
"For you," he said, matter-of-factly. "I don't think I sanitized after touching the steering wheel, and then I touched your face, and who knows what I might have deposited there?"
"Who knows?" I echoed, standing. I didn’t plan to take a shower, but I did need a moment. “Could you, uh…could you excuse me a minute?”
I headed for the bathroom and closed myself inside. I stared into the mirror for a long minute, wondering why I was destined to never find anyone I might actually be able to have a normal healthy relationship with. Then I texted my brother.
Me: Dr. Buttchin is a no go.
Max: What did he do?
Me: If you don’t hear from me in five minutes, come over.
Max: Standing by. Be safe, Cat.
I emerged to find Todd wiping down the counters in my kitchen.
"Oh for the love of God," I murmured.
He smiled at me, the buttchin revealing its dimple again. "I hope you don't mind, just tidying."
I glanced around and spotted my bottle of Lysol on the counter, next to a rubber glove. I didn't own a pair of rubber gloves. "Did you bring that with you?" I asked, pointing at the yellow long-fingered glove next to the Lysol. "The glove?"
"Oh, yeah. I don't travel without it."
Travel? He was on a date. "You know what? I think I'm actually really tired."
Todd's face fell. "Really?"
I nodded, a familiar disappointment settling in my belly. So much for math being the salvation of my love life. Dr. Buttchin was a serious head case.
"Is it the cleaning?"
"And the car condoms."
"I like things to be sanitary." He sounded apologetic.
"Sure," I said. I wasn't going to argue, but my mind was spinning around the idea of what sex in pristine sanitary circumstances might be like. I definitely was not going to find out.
"You're probably thinking this is a compulsion, or that maybe I should get help, but I can assure you it's just a choice."
"I don't know if that makes it better, actually," I said. If this was a true mental illness, I could be supportive. If it was a conscious choice...well...that was odd.
"I guess, I'll..." Todd pointed toward the front door.
"Okay." I nodded.
When he and his yellow glove and car condoms had departed, I sank onto the couch with my phone.
Me: Your math was wrong
Max: What? What happened?
Me: Dr. Buttchin was a head case. I'll explain tomorrow.
Max: I'll need as much info as possible to adjust the algorithm.
Me: Tomorrow
Chapter 4
Here’s Your Tooth Back
Cat
"It doesn't make a lot of sense," Max said after I'd explained the sad and somewhat terrifying trajectory of my date with Dr. Buttchin.
"Tell me about it. The man had condoms for his car seats. I found mine in the garbage can outside my house in the morning." I stared at him across the table outside my front door, the Pacific rolling behind us.
"He should have been a good match." Max was staring at his computer, his dark head held between his palms. "There's something missing. A question I didn't ask," he said. "Let me do a little more analysis."
After that, Max made me recount every little thing Todd had told me about himself on our date and made copious notes. He nodded and fretted, and eventually seemed to have an idea.
"I'm going to revise the algorithm," he said. "And then we're trying again."
"Um, maybe not." Maybe I was better off finding my own dates in bars. Or maybe I'd take up fishing or cigars, or some other hobby men seemed to enjoy.
"Come on, one more try," Max said. "Tell me everything else about him wasn't a perfect fit."
I thought about it, remembering the way my stomach
had flipped when he'd cupped my jaw, looked into my eyes. "It kind of was," I admitted.
I probably shouldn't have trusted Max after the car condom incident, but I loved my brother and I did actually believe he was a genius. I wasn't sure if matchmaking was actually going to be the place where he realized his gift and changed the world with it, but he had invested more than a year in his little experiment. The least I could do was participate. It made little sense, but I felt like Max had more invested in this than he did in his soccer career. It was weirdly tied up in our Dad, in the love he and Mom had shared, in Max’s determination to make up for that loss somehow.
I could sit on a few more ribbed carseat rubbers if it helped Max realize his dream of getting me married off. (Though really, pro soccer seemed like a dream too. How many dreams should one guy get?)
And if I was truthful with myself, I had a little spark of hope that maybe Mr. Match really could find my match. Maybe there really was a perfect fit out there for me somewhere in my hometown.
Because while Max's dreams might revolve around soccer and math, mine involved raising babies under the San Diego sunshine, and spending my life with someone who really did get me. I was willing to give it one more shot.
"Got him," Max said when he called three days later.
* * *
Girard was waiting for me at McDaughtry's when I arrived. He was sitting in a corner booth with an uncertain smile on his thin sculpted lips, his red hair glinting in the overhead lights. I'd honestly always had a thing for gingers, and when Max had shown me Girard's photo, the attraction was instant. Dr. Buttchin had been hot, but Girard was good-looking in a much more understated way.
It seemed like the right thing for me—I wasn't your average California blonde, either. I was pretty in a less classic way, and I liked to think it took a special man to really appreciate my looks. Maybe it was a little shallow, but on first impressions, we might be a fit.
Scoring a Soulmate, a Mr. Match Novella Page 2
