Best Medicine, The

by Brogan, Tracy

  “Why?”

  “Simplicity. Expediency.”

  “Is that why you’re using a dating service? For simplicity and expediency?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I don’t have time to waste on the wrong kind of man.”

  He scoffed and stopped walking, and I realized how insulting that had sounded. I flushed with remorse and turned to face him. “I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant I don’t have time for, you know . . . a last hurrah. It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy one. But I’m looking for something more. And my guess is, you’re looking for something . . . less.”

  Tyler didn’t say anything. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets and a frown on his face. I’d offended him with my very unpoetic explanation. Obviously that hadn’t been my intention, but maybe it was for the best. I was looking for more, and he was looking for less. Neither of us was wrong, we were just in very different places, heading in very different directions. He should understand that.

  He shifted on his feet. “That’s kind of presumptuous, isn’t it? To think you know what I’m looking for?” His voice had lost some of its earlier warmth, and the bubble of affection we’d been floating in popped.

  “I suppose. I don’t mean to be. I just . . .” I let my voice dwindle away. I’d only make it worse if I tried to explain my point of view. Anything I said would make it sound as if I thought he wasn’t good enough for me. And this wasn’t about that. It was about age and timing and phases of life. “Well, anyway, thanks for walking me home.” I pointed to the two-story Victorian house on the next corner. “My apartment is right there. I can manage from here.”

  He rolled his eyes and started walking again, determined to get me right up to my front door, in spite of my insults and assumptions. I reached into my purse to get my keys as we headed up the sidewalk and onto the little front porch. There were lights on either side of my door with moths and all sorts of flighty little bugs buzzing around them. Definitely not a romantic place to stand, which, again, was probably for the best.

  I put my key into the lock and twisted, popping open the door. I turned back and he was standing on the top step, a few feet away. Hands still in his pockets, expression neutral.

  “Safe and sound,” I said, pointing into my dark apartment.

  “Yep. Looks like it. I guess this is good night then.” He hesitated near the railing, and I knew I could still kiss him. I could reach over and grab the front of that nice white shirt and haul him inside my apartment. He’d get over those hurt feelings if I showed him my breasts. I knew enough about men to be certain of that.

  But I didn’t. I just said, “Thanks again. Good night.” And walked inside alone.

  I regretted it instantly. I was an idiot.

  I should have kissed him.

  Chapter 12

  HILARY WALKED INTO MY OFFICE first, but her sister was close on her heels. They shut the door and locked it. Gabby’s smile was suspiciously bright as she sat down in the chair across from my desk and placed a six-gallon latte in front of me as if the scent of mochaccino-hazelnutty goodness would make up for the fact that she’d sent me on a date with a trash-talking toilet seat maker.

  “So,” Gabby said, crossing her arms with dramatic flair. “Would you like to explain how it is I sent you out to dinner with Phil Carter and yet you ended up licking frosting off a plate at Jasper’s with some guy I know from high school?”

  Damn her and her Bell Harbor connections. I should have realized I couldn’t spend two hours chatting with Tyler in a public restaurant without the town criers catching wind of it. I glanced at Hilary, who was leaning against my filing cabinet, staring at me enigmatically over her own coffee.

  “There was no licking of frosting, from a plate or from anywhere else. It was all completely innocent.”

  “Well, then that’s a waste of good frosting, but how the hell do you know Tyler Connelly?” Gabby picked up a stack of patient files from my desk and moved them to the side to clear her line of vision.

  I very deliberately moved them back. “I have a filing system here. Don’t mess it up.”

  “Stacking isn’t a system. And stop changing the subject. Tell me about you and Tyler.”

  “Yes,” said Hilary, “tell us about you and Tyler.” Her tone was benign enough, but the look on her face said what the hell are you doing?

  “There is no me and Tyler. I gave him stitches in the ED on my birthday, and he thought we should have dinner. Last night I was just trying to convince him otherwise.”

  “By having martinis and mousse instead? Good plan,” Hilary muttered. Sarcasm was not a good color on her, but she wore it often.

