"Good afternoon, Miss Pearson. Dr. Clark will be with you in a minute. He's just finishing up with a patient. He said you can wait in his office."
"Thanks, Paige."
Paige is the office manager for the practice and rarely says two words to me. From what Dr. Clark tells me, she's a huge basketball fan, which could probably be the issue between us. I think that she's one of those people who is dying to ask me about my father, but doesn't want to come off as star struck or something, so she says much of nothing instead.
"Can I get you anything?" she asks almost rhetorically. I cringe a bit, because her tone today is reminiscent of Regan's. Disinterested and dismissive.
"No, I'm fine. Thank you."
"I'm sure you know the way," she says while barely looking up from her computer. "Down the hall. Second door on your left."
"Of course. Thank you."
While I sit and wait for Dr. Clark, I get an unusual call from a blocked number, which reminds me to put my phone on vibrate. No calls during sales appointments. Then I slip it back in my handbag as soon as Clark enters the room.
"Well hello, Miss Pearson."
"Hi there, yourself."
Dr. Clark immediately looks at my eye and the bandages on my face and his face scrunches up.
"What happened to you?"
"Freak accident. I had a little disagreement with a concrete sidewalk."
"It's those heels you wear. They're too high."
He assumes I fell, so I just go with it.
"I thought about your many high heel warnings as I went tumbling to the ground, but then guess what I did the day after it happened?"
"You bought another pair of Manolo Blahniks?"
"This time it was Christian Louboutins." I laugh. "I bought them online."
He shakes his head.
"Tsk. Tsk. You really should wear flats more often. Heels are horrible for women's feet."
"Not my thing, Dr. Clark. Everyone's got their vices. Mine are lipsticks and high heels. Yours are?"
"I guess entertainment. I like to go to shows and ball games."
"Then you understand."
"Not exactly the same." He smiles. "The eye looks like it's healing pretty well, but I take it you have lots of abrasions under those bandages?"
"Pretty much. It could've been a lot worse though."
"A friend of mine from medical school is a great plastic surgeon. He has a six-month waiting list, but I could probably get you a consultation this week if you'd like. I think that you should definitely consider seeing someone, so that you won't scar permanently."
"Thanks, doc, but I'm betting that my mother has about three of the best surgeons on speed dial."
More like ten.
"No problem. The offer is always there if you need to take me up on it."
Dr. Clark smiles at me awkwardly. It's the kind of goofy smile he tends to give me right before he asks me out. He's done it enough times that I'm beginning to notice the signs. This time I decide to beat him to the punch and change the subject.
"So I've brought some great samples for you today. I told you about that new marketing push we've got going on, right? The product has awesome new packaging and information pamphlets I think you're going to like."
Dr. Clark looks somewhat disappointed by the new direction of the conversation but follows my lead.
"I'm all ears. Show me your goods."
I pull out some of my drug samples and marketing materials and spread them across Dr. Clark's desk. I make sure to point out the new question and answer section in the revised patient brochures. It was one of the things that he said he hoped would be updated in future versions of the pamphlets.
Dr. Clark is polite as he patiently goes through what I've brought, but I can tell he has something else on his mind. A date. I hate even thinking it, but I hope his desire to ask me out for what seems like the hundredth time won't distract him from making a commitment to order.
He's my biggest client. He has a large practice that spans three locations and a hospital throughout the city, and he also was listed as one of the Top Doc's in the annual Best Doctor's List in Philadelphia Magazine. In other words, he's a big deal in this town, and I need his business.
"So what do you think?" I ask.
"Well . . . I wasn't sure how to bring this up, but I already had a visit from your office."
"A visit?"
"Your coworker Regan."
What. The. Hell.
"I'm not sure I understand."
"I think it was a misunderstanding. She was following up on some old leads I think and called the office. Paige gave her the appointment. Paige doesn't really understand about how sales territories work in your company. I didn't know a thing about it until I checked my schedule at the last minute."
There is no way in hell that Regan was following up on an "old lead" that steered her directly to one of the best doctors in the city aka my client, but I don't want to drag Dr. Clark into our internal drama.
"So she showed you all of these materials already then?"
"Yes–at first I wasn't sure what was going on. I thought that maybe you had released me as a client."
"I would never do that, Dr. Clark. Not without telling you first."
"I should have realized that, Sloan, but even though we've known each for so long, I wasn't sure. I feel as if there's so much more to learn about you."
"I'm afraid that there's not much else to learn. I'm not that interesting."
"Actually you're one of the most confident, intelligent, and beautiful women I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. To say that you're interesting is probably an understatement. And don't worry. I told Regan that I'd get back to her. I didn't make any commitment one way or another."
