Dating Dr. Dreamy: A Small Town Second Chance Romance (Bliss River Book 1)

by Lili Valente

  Before I met him, Melody and Aria were the only people in the world who could make me giggle until my sides hurt. Finding someone outside my family who laughed at all the same things I did, and didn’t judge me when I snorted lemonade through my nose during a giggle attack, was…special.

  “So how hungry are you?” Mason asks.

  I shrug. “Not starving, but I didn’t have dinner.” I pause at the last street corner before the downtown area gives way to strip malls and bodegas, with a few apartment buildings scattered in between. “We should probably turn around. All the restaurants are still on the other side of downtown.”

  “I was thinking something a little less formal.” Mason takes my hand as the sign flickers to “walk.”

  “Like what?” I deftly slip my fingers from his as I skip ahead of him and up onto the curb on the other side, determined not to let this “friendly” date become anything too friendly.

  “Like bowling with a side of corn dogs and French fries.”

  “Bowling,” I repeat, wrinkling my nose. “Do you bowl?”

  “I do not. I have never bowled.”

  My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. “Never? Not even when you were a kid?”

  “Not even when I was a kid.”

  “Well, then I say yes. Yes to bowling.” I’m always encouraging my friends to try new things, and nothing is less romantic than bowling.

  Sounds like a win-win, if I ever heard of one.

  I turn left, heading toward Bliss River Bowl, a slightly saggy building next to the Feed Store a street over. “I totally forgot the bowling alley was over here,” I say, a spring in my step.

  This might actually be fun. It should be easy to keep my mind off the past while doing something we’ve never done together.

  “I swung by this afternoon to check it out,” Mason says. “It’s got 1960s charm and only a slight foot odor stench, mostly overpowered by the decades of grease soaked into the walls.”

  “Yummy.” I smile. “Speaking of foot odor, I’m going to have to buy some socks from the vending machine. If I’d known we were bowling, I wouldn’t have worn sandals.”

  “Don’t worry, I brought socks for you,” Mason says.

  I blink. “You did?”

  “I did.” He pulls a pair of thin white ankle socks folded neatly in half from his back pocket. “I stopped by the store on my way to your house.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the socks as we reach the door to the bowling alley, feeling vaguely uncomfortable for some reason I can’t quite pin down. “That was thoughtful.”

  “I’m full of thoughts.” He reaches past me to open the door, leaning close enough that his breath stirs my hair as he adds, “Lots and lots of thoughts.”

  I look up, my heart beating faster when I realize our lips are only inches apart. His eyes are even more intense this close, so clear and blue and completely focused on me that I’m betting he can see straight through my cool façade to the secretly frisky horndog within. It’s been months since I’ve been with anyone. A lot of months.

  That’s the only reason Mason is making me sizzle like this.

  Because I’m basically starved for sexy times. Right?

  Willing my stupid heart to stop pounding and my face not to give me away, I say, “The only thoughts I have are about how badly I’m about to kick your butt at bowling.” I duck under his arm and into the decidedly footy-smelling lobby, throwing over my shoulder, “I was on a league when I was seven.”

  “You’re kidding.” Mason joins me at the end of the line for admission and shoe rental. “I didn’t know that about you.”

  “It was a daddy daughter league, but I played with Pop-pop. Pop-pop loved to bowl. It was his old man crack.” I wink. “He taught me all his tricks.”

  “Sounds like I’m in trouble,” Mason says, heaving a dramatic sigh as we reach the front of the line.

  I give the man behind the desk my shoe size and wait while Mason pays before starting toward the lanes. It’s quiet for a Sunday night, but there are still a good number of people out for a game.

  I do a quick scan of the patrons, relieved not to see anyone I know. I don’t want to have to explain what I’m doing with Mason to any of my friends. I haven’t told anyone except my sisters about our bargain—not even Lisa. I don’t want my best friend fretting over me while she should be enjoying her honeymoon, and I don’t want to deal with the backlash from the people who have hated Mason for years on my behalf.