  I shook my head definitively. “It wasn’t like that. Tyler just happened to be at the restaurant to witness that debacle of a date Gabby sent me on.” I jabbed a pointer finger in her direction. “Phil Carter was an asshat, by the way, and Tyler decided to rescue me.” I air quoted the word “rescue” to ensure they both understood my complete dismissal of needing assistance. “So I bought Tyler a beer just to say thanks. How well do you know him, anyway?”

  Hilary huffed at my question, but Gabby leaned forward.

  “Well, I never dated him, but my friend Patty went to prom with him, and he totally broke her heart.”

  “Prom?” Hilary said, exasperation popping from her voice. “How about something a little more recent? And relevant? Like the fact that everyone knows he just got arrested for stealing a Jet Ski?”

  “He didn’t—” I stopped myself. I’d been sworn to secrecy. “That situation is not exactly what it appears to be.”

  “What the heck is that supposed to mean?” Hilary asked, her perfect eyebrows slanting together.

  “Yes, what does that mean?” Gabby’s tone was much more conversational, and I knew if I shared these details, she’d have it posted on Twitter before I’d finished my sentence. This wasn’t my truth to tell.

  “Nothing. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. We had a drink and that was it. Let’s talk about Bell Harbor Singles. I have sixteen new e-mails. Who wants to see them?”

  I wasn’t at all in the mood to talk about Tyler, or the other men, for that matter. But I especially didn’t want to talk about Tyler.

  “But that wasn’t it,” Gabby said. “He walked you home, right? What happened after that?”

  Damnation! Her network of informants was vast. I should have stayed in Chicago, where a girl could maintain some privacy.

  “Are you spying on me?”

  She giggled. “No, but your waitress at Jasper’s is our cousin. She said Tyler was totally into you and very insistent that you let him take you home.”

  “He was. And he did. And he left me on my front porch, where we said good night.”

  “So that’s it?” Gabby’s disappointment marred her expression. “Why the hell didn’t you invite him in?”

  Hilary crossed her arms. “Because he’s a loser, Gabby. He stole a Jet Ski. That whole family is a fucking train wreck. His younger brother assaulted some guy in a bar, his older brother just disappeared off the planet one day, and his mother is a shoplifter. And if I’m not mistaken, she has a gambling problem too.”

  My lungs felt kicked and stomped on. With cleats. “How do you know all that?”

  She paused, as if reluctant to say.

  “Hilary?”

  “Steve is their family lawyer,” she finally blurted out. “I know all about them. I’m not supposed to say anything, but God, Evie. Please tell me you’re not involved with this guy. He is bad, bad news.”

  Boy, I sure did know how to pick them, didn’t I? Tyler might not be directly involved with any of that, but it was his family. He was guilty by association. No wonder he thought he had to keep them out of trouble. I picked up my latte.

  “I’m not involved with him.” I said it calmly, as if none of this really mattered. And it should
n’t. I wasn’t involved with him. And yet, it did matter. I felt it, deep inside.

  Gabby flopped back against her seat. “Well, that is a huge disappointment, because Tyler Connelly is sexy time with sexy sauce on top. What a waste. Well, at least I’ve got you set up for a few more dates.”

  I set my coffee down so hard it splashed onto my lab coat. “What? Stop doing that, Gabby. I only meant for you to help me with the profile.”

  Hilary automatically went into mom mode and pulled an alcohol wipe from her pocket. She tore open the packet and came around to my side of the desk to dab at the stain.

  “I can’t help it,” Gabby responded. “It’s fun. If I can’t get Mike to marry me, maybe I can at least get someone to marry you.”

  I leaned around Hilary to glare at her sister. “Let me pick them this time.”

  “It’s too late. I’ve triple booked you for Thursday night.”

  “Triple booked?” I gasped. “Are you kidding me? How am I supposed to be on three dates at once?”