"Thank you, doc."
Now I'm starting to feel badly that I've continually put the kibosh on any sort of romantic feelings for the doctor before giving him any sort of a real chance. On paper Dr. Clark is the ideal catch and meets all the requirements of my "perfect man" checklist.
He's an honest, attractive, successful, and most likely a one woman type of man. In other words, "a safe bet." Unlike another man I know, I doubt that he's left a lot of broken hearts in his wake. He seems to be too thoughtful and considerate to go around hurting women's feelings. In fact, he seems to embody most of the personality traits that I tragically run from in a man: respectful, kind, humble, trustworthy, and dependable.
Obviously, I realize that this is all kinds of fucked-up. But aren't we all essentially works in progress?
"So when did you decide that you were going to become a doctor?" I ask in an effort to make light conversation that doesn't make mention of anything romantic.
"I used to take care of all of the pets in our house when I was a kid. Two cats, three dogs, a turtle and a parakeet. It was pretty clear early on that I'd be working in a helping profession. I also didn't mind school, and you have to really like to learn if you're going to get through medical school. It's grueling."
"So why urology?"
"You sure you want the real story?"
"Absolutely."
He gets comfortable and takes a seat on his rolling stool.
"It's actually kind of funny. When I was in high school I was in serious lust with this girl named Janet Jackson. No relation to the singer. She was a year older than me, and I thought she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen, but she'd always had a steady boyfriend until her senior year. When they broke up that's when I knew I'd been given my window of opportunity. I made sure to flirt with her extra hard that fall and lo and behold it worked. She finally started giving me the time of day.
"We went on a couple of dates and by the fifth one we had sex. Unprotected sex. She said she was on the pill, and I didn't want to risk missing my moment by telling her I needed to go by the store to pick up some condoms. I figured that most guys carried some with them."
"Was it your first time?"
"Not quite the first time but damn close.
So needless to say I was on cloud nine. That was until a few days later. There was something strange going on with my penis."
"Ewww." I can already guess how this story ends.
"Yeah, it was gross. I didn't know much about the signs of gonorrhea at the time, so I literally thought my poor pecker was infected with a deadly disease. All the dripping. I was petrified. I was too frightened and embarrassed to tell my parents, so I broke down and begged my grandmother to take me to the hospital instead before my penis fell off. The two of us were close and she had been a nurse. She said she'd take a look at it first, before we committed to a long covert night in the ER."
I giggle. "Oh boy."
"Yeah, it's funny now, but I was horrified back then. My sweet old grandmother examined my penis closely for all of fifteen seconds, and then told me with great certainty that we'd be going to her family doctor and not the hospital, because all I had was a curable case of the clap. I was both relieved and mortified, and the experience stayed with me forever. I'd never forget about the day that I thought my most prized possession would fall off, which is why it ended up being a major influence on the specialty I ended up selecting during my residency."
"Dr. Clark–saving one penis, one day at a time," I say dramatically in my bad imitation of a commercial actor.
"That's me."
"That's a great story." I chuckle. "I guess the silver lining would be that you had your path figured out quite early in life. No stressing about what you were going to major in and all of that. Some of us aren't that lucky to have such definitive direction."
"You didn't have it figured out?"
"Well I didn't exactly dream of selling Viagra to guys like you for a living when I was growing up."
Clark laughs. "Guys like me?"
"Doctors I mean."
"So what did you dream of being when you were little?"
I think hard about it for a moment. I don't have a specific answer which is kind of sad.
"I guess . . . just happy."
"I suppose we all thought that would be easy enough when we were kids."
"My parents told me I could be anything I wanted. Have anything I wanted. I even had the head start in life of being Dan Pearson's daughter. The problem is that you have to actually know what you want in order to go after it."
"I never thought about it like that, and that's so true, but guess what the cool thing is?"
"What?"
"It's never too late to figure it all out. I just read about a seventy-four-year-old woman who's in medical school in Texas. She's doing it for the simple fact that it was on her bucket list. You just have to write one. I imagine you could come up with a fantastic list."
Maybe Clark is right. It would be nice to be passionate about something and not constantly stressed out about a job that I'm beginning to dislike. Regardless of what this month's sales numbers say, I know that I'm good at my job, but somewhere along the way I've allowed it to define me. It's sort of like my badge of honor. I guess because my job is something that I've achieved all on my own with no help from my family connections, but does that mean that it's something I should be doing for the rest of my life? Is it my life's passion? Am I just settling?