  Better to get this week of “getting to re-know” each other over as secretly as possible and then go back to my life.

  My busy, active, fulfilling life, with not a whiff of Mason in it.

  Which does not make me sad. At all.

  Mason and I play ten frames—Mason rallying after a few disastrous rolls, proving he might not be hopeless as a bowler, after all, though I do beat him by a good thirty points—and then head to the snack bar for a grease feast.

  It isn’t gourmet by any stretch of the imagination, but the food is good for what it is. We chat over corn dogs, jalapeño poppers, and the bowling alley’s take on a side salad—iceberg lettuce and dry shredded carrots drowned in Italian dressing—keeping the conversation light. I learn that Mason passed his boards early and I tell him about the weddings I have coming up in June. Mason talks about the practice he’ll be joining in Atlanta, and I tell him how lucky it is that Aria moved home just days before my old pastry chef quit.

  After dinner, we play another ten frames—me winning again, a fact I’m sure to rub in as Mason drives me home—and then, suddenly, the date is over and I’m walking back up the path to my parents’ house.

  Alone.

  Mason doesn’t even try to walk me to the door.

  Which is a little…disappointing.

  “Not disappointing,” I mumble beneath my breath as I wave goodbye to Mason, watching his car pull away from the curb. “It’s good. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

  It is. Which leaves no explanation for why I feel like a balloon with all the air leaking out, or why I hurry up to my old room without ducking into the den to say good night to Aria.

  No explanation for why I curl into bed feeling sad and alone in a way I haven’t in a long time.

  There is just no explanation.

  None at all.

  Chapter 6

  Mason

  They say you can’t go home again.

  In my experience, a better quote would be—You could go home again, but why? Why put yourself through that when you could light yourself on fire and walk across a bed of nails instead?

  “Because it’s the right thing to do,” I mumble beneath my breath as I slide out of my Audi and start toward my uncle’s shack, a grungy island in a sea of overgrown grass and junk cars my uncle never got around to fixing up.

  I should at least see if he’s alive or dead, and offer him help if he needs it. I’m in a position to help now, and helping each other is what family is for. Just because my family has been dysfunctional up to this point, it doesn’t mean that I have to continue the trend.

  “Well if it ain’t the big man himself.” The rusted out voice creaks through the shade on the porch, drawing my attention to the right. There, Uncle Parker squints up at me from the swing occupying the one flat spot on his sagging front stoop. “Alive and in the flesh.”

  “I just got back in town a couple of days ago.” I stand at the bottom of the porch steps. Given the way things ended the last time we spoke, I’m not inclined to get any closer to my uncle until he proves he’s in a good mood. I’ve put on thirty pounds of muscle since the last time we came to blows, but Parker fights dirty, and I’d really rather not be sporting a black eye my first day at my new job. I’ve still got a few weeks before I start, but my uncle hits hard enough to make bruises linger. “I thought I’d stop by and see if you wanted to get some catfish for lunch.”

  “Already ate,” Parker says, not moving from his chair. “Is that all you want?”

  So much
for a heart-warming reunion.

  Good thing I wasn’t expecting one.

  I force a smile. “All right, then. Maybe next time. In any case, I figured I’d pick up the boat while I was here.”

  Parker grunts. He looks older than the night I left, and certainly older than his forty-six years. He’s lost weight and his sunbaked skin hangs loose on his sharp face, emphasizing the shadows beneath his eyes. But otherwise, he’s the same. Same thinning black hair perpetually in need of a cut, same thin lips and lanky frame, same expression of sour amusement when he looks at his only nephew.

  I’m not surprised he isn’t getting out of his chair to welcome home family he hasn’t seen in years. He didn’t bother getting off his ass to attend my graduation, either. Not a single one of them, not even from Bliss River High, and that’s only five miles down the road.