  “You’re all about being scientific, so I decided to make the most of the time you had and give you a nice cross-section of bachelors. You’ve got drinks at five with Beau Maloney, appetizers at six thirty with Sebastian Clark, then a late supper at eight thirty with Marty Cable.”

  I looked back at Hilary. “She’s killing me with this.”

  “You could have just let me fix you up with one of Steve’s friends, you know,” she replied.

  “Does Steve have any single friends?”

  She thought about this for a second. “No, but for you, he’d be willing to make some.”

  “Well, tell him to get right on that, would you? Before your sister marries me off to a toilet maker?”

  “Mwah-hah-hah,” Gabby said. “Just leave it to me. I’ll have you sharing that sexy six-headed shower before you can say slippery when wet.”

  My sexy, sudsy shower for two would have to wait indefinitely if these last three dates were any indication of the rest of my life.

  Bachelor number one had been nice in a let-me-do-your-taxes kind of way, but even with lifts in his shoes, he was shorter than me. While I would never judge a man for being vertically challenged, I do judge a man who finds being eye level with my breasts too much of a distraction. Even when we sat down and could have been eye to eye, it was too late. He was already mentally motorboating me. I could tell from the sheen of perspiration covering his nearly hairless scalp.

  Bachelor number two, on the other hand, had a full head of glorious hair and a Texas machismo rarely seen this far north. He was a cowboy, right down to the snakeskin boots and the ten-gallon hat. He was articulate, charming with a good ole boy mannerism, and he loved his momma. This I know because he talked about her and her recent hysterectomy for forty-five minutes. Then he said, “But you’re a right fine little filly. I’m fixin’ to take you home to my stable.” At that point I resorted to my fake emergency phone call trick so I could ride into the sunset without him.

  Now here I was in the lobby of Jasper’s place for a late supper with Marty Cable.

  “It’s pronounced Ka-BALL-ee,” he told the dainty blonde hostess as she checked the list of available tables. His breath was uncomfortably moist as he turned to whisper in my ear.

  “If they think we’re Italian, we’ll get a better seat. Connected, you know what I’m talkin’ about?” He held his hand out for a fist bump. I pretended not to see it.

  No. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I also didn’t know how anyone’s breath could be so wet without them actually spitting. And I didn’t know if I could go through with another date tonight. A night that started out bad had deteriorated into the fifth circle of hell.

  Marty Cable, a man who may or may not have been a member of the Gambino crime family, had black, slicked-back hair, giving him a reptilian profile. His suit was shiny, and so were his shoes. And I couldn’t be certain, but that tie might just have been a clip-on. Considering how he was dressed, if he was connected, it was through some distant third cousin who everyone called Vito but was actually named John.

  “Yes, Mr. Cable (Ka-BALL-ee), your table is right this way,” said the hostess.

  He let me go first and pressed a proprietary hand against the curve of my waist as we made our way to the booth. It was the same one I’d sat in a few nights ago and shared a gooey dessert. I should ask to sit someplace else. It was already impossible to not compare the charisma of these other guys to Tyler’s, and every last one of them came up lacking.

  “You thinking about parking it, sweetheart?” Marty pointed to the seat across from him. “Or are you gonna stand there all night so I can gawk at you?”

  I sat down, lowering both myself and my standards. I silently offered up a little prayer to the patron saint of awful dates that this would not get uglier. Of course, I wasn’t a Catholic and had no idea if there even was a patron saint of bad dates, but if there were, I bet she’d been out with lots of guys like Marty Cable. I mean . . . Ka-BALL-ee.

  “Your server will be with you shortly,” said the hostess, handing us the menus.

  My head ached, my shoes pinched, and the area south of my waistband was ready for an autopsy. Cause of death: prolonged atrophy.

  “So, a doctor, huh?” Marty nodded his head, which must have been no easy feat considering the amount of fleshy adipose tissue around his jowls. He looked like a hound dog.

  “Yes, a plastic surgeon. And tell me again what it is you do? I’m afraid it slipped my mind.” Date number one had designed security systems for bank vaults. Number two was, not surprisingly, in the cattle business, and if I remembered my notes correctly, Marty here did something with shipping or cargo.

