Forbidden Prince

by Zoey Oliver

  Weirdly, they’re not here. I rush back into the bedroom to plunge my hands into the zippered pockets of my suitcase. They’re not here. They’re not anywhere. They’re not even in my pocketbook. Apparently I forgot them.

  Swearing under my breath, then louder since there’s no one to hear me, I call my pharmacy in New York and jab on the nine button until I’m connected with a pharmacist.

  After explaining my issue to her, I hear that wrinkled-nose silence that means I’m out of luck.

  “Oh, hon?” the pharmacist coos. “You don’t have a refill. I mean I can’t send you a refill. Because you don’t have one.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, my voice rising. “I mean, I don’t really need a refill? I just need to finish the ones that I got from you… But I left them in New York. So I need a sort of replacement. Am I explaining this right?”

  “Oh I understand you,” she snaps. “But you gotta call your doctor. You need a new prescription because this one is over a year old. You already got all these pills.”

  “But I don’t have them!” I replied, exasperated. “I have to get a refill!”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you,” she sighs, and I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Okay, thanks, bye.”

  I start to reply, but I hear the line go dead. That’s customer service in New York.

  Great, what am I gonna do now?

  Chapter Eight

  Sturgill

  I’ve only got two office appointments today, and they’re both before ten thirty. It’s a beautiful day, and I think I might actually be able to get a little time in the surf as long as nobody goes into labor or has some other emergency.

  “Good morning, Dr. Warner,” Jen smiles when I come into the back door. “Files are on your desk.”

  “Thanks, Jen,” I smile back as I take my shirt out of the wardrobe. I barely broke a sweat on this morning’s run, but I still need to get changed. I see her eyes skate over my shoulders as she gives me a tight, professional smile. Though our relationship never extended beyond the exam room, I suppose I can’t blame her for wondering if we might have a connection.

  We don’t. It’s just a hazard of the job. Human nature is always trying to form attachments.

  It has created something of a problem with the women of Willowdale. When my father retired, everybody still saw me as the young boy. They were still in the habit of taking their “serious” problems to him, as they had for their whole lives. Even after I completed medical school and Peace Corps training in Costa Rica, I could see it in their eyes. Though I was a fully trained medical professional, they still saw me as the high school quarterback.

  Or worse, the grade-schooler who had gone to their houses for birthday parties and backyard barbecues.

  Slowly, I gained their respect. It has taken the last four years of continuing my father’s practice to win them over. But our family brand of personalized attention has at least won me the respect—if not devotion—of the women in Willowdale. Single and married alike, we do have a certain bond. It just hasn’t happened to materialize into a partner for me.

  And it can’t. Doctors have a name for it: we call it “transference.” It’s only natural that a human forms a romantic attachment to someone who has cared for them, cared for their health, touched them in seemingly intimate ways. But it is simply therapeutic. Even if some of our traditional therapies are not mainstream, they are still therapies. In fact, everybody swears by them.

  I have heard it has earned me a nickname, which seems unfair. While my father is still simply known as “Boss Warner,” the younger ladies in Willowdale have given me a less auspicious nickname.

  Dr. Stud.

  I guess it’s a somewhat clever change from my first name, Sturgill. But it’s also a bit of a backhanded compliment from women my age who are perhaps frustrated that I can’t return their affections. What they don’t realize is that their affections are not based in reality; it is simply the medical phenomenon of transference.

  Not that they would understand, anyway.

  I just smile at Jen for a few more seconds, waiting for her to back out of the room. I’ve been treating her ever since my father retired, so of course I’ve seen her in a state of undress. But she hasn’t seen me, and we’re going to keep it that way.

  She pauses just another moment, just half a second in case that metaphorical door is open. But it isn’t, and she nods in an antiseptic, professional way and turns around. Always friendly. I appreciate that about her.

  Changing into a blue button-down and trousers, I slip the white coat around my shoulders as I head to my private office. I suppose it’s not strictly necessary, but people feel more comfortable seeing me in a doctor’s coat than in a hoodie or sweatshirt or anything.

  And I appreciate the tradition, to be honest. I like things that have a sense of history to them, a sense of stability. Like this place. I could have built a modern office building with tile floors and LED lighting, but I prefer the old house my father used for his patients, and his father before him. Warner men have been caring for the families of Willowdale for four generations in this house. Even though it needs some pretty expensive upkeep from time to time, I’m happy to roll up my sleeves and make that happen. It’s just part of the duty.

  My office door closes behind me and I take the big leather chair behind the desk, opening the first manila folder. It’s a new patient, and I press the button to signal to Jen to bring her in while I scan the form that she filled out.

  Just a birth control refill, I note, with no underlying disease or anything. The name seems familiar, but the address is in New York? That seems strange…

  The carved mahogany door swings open and I glance up to see Jen guiding a young woman into the room. My breath stalls in my throat. She looks like something out of the past in a smart wrap dress with a flared collar and cap sleeves. The pink stripes swirl over her full hips as she takes a seat in the leather chair on the other side of the desk, nervously knotting her fingers in her lap.

