Doctor Desirable: A Hero Club Novel

by Anjelica Grace

  The thought sours my mood and I keep scrolling, finding some posts from distant family members entertaining enough to chuckle at, but avoiding interacting with them so they don’t try to contact me. I need to get to what I set out to do.

  With stiff, unpracticed fingers, I type out Dee’s name. Nothing comes up. I scroll and scroll, but there are no Cassidee Parkers to be found.

  After about ten minutes of searching on my own, I realize I’m shit at this and I need to ask an expert. While I would rather not involve him, there is only one person I know who can find just about anyone and anything on social media.

  With a slight pause, I think on this decision one last time, then open my text app and text Xavier.

  Me: How the fuck do you manage to find someone on social media?

  Xavier: Hello to you too. What do you mean?

  Me: Say you wanted to find someone, but their name wasn’t working, how would you find them?

  Xavier: Are you looking for the woman who has you all fucked up and confused?

  Goddammit, Jackson. Do you not know how to keep your mouth shut?

  Me: Just answer the damn question.

  Xavier: So it is her. You should really remove the stick shoved up your ass; she probably won’t give you a second glance if you’re as prickly to her as you are being to me right now.

  Me: Fuck off, Xavier.

  Xavier: Dude, you do realize you texted me, right?

  Me: And clearly it was a mistake…

  Xavier: You need to get laid. Christ. I hope this helps you be less of an asshole. If you can’t find her by name, try to think of anyone else she might be friends with and search for them. It usually works. She may be using a nickname or a full name or legal name. She may be smart and hiding herself from creepy stalkers like you, too.

  Me: Again, fuck off.

  Me: And thanks.

  He replies with a middle finger, and then again with a thumbs up. I really need to send Jackson a message and rip him a new one for opening his Goddamn mouth, but it can wait. I can’t believe I didn’t think of looking for friends from work. Such a rookie mistake.

  I think for a moment. She could have added her supervisor, but it’s more likely she has added Dr. Hogue’s wife. If I remembered her name, it would be easier to search. But I do know his name, and I’m sure he has a profile.

  I search him out, finding him easily enough, and add him as a friend. If his wife is friends with Dee, she may end up in pictures with him at some point. His profile, thankfully, is public and finding his wife is easy enough. With one small click I am able to access her page, but unlike his, her profile is private.

  Fuck.

  Now what do I do?

  I finish my too warm beer in three large swallows and set the bottle down. She may be friends with her boss, even if I wouldn’t be caught dead having mine as a friend.

  I pull up our hospital website and seek out the PT department information. I know her full name will be there, it’s a new initiative to make us seem more friendly. All heads of department are advertised on the site.

  Just as I expected, I easily recognize Dee’s supervisor, Miranda Fritz, then click back over to Facebook and search her name.

  She has a public profile, thankfully, and her friends list is also public. That’s a win for me, too, until I realize she has over two thousand friends. This shit is going to take forever.

  Before I go through the mental frustration of searching through two thousand people, I go back to her profile and start scrolling through posts. Many are pictures of local hotspots. Some are of Miranda and her husband out on dates. And more than those are pictures of her pets and of PT memes and videos. The woman shares everything.

  Just as I’m about to give up here and go back to searching through her thousands of friends, one last post catches my attention. It’s one of those you know you’re this if… posts. I have to admit, it’s probably an accurate meme, but I don’t care so much about that. Maybe I should, since it directly reflects how they are treated by doctors; but I don’t because she tagged friends in it. With fingers crossed, I click the link to the other names tagged in her post and glance at them. There’s a Joel, a Patty, an Elliott, and a Cassidee Nichole…

  That has to be her. But I’m not certain because instead of a display photo of her, it’s of a “World’s Best Coach” image. Even the other big photo stretched like a banner over her whole profile doesn’t have her in it. It’s of a team of what appears to be young gymnasts all making silly faces.

  I’m sure there aren’t many Cassidees who are physical therapists, but I can’t be certain this is her either. And her location is no help. She’s listed as being from Colorado—very interesting since that’s my home too—and her current location is Colorado Springs.

  Maybe she’s from there. Maybe life is so coincidental we are both from the Denver area and now working at the same hospital in Rhode Island.

  But do I believe in coincidences enough to add her?

  ****

  Dee

  Fresh out of a hot shower, my body feels relaxed and nimble. The scorching hot water paired with the workout I did before have me tired, at ease, and ready to chill out and be a couch potato for the rest of my night. Work was long today. Lunch from Nate aside, things went to shit in a hurry this afternoon. Between the patient who fell, the elderly woman with Alzheimer’s who was not lucid and trying to walk after breaking a hip, and the baseball player I had to inform would likely be missing his final summer with his club team and may not get to play in college, I was so ready to leave by the end of my shift.

  I love my job. I love helping people. One bad day like today won’t change the countless great days where I make a huge difference and give someone the second chance they’re looking for, but today, I hate my job. I hate the bad side to it. More than all that, I hate I have to come home alone, had no one to talk to or share with, and no one here to comfort me.

