The place is small, but expensively remodeled and entirely adorable. The reception is painted in pale blue and is in the shape of a giant aquarium. Seals, colorful fish, and dolphins are skillfully painted over the walls. The waiting area is littered with seats in the shape of seaweed and rocks. And the place has that pungent, wistful smell of newborn infants, sugar on a child’s breath, and sticky hands.
It’s a three-person clinic. Dr. Matthews, Dr. Lerer, and I are the only ones working here. The nurses who work here are a tight-knit group. They barely communicate with the doctors, let alone little ole’ me. Which makes it odd that no one has bothered to say goodbye to Melinda. There was no party. No homemade cake and handwritten card. Heck, not even a cupcake and a goodbye letter. I brought her homemade cookies this morning, knowing we were going to say goodbye, but that was the extent of her farewell.
Maybe Melinda was the problem, and not the doctors of this practice. I mean, they treat children for a living. I doubt they’d be calloused, difficult, and mean if it were me leaving the practice.
Or maybe Dr. Matthews is a sour old man. Maybe his clothes smell of mothballs and he eats chicken wings with utensils. I’ve already met Dr. Lerer. She’s a woman in her mid-thirties with platinum blonde hair and a figure that would make any hot-blooded woman want to punch her in the tits. Icy, but polite. Distant, albeit professional. I can handle her New England, privileged-smart-woman kind. As for Dr. Matthews—regardless of his problematic personality—I’ll have to make do with him, too. He has something of mine that I desperately need. A paycheck every two weeks, predominantly.
The clinic is empty. The sound of the A/C is the only thing humming in the constipated air. It’s noon-ish, in the midst of summer break, and all the kids in Providence must be healthy, happy, and on vacation, Thank God. Dr. Lerer is gone for the day—an appointment with her attorney, she’d announced on a huff when her heels clanked out of the place at ten o’clock this morning—and if boredom was an Olympic sport, I’d bring a lot of pride to the United States of America.
Cautiously, I yank a romance book out of my Owl-shaped bag under the desk. The Billionaire and the Princess. People can laugh at my romance novels all they want. I live a thousand lives a year, the haters should be jealous because they have just the one.
After reading for a few minutes, I throw my head back, closing my eyes to avoid the fluorescent lights. I haven’t had time to properly sleep since I landed back home three days ago. Life has been a chaotic blur. The moment I walked in, Auntie Steph who lives across the street called and asked if I could drive her to the mall. Then I stepped outside, met our new neighbors, and taught their kid how to ride a bike. And when I finally got back home, I had to clean my room, fold my clothes, and settle in. Not that I’m complaining. Keeping busy is good. I just need a little power-nap. Ten minutes to recharge my energy levels. I heard cat-naps are more effective than a long night of sleep. I set my phone alarm and close my eyes. I eased into relaxing inner thoughts.
Gah, this is good. So, so, goo…
“What. In. The. Actual. Fuck?” A thick, deep voice booms above my head.
I jump from my seat like it’s on fire. My eyes open, staring back at the man the voice belongs to. The first thought that pops into my head is that I bet his voice is not the only deep and thick thing about him.
“Oh, my Gosh! I’m sorry, so sorry,” I screech, grabbing random documents laying around on the desk and rearranging them. I don’t know what I’m trying to prove here. That I’m working hard? Because he just caught me dosing off in my chair like a bored boyfriend in a Jennifer Aniston movie. I pat the corner of my mouth to make sure I didn’t drool. You’re a cla$$ act, Savvanah.
It takes me a minute to fully register the specimen in front of me, but once I do, I stumble, the back of my knees hit the chair. The chair rolls backwards. I collapse into it, and before I know what’s happening, I’m spinning out of control. I crash against a hospital filing units. Yellow patients’ records rain down on me from the impact, and the disastrous moment quickly turns into a valid reason to flee the country and adopt a new identity.
“Were you sleeping on duty?” He takes a step forward, still far enough for me to see most of his body from behind the reception desk. I don’t know who this mystical creature is, but he holds enough sexual charisma to electrify the whole city should the power ever go out. His eyes are almost unnaturally blue, his cheekbones are so sharp you can cut poultry with them, his lips were made for every sweet sin to be committed, his forehead is strong, his chin proud, and his hair is coal chunks of black silk flying in a hundred directions.