  “I’m the senior manager at Winchester Storage, the largest storage unit company in southwest Michigan.”

  “Oh, yes. Storage.” I nodded. Now it was coming back to me. I’d done a little Google search earlier in preparation for these dates and learned that “largest in southwest Michigan” meant not very big at all.

  Marty leaned closer. “You know those TV shows? That, whatcha call it? Storage Wars? Yeah, that was totally my idea. But some other yay-hoo is getting the credit. It’s all about who you know, right?”

  So much for being connected.

  I just smiled and nodded. There was no point in telling Marty that your place in life had nothing to do with who you knew. It was about planning, hard work, tenacity, and talent. Master something and it will lead to success. I hadn’t relied on my parents’ great reputations to get me through medical school. I had gotten to where I was by doing the work.

  Marty continued talking, as I assumed he would. “But you’d be amazed at the stuff people put in storage and then forget about.”

  I picked up the menu but didn’t look at it. I was too busy doing a mental makeover of my date. If Marty washed his hair, he might not be that bad looking. He had kind of a hook nose, but I’d seen much worse. I could even fix it. Fewer spritzes of man-musk cologne would help too, but his eyes were a nice, rich brown, and his teeth were in pretty good shape. Maybe he just needed some restyling from a woman. Maybe I needed to be more open-minded about this whole dating process and give Marty a chance.

  “Like what kind of stuff do they forget about?” I asked.

  “Porn, baby! Tons of porn. If people still watched DVDs instead of ordering everything online, I’d be a flippin’ millionaire.”

  What was that sound?

  Oh. Yes. It was the final, tiny blip of my optimism flatlining. Time of death, 7:33 p.m.

  “That is a shame.” I shook my head. “I hate to see good porn go to waste.”

  “Welcome to Jasper’s.”

  I jumped at the voice. First of all, because I hadn’t realized our waiter had arrived. Second, because I was embarrassed that someone just overheard my sarcastic remark about porn.

  And third, b
ecause our waiter was Tyler Connelly.

  Chapter 13

  TYLER WAS STANDING AT THE edge of the table wearing a white shirt, black pants, and a short black waiter’s apron. He held a tablet in his hand, his pen poised and at the ready.

  “How are you this evening?” His voice was as bland as toast, as if he’d never seen me before. As if we hadn’t shared a dessert in this very booth. As he’d never stood on my front porch making me want to kiss him.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked. “Beer. Wine. Martini.”

  He locked his gaze on me when he said that last word, as if what he wanted to say was “Really? I’m not good enough, and yet you’re out with another douche bag?”

  My insides curled and shrank like a plastic dish left too long in a microwave.

  “I’ll have a martini,” Marty said, not waiting for me to go first. “And make it dirty. The dirtier the better.”

  He snickered at his own innuendo.

  Tyler turned his head and cleared his throat, although I could have sworn I heard him cough out the word “Pervert.” Then his eyes were back to me, alight with challenge, a tight smile tilting just the corners of his lips. “And you, ma’am? Can I interest you in something a little dirty?”

  When, when, when, and how, how, how did he start working here? I’d been looking for that small-town feel when I chose Bell Harbor, but I had underestimated what a tiny village this really was. Slides under a microscope had more privacy.

  “I’ll have a club soda with lemon, please,” I said.

  Marty frowned, his thick, dark brows nearly crossing in the process. Clearly loading me up with alcohol was paramount to his dating strategy, but no amount of gin was going to gain him access to any part of me. A dozen Ambien wouldn’t make me loose enough at this point. This date was already over. He just didn’t know it yet.

  “Excellent.” Tyler turned and walked away, giving me my first really good look at his ass. I’d always been facing him or next to him. Now I knew that even in restaurant-quality chinos, his gluteus maximus was on par with the rest of him. Muscular, defined, pleasant to the eye. Probably pretty pleasant to the touch as well. My hands flexed of their own accord and my dead zone reawakened.