  Before Mitch, I didn’t want commitment and a relationship. Then I met him at Starbucks and made my play. I was the better of the two girls he was torn about dating. We were damn good together. Until we weren’t. It still hurts. I was so close to finishing my internship; I was so close to applying for jobs and making a life for myself, and for us. Then he decided he didn’t want permanent. He didn’t want love. He didn’t want a family. The only problem was being with him, falling for him, and then seeing how happy my best friend was with her family and life made me want love and a family of my own, too. Being a wild, carefree single woman just isn’t as fun when your wing woman is out of commission. Being the third wheel every weekend pretty much sucks, too.

  I want to fit in with my paired-up friends. Even Bridget is married with kids. It didn’t take long for me to realize having a partner was something I wanted in my life.

  I let my towel fall loose at my feet and change into my panties and pajamas. I can hear the faint buzz of my phone on the counter in the kitchen. It’s a single pattern, so it probably isn’t a text or call, but there is something there.

  As I walk from my room into the kitchen, I pile my wet hair on top of my head into a quick bun, making sure nothing can drip onto my back and soak it. I have multiple notifications, an email from my mom, texts from work, and one single friend request on Facebook.

  Curiosity wins out over obligation to reply to everyone else, and I click the request.

  No fucking way.

  The photo is moderately old, given how young he looks, but there is no mistaking he is the Nathan Alexander who drives me crazy, makes my skin tingle, and flips my stomach upside down with butterflies, while simultaneously enraging me and making me want to cause bodily harm.

  How did he find me though? My privacy settings are tight. I don’t use my last name anywhere, and I’ve made sure I’m not searchable online.

  He doesn’t seem like the social media type, but maybe it’s just another side of him he typically hides from everyone. Regardless, I need to keep this low-key for now.

&nb
sp; Like any experienced social media user, plus skilled online stalker, I know the best thing to do is start with profile pictures. They’re not so hidden within a profile where it looks like I went searching, but there are usually enough to react to and make the point I do, in fact, like him. I like to think of it as overtly subtle flirting. I only hope he takes the hint and it’s not wasted.

  With a childlike giddiness and grin, I click through his profile pictures, taking my time looking at each. The one he has now appears to be from his time in school, I’m not sure if it was high school or college though. Either way he looks young, skinnier than he is now, but still pretty well-built. Another picture shows him with his brothers. One of them is definitely Xavier, but I have to assume the other is their third brother. The way their arms are slung over each other, with the matching mischievous grins on their faces, it’s nearly impossible to not see the family resemblance. He looks happy. Genuinely happy. In fact, the small dimple I’ve only seen once is on full display in this picture.

  He may be incredibly sexy wearing scrubs and a scowl, but happy and carefree Nathan Alexander is downright delectable.

  As I’m clicking out of his profile pictures so I can discreetly view and not like the rest of his photos, my phone pings with an incoming message, just before his little profile picture pops up on my phone.

  Nathan: You don’t waste any time, do you?

  He would start a conversation without using common pleasantries like hello.

  Me: Whatever do you mean?

  The little dots start bouncing across the bottom of the screen, then they disappear for a few seconds, popping back up momentarily before his message fills the new space beneath my last to him.

  Nathan: I have eight notifications from you in the last five minutes.

  Me: You invited my prying eyes. You did friend me, remember?

  Nathan: Friend requests are invitation into prying eyes?

  Me: Friend requests are invitation to learn anything and everything you can about a person. Isn’t that the point of social media?

  Nathan: I wouldn’t know. I have better things to do.

  Ugh. There he goes again.

  Me: Yet here we are, talking on social media.

  Nathan: I know. You make me do absolutely insane things.

  Me: I do? How do you figure?

  Nathan: I didn’t know how else to get a hold of you. I never got your number…

  Me: So you hired a PI to find me on here?

  I know he didn’t. There is absolutely no way he would do that. I do want to know how he found me though. I don’t make it easy. I usually have to search others out, really.

  Nathan: A PI? No. You may be well hidden, but I have my ways, Cassidee Parker. I’m good.

  I absolutely hate being called Cassidee. In fact, it’s a name only my grandma and parents can use without me cringing and wanting to plug my ears, and humming over the offender’s voice, like a child throwing a tantrum. I like when he uses it though. I can just picture the way it sounds on his usually angry lips, and it gives me a pleasure I never knew hearing my name could give me.

  Me: You’re right; I am hidden. So if you didn’t hire someone, how did you find me?

  Nathan: You know I don’t reveal my secrets.

  Me: Ah, yes, but you said you’d try to let me in. This is one secret that seems pretty harmless, so why don’t you give trust a shot.

  The dots appear next to his display image again. Then they disappear. Then they appear.

  Nathan: Give me your number?

  Me: Give me your answer…

  Nathan: I will. Just give me your number first. Please.

  I want to keep pushing, but I’m enjoying this back-and-forth right now, and I’m afraid if I resist too long or push too hard, he’ll shut down and whatever headway we’ve made today will be gone, so I relent and send my phone number to him.

  I wait impatiently for his little dots to reappear now. One minute trickles into two, and by minute three I’m feeling prickly and played.