Lord, is he tall. So tall. Too tall. Maybe he’s a giant. But he is too symmetric and pretty to have gigantism. No. He is not a giant, he is just a man, and that’s something I haven’t had the pleasure of hanging out with in a long time, seeing as I’ve been living in dorms for the past four years.
I suck a broken breath and allow my eyes to wander down his impossibly broad shoulders, farther south to his tight, round pecs that you can see through his white, button-down shirt, flat abs, inviting crotch…briefcase…
Savannah Martin, you need help. And maybe a good lawyer. You’re practically sexually assaulting this gentleman with your eyes. Now’s a good time to stop.
“Answer your boss,” Dr. Matthews (motherfluffer, it’s him!) steps in my direction, and I know that the fire in his eyes is real. My cheeks feel its burn. “Were you snoring on the job?”
“Technically not snoring, Sir,” I stand up in a hurry, pushing down my feathery yellow, vintage dress and smoothing my unruly, red-blonde waves of hair. I stretch my arm, offering him a handshake from across the aquarium-shaped curved desk. “I never snore. Trust me. I’ve had multiple people assuring me of that.”
Lovely, Savannah. You just had to add ‘slut’ to the list of his Why-I-Should-Fire-Her mental file.
“Where’s Melinda?” The cold man demands on a sneer. He ignores my hand, grabbing a pile of unopened letters from a nearby tray and sorting through them. I gulp and withdraw my peace offering.
“Miss Evans is gone, Sir. Today was her last day.”
“Impossible,” he says flatly, not even sparing me a glance. My embarrassment is quickly morphing into annoyance. What the hell is his problem? “She needs to pick up my son from school at three, and she still hasn’t ordered the stationery I’d asked her for last week.”
“Well, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but she has definitely quit. Based on the record-time it took her to clear out her desk, I’d say she is not coming back,” I deadpan, my traitorous eyes drifting to his left hand, checking for a wedding band. There isn’t one. Divorced. Why am I not surprised?
He throws the letters back into the silver tray and stares me down like I am puke he needs to scrub off of the sole of his shiny leather shoes. My mug and silicone hand the only things standing between us as barriers, but our eyes say war.
“What in the goddamn world is this creepy dildo doing here?”
“It’s a motivational mitten—and it’s a hand, not a dildo. For people to squeeze. It’s really therapeutic,” I try not to blush, holding his intense gaze. If he looks at me any harder than this, my lady bits will start to sing. And that would be a crying shame, because he may be hot, but ironically, he is also impossibly cold.
“It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s kind and hospitable.”
“The mug has to go, too.”
“The mug offends no one,” I protest. “And encourages individualism. Besides, you have no receptionist. No secretary. Who is going to pick up Matthews Junior from school today? Mmm?” My brows shoot to my hairline in question.
Beat of silence. He lowers his mental sword. His tense cheekbones ease. I finally allow myself to breathe.
“Fine. You earned yourself another chance at this position. I would advise against fucking it up by snoring your way to straight to the unemployment line.”
“I was resting my eyes,” I say lamely,
straightening my spine. Either my face is reddening with rage, or the room has warmed up by fifty degrees. “Melinda told me she’s worked here for a year. How come you had no idea today was her last day?”
“I did know,” he reaches toward me, his torso pressed against the reception desk, and grabs the notepad next to my keyboard along with my pen. Before scribbling, he pauses to stare at my pink-inked, syringe-shaped pen and frowns like it insults him somehow. In the process, I get to smell Dr. Matthews for the first time, and when I say “smell,” I mean inhale. I’m shamelessly snorting him like he is twenty-grams of Colombian cocaine. He smells of cedar, handmade soap, and pure, unapologetic testosterone that gets me lust-drunk.
Savannah, meet Trouble. Trouble, this is Savannah.
“Here’s the address to his school. Three o’clock. On the dot. Theodore is precise, much like his father.”