  Jen squints judgmentally at me before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

  She clears her throat. Flaming red hair curls in waves around her cheekbones. With the dusty bookshelves behind her and her vintage-style dress, I swear she could have been a patient here for my father, circa 1968.

  “Good morning, miss… Joanna…” I murmur tersely, forcing myself to look down at the questionnaire she filled out again.

  What is wrong with me? I suddenly feel like I barely know how to do this.

  “Joe,” she says simply.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, automatically glancing up at her.

  It’s like being slapped in the face. Like I forgot she was there. Like I’m startled. But the strange vintage vision is like a memory, yet so acute. She’s like a dream in person. I almost expect a jukebox to start playing.

  Easy there, Dr. Stud, I command myself.

  “People call me Joe,” she explains. She seems to be in a hurry or something. “You can just call me Joe. All I need is a prescription refill. I forgot my pills in—”

  “I see you live in New York,” I interrupt, dragging my attention back to the form. “But you didn’t fill out your doctor’s information. Do you mind if I—”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she snaps. “All I need is prescription refill.”

  I lean back in my chair and steeple my fingers. She purses her lips in frustration, but I am enjoying that. It’s been a long time since anyone tried to tell me how to do my job. I’m not offended or anything, but it’s not going to happen that way.

  “When was your last exam?”

  Her mouth pops open, her carmine-colored lips reshaped into a pert rosebud.

  “I really don’t have time for an exam,” she says in a tight, tense voice. “This should be just a moment of your time, Doctor. I really have a lot to do.”

  “I can’t write you a prescription without an exam,” I smile. “It wouldn’t be right. I’m sure you under
stand.”

  Her nostrils flare as she takes a breath while her face is frozen in a mask of polite fury. Wow. She really hates this. Someone hasn’t taught her how to respect authority.

  “Is there another doctor in the office?” she asks slowly, her voice lowered.

  “I’m afraid not!” I grin.

  I know I shouldn’t be smiling, but this is fun. This is really fun. Her chest heaves as she breathes in and out, a blush creeping up to her collarbones.

  “You seem tense,” I observe. “Is everything else all right? Are you experiencing heart palpitations? Shortness of breath? Leg pain?”

  “What? No,” she huffs. “Look, all I want is a—”

  “I’ll need to check your vitals,” I announce, rising from my chair. “Why don’t you meet me in exam room two? I’ll ask Jen to get you a gown.”

  “A... gown?” she repeats, choking. “As in, an exam? A full exam?”

  Snapping her folder closed, I lean for a moment on the corner of the desk. From this vantage, I can see the shadowed valley between her breasts, pulsing as her breath continues to quicken. Her fingers nervously drum against each other, and I suddenly remember standing behind her as she stumbled into the hat shop. I remember the tension in her shoulders, the way she moved with such a tautness. This woman has been under a great deal of stress, I can tell. She must be just boiling inside.

  “Please don’t worry, miss… Joanna,” I tell her in a low, comforting voice. “I’m here to help. I’ll have you fixed up and on your way in no time.”

  Chapter Nine

  Joe

  I stand in the middle of the small room, too furious to move. My arms are wrapped around my rib cage, like I am trying to hold all my pieces together. This is outrageous. It’s a simple prescription, one that millions of women get. Why am I getting the country doctor act from this guy?

  And just who the hell does he think he is, anyway? The sign on the door said Dr. Warner, but this is not the man that I remember. That guy had a lot of white hair coming out of his ears. When I was six, he told me it was cotton candy when I pointed it out. He was funny and nice, and always warmed up the disk of the stethoscope in the palm of his hand before pressing it to my back. I liked that guy.

  This guy is… different. His hair is dark brown, neatly trimmed over his ears but a little longer on top so that it flops around when he’s speaking. I didn’t see any hair coming out of his ears, but did notice the dark blue of his piercing eyes. A little too muscular to be a doctor, I think. A little too broad. He looks like a fitness instructor or something.

  As soon as I imagine him in a tank top and track pants I remember who he is: the guy from the hat shop. The one who thought I didn’t know how to use a key.

  Oh, now it makes sense. He’s a doctor, so he’s accustomed to being allowed into people’s personal space. That’s why he just invited himself into my gallery without even introducing himself. That’s why he thought he could just chat with me. He probably thinks everybody is crazy about him too. Doctors are all ego.

  I startle when a meek knock comes at the door, and the nurse pokes her head inside. She squints her nose apologetically as she comes in with a folded bit of fabric in her hands that she places on the exam table.

  When she turns back around, she tips her head to the side for a millisecond, giving me that expression of recognition that means we must’ve gone to school together or something. It’s only her professional reserve that keeps her from squealing at me like Dusty did yesterday.

  Well, thank goodness for that.

  “You can just go ahead and get undressed,” she explains sympathetically, tapping the gown with her fingers. “Leave it open in the front. Untied is easiest but it’s up to you.”

  “Open in the front?” I repeat incredulously. “This is really too much. All I want is a prescription!”

  “Aw, yeah, hon,” she sighs sympathetically. “Such a bother, I know. Won’t take too long!”