  Back when I was an eighteen-year-old kid, still secretly longing for approval, or at least someone to notice that I was graduating at the top of my class, that had hurt.

  Now, knowing my uncle isn’t interested in my life is a relief.

  I made a move toward reconciliation. If he’s determined to stay estranged from each other, that’s fine with me. Less chance of being embarrassed if our paths happen to cross in town.

  Parker doesn’t go to town often, but when he does, he’s usually drunk and looking to get into trouble with his loser friends down at Buddy’s.

  “Don’t know why you’d need the boat,” he says after a moment, scraping his thumb across the stubble on his chin. “Didn’t think a fancy doctor like you would have time for fishing.”

  “I don’t start work until the middle of June. I took some time off after my residency.”

  “Ain’t that nice.” He bares his teeth in another smart ass grin, like my success is a hysterical joke only he can fully understand. “Some time off from all that soft work. Going to take some of your faggot friends out on the lake to celebrate?”

  “I’m going to take Lark fishing later this afternoon,” I say, refusing to give him the reaction he’s looking for. He knows I have gay friends, and he knows I hate it when he talks that way. But I’m not going to get mad or offended or anything else. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

  He’s clearly pissed that I’ve proven him wrong. For as long as I can remember, he’s been telling anyone who would listen that I’d never make it through med school. It must really burn his ass knowing I finally have that M.D. after my name, even after he sent me off to school looking so rough around the edges most of my classmates wouldn’t talk to me until the end of our first semester.

  But they eventually realized that I wasn’t trouble.

  I just came from trouble, which is a whole different thing. You can’t help where you come from, but you can help where you end up.

  My uncle is sitting here alone and miserable in a termite-infested shit hole because he never had the guts to dream of something better. I’ll never sleep on that mildew-scented mattress in his back room again because I did.

  “You still seeing that March girl, then?” he asks.

  “Yep.”

  Parker’s jaw works back and forth, the way it does when he is chewing on something to see if it tastes like the truth. If it doesn’t, it’s grounds to unleash the poison always on the tip of his tongue. “Really? That’s hard to believe.”

  “Believe what you want,” I say with a shrug. “It’s the truth.”

  “The truth,” he echoes, his flat blue eyes going narrow and mean. “The truth I heard was that girl cried for an entire year after you left. Sobbing until she made herself sick.” His lips hook up on one side. “You sure pulled the wool over her eyes, didn’t you, boy? She thought you were a real decent little bastard.” He chuckles. “Turns out you’re just a bastard.”

  I clench my jaw, refusing to give him the fight he’s spoiling for. “I’m not discussing Lark with you. I just came to see if you wanted lunch and to make sure the boat was in good shape before I took it out on the lake.”

  His nose wrinkles, but after a moment, he settles deeper into the porch swing with a shrug. “See for yourself. It’s in the barn. Was fine the last time I took it out.”

  “Thanks.” I step back, but before I can turn around he launches his next attack.

  “Should have just taken it. We both know you didn’t want to buy me no lunch.”

  “I didn’t want to give you an excuse to come after me with your shotgun, either,” I snap. “Figured letting you know I was on the property was the safest bet.”

  “Speaking of shotguns, I’m sure Lark March’s daddy would like to take a shot or two at you, boy. He know you’re messing around with his little girl again?” he asks, clearly not ready to let his favorite verbal punching bag go just yet.

  Uncle Parker is no stranger to physical violence—much like stepdad numbers four or seven—but growing up, I swear my uncle’s words hurt more than any black eye. A bruise heals and stepdad number four, at least, was always sorry once he sobered up and realized he’d taken out his frustrations on a kid half his size.

  But Parker never feels remorse, and he always knows where to target a verbal assault where it will do the most damage. He’s mean and bitter and has a chip on his shoulder the size of Georgia about the lousy lot life has dealt him, but he isn’t stupid.

