“You don’t have to watch—”
“I love the Kratt Brothers. Show me the way, little Romeo.” She follows Roman as he runs to the living room.
“The remote is complicated. I’ll be in to turn it on in a—” Before I finish, the Kratts are already playing.
“I know my way around a remote, Dr. Hawkins.”
I nod, stealing a few more seconds to just … look at her. “Dorothy Mayhem …” I whisper on a content sigh as I collect the dirty dishes from the table.
Thirty minutes and one Kratt Brothers episode later, the kitchen is clean and Roman is ready for bed.
“Goodnight, Dorfee.” Roman yawns as I scoop him up and carry him up the stairs.
“Night, Romeo.”
“Dorfee has super pow-wows.” Roman’s smile beams, much like mine.
“Super powers? Really?” I tuck him under his covers.
“Yes! She can see my bones!”
“X-ray vision?”
Roman nods.
“That’s pretty cool.” I kiss all over his face until he giggles. “Night, buddy. I love you to the moon.”
“Night, Daddy.” He yawns again.
“Bye, Dr. Hawkins! Thanks for dinner,” Dorothy calls before I even get out of Roman’s bedroom.
Bye?
I run down the stairs, catching her just as she slips on her white shoes. “Whoa, wait! Leaving already?”
“Yeah. Did you need something else?”
Yes. I need more than five minutes alone with her that doesn’t involve cooking or Roman interrupting.
“We never discussed your emus.” I slip my hands into the front pockets of my jeans and lean against the cherry banister.
“Oh. Yeah.” She rests her hand on the front door handle, ready for a quick getaway as soon as the emus are explained.
What is it with women desperately trying to run away from me?
“The previous homeowner had the emus. I was actually there looking at the property the day they hatched. I mentioned how much I like emus … you know, since they’re basically little dinosaurs. So he let me name them. And the next thing I knew, papers were signed, and he moved out. My parents and I arrived with a moving truck, and the two emus were still there. A gift from the previous owner. When I tried to contact him to say I couldn’t accept the gift—for obvious reasons—he never returned my calls.”
“Wow. And I thought I scored when Julie and I rented an apartment just after we graduated from med school and the previous owner left an expensive leather sofa.”
“I bet the sofa cost less money to maintain than Orville and Wilbur.”
“Probably.” I laugh.
“Welp, now you know.” She opens the front door.
“Dorothy?”
“Yeah?”
I push off the banister and erase half the distance between us. Not enough to invade her space, but enough to grab her if she tries to leave. Yes, I realize how creepy that sounds. But it’s exactly what I think. She makes me feel like a child really wanting something, torn up with anxiety at the thought of not getting it … of leaving the store without it.
“I really enjoyed you being here for dinner.”
“Oh …” She nods a half dozen times. “Yeah, Roman is great. I think we got along perfectly. I’d be happy to babysit him anytime it works into my schedule.”
“Yes. Or maybe you could just come over again and have dinner with us? Or we could grab ice cream some evening. Take a hike. Go to a park.” Ask my mom to watch Roman. Make out on my sofa.
Sex deprived pervert!
“Um …” She scrapes her teeth along her lower lip and nods slowly. “Sure. You can never be too safe. I get it. You’d like me to spend a bit more time with him while you supervise.”
Breaking news … Elijah Hawkins scores an F in asking a woman out on a proper date. Why am I using Roman as a crutch? He should be my wingman. I should have him say something to Dorothy that is super sweet and impossible to resist. Like … “Dorfee, my dad is awesome. You should go to dinner with him.”
Too pathetic?
“Welp, goodnight!”
I don’t even get “goodnight” out before she makes it halfway to her car.
“Smooth … real smooth.” I close the door and thump my forehead against it several times.
Over the next few weeks, I manage to demonstrate how not to date Dorothy Mayhem.
Step one: Lie to her and say you need a babysitter when you don’t need one.
Step two: When she continues to turn your date invitations into playdates with your son, don’t correct her.
Step three: There is no step three.
Yeah, not dating Dorothy Mayhem is pretty much an easy two-step process. And I’m good at it, maybe the best at it.
I ask her to have coffee one morning, and she suggests a cafe that has great chocolate milk and donuts for Roman.
I ask her to have lunch with me in the cafeteria at the hospital, and she brings lunch for Roman in a brand-new lunch box that matches hers. Only it’s blue and has superhero stickers on it. So … I smile and go get him out of daycare to have lunch with us.