  Until my phone rings and a number I don’t recognize displays on my screen. I haven’t been here long, but I do recognize the area code as being a Rhode Island number, so I answer it.

  “Hello? This is Cassidee.” I answer with my full name in case it’s the hospital.

  “I’m glad you didn’t give me a bad number.” His voice sounds slightly different over the phone. It’s not quite as strong and impactful, but the gravelly distortion is still nice to hear.

  “I wouldn’t do that. I take it you were tired of messaging me?”

  He chuckles and I instantly picture his hidden, rare dimple forming in his cheek. “I told you I don’t like social media.”

  “I’m not sure messaging like that counts, honestly.” My own smile is wide and stupid right now, but the mere fact I’m talking to Nathan Alexander on the phone has me feeling all sorts of happy.

  “It counts. Trust me.” I can hear him swallowing something on his end, and I’m curious if it’s water, coffee, or something else. But I don’t want to ask just yet. “I didn’t hire a PI.”

  “How did you find me then?”

  “Like I said, you make me do things I wouldn’t ordinarily do. I friended Dr. Hogue so I could find his wife’s profile, assuming you were friends with her. Apparently she is private, too. Then I thought I could find your supervisor. Lucky for me, she is a very public person and she tagged you in a picture. Without a clear picture of you, I couldn’t be sure it was the right person, but then I figured the odds of there being another Cassidee who is a PT and lives in Rhode Island were slim.”

  I fall backward onto my couch with a little bounce and cover my mouth with my hand to keep myself from giggling.

  “What was that sound?”

  “I… Nothing. It was nothing. You were right on the odds. It was me.”

  “Thank God for that. But I had to add Simon Hogue as a friend. That’s going to cost you.” I can tell he’s teasing, but knowing how difficult he can be, I don’t expect him to not follow through.

  “It is not my fault you got impatient and didn’t just wait to ask me at work.”

  “Yes, it is. You dined and dashed on me earlier, I couldn’t ask. Even if I had thought about it.”

  This time I do laugh, loudly and proudly. “No way. You don’t get to pin your forgetfulness on me. Are you on tomorrow?”

  “Sadly. I have multiple surgeries. My first is at seven. It’ll be an early and long day. You?”

  “I’m working from eight to—” I cut myself off with a long yawn then continue, “I’m sorry. I’m working eight to six tomorrow.”

  “Ten isn’t awful. But based on that yawn, you need to get some sleep before you go in. I should let you go.”

  “It would probably be smart. But, if I’m being honest, I like talking to you without us fighting.”

  “Maybe we’ll try it again tomorrow. I can’t promise I’ll be in a great mood at work. It’s going to be a long day. So show me some patience?”

  “I understand, and I will, but will you try?” I swing my legs onto my couch and readjust my body so I can lie on the small decorative pillow next to the arm of the couch.

  “For you, I will. I may just say sorry now, too. Just in case.”

  I yawn again and chuckle. “A preemptive apology. You must be anticipating a shittastic day. I suppose I will accept on the condition you try to control the dickish behavior.”

  “If you agree to go to bed when we hang up, I’ll try extra hard to not be a dick. At least to you.”

  I nod my head, even though he can’t see me. “Bribery will get you everywhere, Dr. Alexander. You should get some sleep too. You’re the one cutting people open in the morning.”

  “I think I’ll finish this bottle of water and then do just that.”

  I can almost picture him, relaxed and casual—almost like at the carnival—in a pair of sleep pants or maybe just his underwear in bed. His hair would be a little more tousled than normal, eyes heavy with sl
eepiness. It’s something I would absolutely love to see.

  “Hey, Dee?” he interrupts my thoughts. What did he say? I have absolutely zero idea.

  “Huh? Sorry, I, uh, I nodded off.”

  He laughs at me, and my clearly poor attempt at lying. “You should go get some sleep then. Have sweet dreams.” The overtone is obvious and makes my cheeks warm.

  “You too, Nate. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Dee. I’ll see you tomorrow sometime.” We end the call and I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow.

  “Oh my God!” I squeal loudly into the fluffy fabric and shake my head. He is so mercurial. But hell, I’m loving every second of whatever we have going on right now.

  I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.

  Sixteen

  Nate

  I spent days trying to avoid Dee at all costs. I would check on one patient when I knew she was with another. I would busy myself with other doctors or nurses when I thought we might run into each other on the floor. I spent more time in my own office and on the surgical floor in one week than I probably have any other time in my career, yet I still managed to run into her and see her constantly.

  Yesterday, today, probably even tomorrow at this rate, I have yet to see her at all. Now that we’ve talked, there’s something to look forward to. Now that we’ve talked and we are trying to be friends and more, I want to see the gorgeous, infuriating, and incredible woman. Now that I want to see her, I can’t find her or catch glimpses of her anywhere.

  It’s crazy enough I would almost think she’s changed her mind, and is actively trying to avoid me, if she hadn’t texted me last night telling me about how hectic everything was yesterday. One of the PTs got fired due to allegations of sexual assault, and now she’s on a different floor and helping with the pediatric patients. I do pediatric surgeries, but my bread and butter are adults.