“I don’t know what he looks like,” I stutter, holding the notepad in my hand and reading the address. I’m supposed to finish my shift at two. Is he going to pay me extra for this? The question dances on my tongue, but I bite my lip down. He caught me napping in the reception chair. No reason to poke the bear with a ten-foot pole.
“He looks like his mom,” Dr. Matthews’s disdain is evident on his twitching lips.
“That’s not very helpful, Sir, unless his mom is Jennifer Aniston or Cameron Diaz. Those are the two celebrities I will definitely recognize.”
“His mom is Dr. Lerer.”
“Oh.” Oh. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Who else can I pair this Adonis of a creature, if not with an equally gorgeous woman with Adriana Lima’s measurements and an MD in taking care of his offspring? Now the only burning question is whether they’re still together, or not.
“If you run into any problems,” he drags a huge, sexy hand across his hair and tousles it even farther, “Call. My card is on your desk.”
“Wait! Where am I supposed to take him?” I bolt up from my seat as I watch Dr. Matthews trudging down the hall to his office, carrying the briefcase—his sleeves rolled up to his elbows—exposing delicious veins I want to sink my teeth into.
“Back here.”
“Won’t he be alarm to find me picking him up? I’m new to him.”
Isn’t this the first thing you teach your kid? Don’t go anywhere with strangers?
“He’ll be fine. His teacher will wait with him.”
“You don’t even know my name!” I drone, desperate to extend this conversation, to generally not feel like he’s just thrown me in the deep end and expected me to synchronize-swim during a shark feeding frenzy.
“I don’t care,” he mimics my tone. “And I hate your pen. Get rid of it, too.”
“It’s Savannah. Savannah Martin. And you’re such an asshole,” I mutter, dropping several octaves and falling back into my seat in defeat, rubbing my eyes tiredly.
I hear the door to his office slam shut, but not before he calls back, “Consider this your probation, Miss Martin. Better behave.”
CHAPTER 2
The Day After
Today is a good-news, bad-news kind of day.
The good news is that it takes me no time to figure out whether Dr. Matthews and Dr. Lerer are still together—they’re definitely not.
And the bad news is how I find out about it. Because: awkward.
“Dr. Matthews, would you care to have lunch together today so we can discuss the name change for Theodore?” Dr. Lerer is leaning against the reception desk, along with Dr. Matthews, who is a few feet away from her. They’re both flipping through their separate mail trays. She is wearing black St. John head-to-toe, looking as out of place in this room as a fish in a desert, while I’m rocking my vintage rainbow dress, my hair barely contained by the pencil I twist it into.
Thank God the receptionists here are not expected to wear scrubs.
“No, Dr. Lerer, I would not. Unless I get to feed you poison with a spoon, in which case, I might reconsider. Theodore’s last name remains Matthews, so there’s nothing to discuss, anyway. If you still have a problem with that, you can contact one of the many lawyers I have hired to put a buffer between you and me. Receptionist, did you place that stationery order I asked Melinda for?”
I shoot my head up, my skin ghost-pale. Today, I’m making a conscious effort to be nice and professional, but I couldn’t have ordered the stationery he had asked for, because Melinda never told me what he’d asked for.
“No, Sir. I…you need to tell me what you need..”
“I have a window between ten and ten-fifteen. See me in my office.”
I nodded, “Anything I can do for you, Dr. Lerer?” A polite smile finds my lips. Even with my mug, pen, and silicone hand (which I kept on the desk, thank you very much), the reception area is still neat. I’ve also sent all of Dr. Matthews’s dry-cleaning, including the Bugs Bunny tie, straight to his house. And I’ve met Theodore, their son, and he does look a lot like his mom. But even at six years old, he is just as scary and aloof as his dad.
I may have taken him for a frozen yogurt to break the ice on our way back to the clinic.
He may have told me his mom would kill me if she finds out.
I may have peed my dress a little afterwards.
But I digress.
“Can you get me a better soon-to-be-ex?” Dr. Lerer asks cuttingly. I drop my head and pretend to type something on the keyboard.
“That’s rich, Stacey,” Dr. Matthews laughs.
“Which is something I’m about to be, once you sell your stupid McLaren to pay for my legal fees.”