  As she shrugs, I try to place her. Maybe a little younger than me? Maybe we kicked a soccer ball around together in gym, in middle school? She’s definitely familiar, but not part of my main crew. Of course my main crew consisted of me and Didi, so there’s that.

  Sensing my hesitation, she pats the gown again. “Just leave your clothes behind the screen,” she instructs me helpfully. “I can call your prescription into the pharmacy right after, so that will save you a few minutes. It’s still right there on Main Street.”

  “Yes, okay,” I force myself to say, but it comes out all sarcastic like I’m trying to insult her or something.

  Sensing that I’m going to comply, she nods and gestures toward the scale. She scribbles down my height and weight on the information sheet and barely looks at my designer shoes when I kick them off.

  “Okay then!” she announces, clicking the pen closed. “Dr. Stud will be with you shortly.”

  I cough-gasp, unsure of what I just heard.

  “Dr. Stud?” I repeat, shocked. “Is that his actual name?”

  “What? No!” she blurts out, her face going white. “His name is Sturgill! Dr. Sturgill Warner. My goodness, what a thing to say!”

  “I’m not the one who said it,” I mutter as she rushes from the room, closing the door behind her.

  Dr. Stud, I repeat to myself. I’m sure that’s what she said. Right? That happened?

  Or maybe I’m just using my Manhattan manners. Maybe I developed Manhattan hearing too.

  As instructed, I disrobe and leave my dress and bra behind the screen. It takes me a full thirty seconds to convince myself that I should remove my panties, for some reason. It just seems wrong, deliberately removing all of my clothes for someone who is apparently known as Dr. Stud. Someone who I have seen in running shoes.

  Like, is this even happening? Hannah and Desi are definitely never going to believe this.

  Clutching the gown closed, I scooch onto the exam table. The paper crinkles underneath me, making an ungodly racket. Shivers race up and down my bare legs though it is not cold in the room, just cool and kind of breezy from the AC unit below the window. Just very quiet and cool.

  A gentle but definitive knock comes to the door and it swings open. Dr. Warner steps in and gives me a perfunctory, professional smile.

  “All right, I see you’re all set,” he announces as he scans my height and weight from the information sheet. “Let’s just see what we’ve got going on here, okay?”

  His fingers are warm on my throat as he touches my neck, pressing gently along the underside of my jaw. He tips my head up so he can stare into my eyes and I almost want to flinch back.

  Okay, don’t be stupid. A hundred doctors have made this same move in your lifetime, I tell myself.

  “Any pain in your neck, stiffness, soreness?” he asks me in a low voice.

  I force myself not to look away as his eyes peer into mine from only inches away. This is my personal space, and he is inside of it already.

  “No… Nothing like that,” I answer in a timid whisper.

  “Open your mouth,” he commands me.

  It feels weird, sexual almost, to have a man this good-looking tell me to open my mouth, but I make myself do it. Suddenly I realize my body is starting to respond to this. A quick gush of wetness between my legs startles me when I shift my weight.

  “Say ahh,” he directs me.

  “Ahhhhh,” I answer, gurgling over the tongue depressor that he slips over my tongue, pressing firmly.

  “This might be cold,” he warns me as he places the stethoscope pieces in his ears. But just before he presses it to my skin, he warms the disk against his palm.

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Is something funny?”

  I realize that I am smiling. “No, it’s not funny,” I answer nervously, suppressing a giggle. “It’s just… Your dad used to make that same move… With the stethoscope…”

  He bobs his chin, acknowledging that he understands as he listens with his palm against my back. The stethoscope disk wanders over my
chest, nudging me in various places.

  “Deep breath in,” he directs me as he switches hands, placing the disk against my back and pressing against my sternum so that I will sit up more straight.

  I find myself relaxing a little, falling into the habits of command and perform that this ritual entails. I’ve been to the doctor dozens of times over my life, of course. I know how this works. I sort of appreciate the predictable aspects of it.

  “Sounds good,” he announces. “Go ahead and lie back and raise your arms over your head.”

  My breath catches in my throat as I remember this part: the breast exam. He turns around to retrieve a drape from the counter that he opens over my hips while I lie down. The gown falls open over my breasts though my body is still covered from the waist down by the drape.

  I expect him to look away, but he doesn’t. He pushes the gown away from my sides with his fingers, pursing his lips in concentration as he manipulates the mounds slowly, pushing them together and then letting them fall, dragging his fingers in slow circles from the nipple outward. I feel my skin contract and my nipples harden under his touch, hoping to God that he thinks it is just a normal response and not a sign of arousal.

  Walking his fingers up the side of my breasts to my armpit, he makes small, satisfied noises with every inch. My skin gets hotter and I try to keep from breathing too fast.

  “All perfect,” he announces, averting his eyes.

  With a clang, he pulls the stirrups out and assembles them at the end of the exam table. I hear the snap as he dons nitrile gloves and I automatically tense up. His fingers are warm around my ankle as he gently lifts my heel and places it against the cool metal cradle.

  “Just relax,” he says firmly, the gentleness dissolving from his voice. “Move your hips down to the edge of the table, please.”