Clark and I make polite conversation for a few more minutes, and then we finally talk about business. He makes the largest commitment he ever has to our full line of products. I'm so happy, and thinking ten steps ahead about my meeting with Mr. Stokes, that he catches me off guard with a question.
"So now that we've finalized the boring stuff, I was wondering if there's any chance that you'd like to go to a modern dance performance with me next Saturday night? Feel free to say no," he rushes to say. "But it's just that I have a pair of tickets unexpectedly. Really good seats at the Academy. I didn't want them to go to waste."
"Umm–well I'm not too sure about going out with my face like this."
A clear look of disappointment crosses his face, and now I start to feel like a piece of gum stuck on the bottom of his shoe. I went out for coffee with Elizabeth. Why couldn't I go out to a show with Clark.
"Oh . . . of course, Sloan. That was inconsiderate of me to even ask. I totally understand."
Yeah–he understands that I'm a bitch to the highest degree.
"Well–maybe we could play it by ear? If my bruising has faded a bit more by then, I'd love to go."
His face brightens.
"Then here's hoping that you heal quickly."
"Yes, here's hoping," I say half-heartedly.
When I leave the doc's office, he stays behind on a call, but Paige is leaning against the wall near the door examining her nails. She'd obviously been listening to our entire conversation, and at first, she doesn't say a word as we exchange cursory glances. I never saw it before, but only now do I realize what her real problem with me is. It's obvious. She has a thing for the doctor and now an even stronger dislike for me.
"The doctor is a good man," she finally says after cutting her eyes at me.
"I know that," I say defensively.
"I'm only saying that I've seen you on social media. I know what you're about. You two aren't a good match. You shouldn't lead him on."
"And what exactly is it that you think I'm about?" I take strong offense.
"You're the spoiled daughter of a pro athlete. A party girl. Doctor Clark is looking for forever, and I think you and I both know that you aren't a forever type of girl."
Her terribly candid comments remind me immediately of the look on Cutter's face when I unwittingly admitted that I was "just his type" because I don't believe in love.
I refuse to believe that both Cutter or Paige are right about me. I don't want to be that girl. The single chick who lives alone in a two bedroom with three cats, because she doesn't believe in Mr. Right but only in Mr. Right Now. I won't let it happen.
"I guess we'll see if I am a forever type of girl," I say rising to Paige's challenge.
I think my face might just miraculously heal by the night of the performance. I'm definitely going on that date.
"I suppose we will, Miss Pearson."
Seventeen
Sloan
Nude bodies are flying everywhere. Some muscular. Some lithe. Some ruggedly handsome. And some stunning. I'm not the biggest fan of professional dance performances, but I can see why some might be. Each dance is hauntingly beautiful. Each dancer interpreting the untold story of their dance with high leaps, strong kicks, and exquisite grace.
While the performers may not literally be in their birthday suits, they leap and glide across the stage in minimalist nude-colored outfits and tights giving the allusion of stark nakedness and delicate sensuality.
The clean-cut gentleman sitting next to me seems quite taken with the performance and occasionally glances at me in an attempt to gauge my reaction. Wondering if I am just as transfixed by the show as he is. I do my best to pretend as if I'm mesmerized by what I'm watching, but I've never been that big of a fan of professional dance. I'd rather "go" dancing. So I'm only somewhat entertained at best. The man by my side tonight is Dr. Aiden Clark.
"The dancers are really good, aren't they?" he whispers quietly in my ear. The doctor has a clean and practical scent. Reminiscent of clean sheets and Ivory Soap.
"Yes, doc." I smile in agreement, although I'm distracted by an incoming text from my sister. Our first communication since the incident outside of the restaurant.
Dawn: Just wanted you to know that your guard dog broke two of my boyfriend's ribs. Who was that guy!?
Me: Well hello to you too.
Dawn: I'm telling Dad you're hanging out with a criminal.
Me: Well, while you're doing that, you better mention how your boyfriend punched me in the eye.
Remember who the adult is, Sloan.
Me: Did he give you the money?
Dawn: I got it from Mom.
Me: And you’re still dating him?
Dawn: Yep.
Me: Can you explain to me why you're still involved w
ith someone who stole your money and assaulted your sister. Is he hitting you too? You can tell me, Dawn. I'll help you. I'll even keep it from Marsha if you want me to.
Dawn: He does not hurt me.
Me: Why haven't you posted on your Instagram lately? Does he tell you not to?
Dawn: What do you think I don't have a mind of my own? I have better things to do then play around online.
Me: You're sure he isn't abusive?
Dawn: I'm positive. Mainly because I don't say reckless things to him.
Me: So you're saying that it's MY fault I have a black eye?!
Indebted To A King Page 12