Kill. Me. Now. Why do I always get front-seat tickets to the worst shows in town? I’ve never witnessed a live proposal under a blossoming tree, but I could write a book about all the times I’ve encountered bitchy exes shooting verbal daggers at each other at restaurants, in parking lots, and now, funnily enough, a pediatricians’ clinic.
“Please tell me you’re joking, woman. Otherwise, I’d have to ask my lawyers to put you through a drug test. There’s no way in hell you actually believe I’ll sell the McLaren.”
“I deserve half of everything you’ve got, Rhys.”
“You deserve to be housed in a swamp and live off canned armadillo meat for the rest of your life. But I will never let that happen, because of our son,” he turns around to face me. “Have a good day, receptionist,” and I feel the urge to call after him that my name is Savannah, but I’m not stupid enough to do so.
“Sierra, is it?” Dr. Lerer is still at the reception desk, giving me the fakest smile I’ve seen. It looks like it’s been badly photoshopped onto her face. Her facial features are sharp, but there’s no denying that she’s more model material than I will ever be.
“Savannah, actually.”
She leans forward, her conservative cleavage resting over the desk between us. “Want a piece of friendly advice?” From you? No chance.
“Sure, ma’am.”
“Stay away from my ex-husband if you want to keep your job. And your head.”
Wow. I wonder why they broke up. These two are clearly made for each other. A love story written by the Devil.
The entrance door flings open and a woman walks in with a twin-stroller, grinning widely. “I’m here for Dr. Dreamy. The nine a.m. appointment.”
“Dr. Dreamy?” I blink away my astonishment. I don’t care what he looks like. This man is not a dream. He is not even a nightmare. He is the next stage after hell.
“Yes! Dr. Rhys Matthews? Best pediatrician in Providence,” she giggles. Right.
I clap my hands once, and recite the tag phrase Melinda trained me to parrot.
“So nice to have you, Mrs. Jacobs. Welcome to the Matthews and Lerer Pediatric Clinic, where we recognize kindness is also a muscle. May I have your insurance card?”
CHAPTER 3
Gorgeous Disaster
“C ome in.” He enunciates the first syllable. I swear.
I push the door to Dr. Matthews’s office open, irritated by the fact th
at I came in unarmed. The man is the human version of a bulldozer. I find him leaning against his desk, hands shoved deep inside his pockets, his sleeves rolled-up elbow-high, and Dora the Explorer is smiling and waving at me from his tie. A stethoscope is hanging around his shoulders, mimicking the way many women would love to be draped on him. He is talking to a mother with a screaming toddler who’s kicking everything in the room—from the walls to his very own mother. Dr. Matthews is poised, calm, and commanding. He doesn’t raise his voice, and radiates composure.
“Be done in a sec,” he motions to me with his fingers. I wait at the door as he explains to the mother something about ear infections and narrow tunnels and prescribes her antibiotics. He then squats down with a binkie pinched between his fingers and pretends to put it in the kid’s mouth. The kid opens his mouth, but Dr. Matthews presses the binkie to the kid’s nose.
“Oops,” he says dryly, and the kid bursts out laughing. Dr. Matthews again acts as if he tries to put the binkie in the kid’s mouth, now pressing it to his cheek.
“Shoot,” Rhys rolls his eyes, sighing, and the kid’s laughter gets an elated edge that makes my heart flutter.
The binkie presses against the kid’s forehead.
“Wow, now I’m really nowhere near your mouth. Can you show me how to do it?”
The kid nods, grabs the binkie, and puts it in his mouth. Dr. Matthews grins, and sadly, even I have to admit, his grin is spectacular. It’s a shame it’s attached to my archenemy these days.
“Are we going to hang out together anytime soon?” Rhys tilts his chin downwards, inspecting the kid. The boy shakes his head. No. “Yeah, I hope not. Stay good, bud.”
The mother and the kid say goodbye, leaving me to lean with my back to the opposite wall from Dr. Matthews, my palms resting against it. The room is painted in a soft, purple color and is decorated with simple, framed art, elaborate thank-you letters and pictures of the children he and Dr. Lerer have treated over the years. The man can’t be a day older than thirty-five, but it looks like he’s managed to establish quite the career already.
Drawn to Him: A Romance Collection Page 13