  “I bet he doesn’t,” he continues when I don’t answer. “If he did, he’d run you out of town so quick you’d mess those nice pants of yours. Bob always knew trash like you wasn’t good enough for one of his classy little bitches. You ask me, it’s only a matter of time before that girl figures it out, too.”

  “I’m going to get the boat,” I grit out, reminding myself that he’s saying those things about Lark to get a rise out of me, and if I take the bait then he wins.

  And I refuse to let him win. Or ruin anything else for me.

  Not now. Not ever again.

  “Good.” His mouth pulls into a frown. “Take it, and don’t bring it back. I don’t want your shit taking up space in my barn anymore. You bring it back here, and I’m selling it for whatever I can get.”

  “Sounds good.” I turn my back on him, knowing if I stay much longer I’ll lose all the ground I gained in therapy and let him drag me back into the dirt with him.

  “Good seeing you, Mason,” he calls after me. “Glad all your dreams came true.”

  The way he says it turns everything into a joke—all the years of study, all the sleepless nights during my residency, everything I learned and everything I fought for. The past four years living in a rat hole of an apartment, eating macaroni and cheese and taking handy man jobs during my rare time off to save enough money for a down payment on a condo in Atlanta—to Parker, it’s all a joke, and coming back for Lark is the biggest joke of all.

  She was too good for me when we were younger, and she’s too good for me now. I hear what he’s saying loud and clear: I’m might be trash with an M.D. and a better haircut, but I’m still trash.

  And maybe he has a point. Lark is from one of the most established families in Bliss River, from a long line of people who care about each other and stand up for each other and are classy and intelligent and kind and believe in good things happening to good people. For me to think that I could ever truly be a part of that—especially after what I did to Lark—is laughable.

  No, I think as I stomp into the shadowy barn and pick my way through the mess of half-finished projects my uncle is never going to see through to completion.

  It isn’t laughable, and I’m not a joke. I’m doing my best to make amends and prove I deserve a second chance, and I’m not going to let Parker poison me with doubt. I’m going to take Lark out and have a wonderful afternoon, and afterwards I’ll find somewhere to keep my boat.

  One of my basketball buddies from high school, or my old friend, Nash, might be interested in having it around. I’ll either find someone to share it with in exchange for storage, or sell the damned thing myself. I’m not bringing it back here for Pa
rker to sell.

  I’m not coming back here again, period.

  I pause with my hands on the edge of the tarp that covers the boat, the realization hitting me hard.

  I don’t have to come back here.

  Not ever again. I’m finally free.

  I suppose I’ve been free for a long time—since high school, I only lived with Uncle Parker during the summers, and I haven’t seen him at all in the past four years—but some part of me still felt tied to him.

  After all, he’s the only family I have left.

  I haven’t seen my mom since the day she skipped town, the summer before my junior year of high school. She used to call every few months, but by the time I graduated from college, the calls had stopped. Last I heard from her, she was moving to Mexico with husband number ten and planned to send me her new number when she was settled.

  The call never came.

  If I cut myself off from Uncle Parker, I’ll truly be a man without a clan.

  There was a time when the thought would have scared me, or at least felt wrong. Parker didn’t have to take me in. He could have left me to fend for myself, especially after high school, when I was legally an adult. If he hadn’t let me shack up with him here at his farm during the summers, I never would have been able to save enough money to pay for my apartment and expenses during the school year. I would have had to go to school part time, and it would have taken years longer for me to get my M.D. And yeah, we fought and he beat the shit out of me sometimes, but he also played a part in making my dreams come true.

  I’ve always felt like I owed him for that, at least a card every Christmas and birthday, and lunch every now and then.

  But now…

  Well, it’s obvious he cares even less for me than he used to. I succeeded when he promised I would fail, and he’s hateful enough to resent me for making something of my life. He did his best to make our first conversation in four years as miserable and antagonistic as possible, for God’s sake.

  Any pretense of family feeling between us is gone. It’s time for me to move on, to move forward toward a better life.