It’s been three weeks, and I have no idea how to end this playdate streak—honesty seems too obvious.
My final attempt is another dinner date (playdate) at my house. It goes well. I put Roman to bed. And as usual, Dorothy tries to escape. But I manage to catch her at the door, determined to make it clear that I don’t need a babysitter.
“Dorothy?” I lower my voice and take a step closer, breaching the safe zone, the one I’d normally keep with a potential babysitter for my son. But she’s not my son’s babysitter. She’s the young woman I’ve obsessed over for weeks. She’s the smile I catch on occasion in the hallway. She’s the “Hey, Dr. Hawkins!” that makes my dick stir when she says it while applying lip balm in the elevator.
Dorothy stares at my chest. Looking at me would require her to tilt her head up. Her eyes double their blinking rate and her cheeks turn red. Dorothy looks stunning with pink cheeks. She releases the door handle and retrieves a tube of lip balm from the pocket of her skirt. Still focusing on my chest, she applies it then rubs her lips together while returning it to her pocket. Coconut scent invades my nose… everything Dorothy Mayhem is coconut.
“Dr. Hawkins?” Her curious eyes glance up at me, wide and expectant.
I want to kiss those glossed lips. Of course it’s impulsive, a product of emotional displacement and abandonment. The stupidity of it all flashes blinding neon in my head. Still … I really want to know if Dorothy Mayhem tastes like coconuts. I want to silence all my scattered emotions, desires, pain, and need with one kiss. My need to feel something new, something promising, nearly kills me.
“You can call me Eli.”
She swallows hard. “I don’t actually think I can.”
“Why not?” I force my gaze away from her mouth.
The second our eyes meet, she averts her attention to her feet. “Because you’re half of the Hathaway-Hawkins duo.”
This is a new one to me. “I’m divorced.”
“I know. I …” She makes an attempt to look at me, but her attention shifts to my temple then maybe my ear. “I mean you’re a brilliant doctor, and Dr. Hathaway is too—so brilliant. God, she’s just phenomenal. Like there are no words. But still … you change the lives of young children. You save them. You’re what every young person entering the medical field can only dream of becoming. You’ve earned the title. I can’t call you by your name. It’s too personal. I don’t know … almost intimate.”
She has Julie on a really high pedestal. Me? Down a few pegs. Sounds about right for my life at the moment. It’s not that Julie doesn’t deserve to be on the pedestal. No matter how much I hate her, I still love her. And her skills as a pediatric plastic surgeon are unmatched. She deserves Dorothy’s admiration.
But I don’t want to talk about medicine, accolades, and saving lives. I know … I know … how terrible of me. Sorry, but I need som
ething for myself. Something personal and maybe a little selfish.
Definitely intimate.
“I don’t need a babysitter for Roman.”
She jerks her head back, giving me her full attention, eyes squinted, gaze locked to mine. “What?”
I trap my top lip between my teeth, drowning in coconuts as my heart races, sending ample blood to all regions of my body. God … I just want—need—to kiss her.
“Oh jeez …” She shakes her head, closing her eyes for a breath. “You invited me to dinner to … flirt.” Her eyes open to their widest point.
A tiny laugh escapes me. I can’t help it. Everything about this woman feels like a rebirth. “I invited you to dinner because Roman really likes you. And I just can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done for him. You’re so generous.”
Gah! I suck at this!
What is my problem? Yes. The answer is yes! Yes, Dorothy, I invited you over to flirt, maybe even kiss. And other things …
“Oh.” She takes a step backward, stumbling a bit as the front door catches her, and more embarrassment tints her cheeks. “Well, now I feel stupid. Yes, of course you invited me here because Roman likes me. Duh. Now I just look like an idiot for assuming you wanted to flirt with me. And really, no need to thank me. My generosity is selfish. It makes me feel good to do nice things. That’s all. And really, you’ve bought me coffee and made me dinner again. It’s like I should be thanking you again. But that’s probably weird. So … I’ll just go now.”
Really, really weird shit goes through my mind as she fidgets. Dr. Hawkins is nowhere to be found. Neither is Roman’s dad. Raging-puberty-hormones Eli Hawkins invades my head—both of them really. And I just want to kiss Dorothy. That’s the PG version of my thoughts. Most of them are R-rated. Worse than the R-rating. All I can think about are the ways Dorothy and I can be generous with each other, leading to never-ending thank-you’s that don’t involve stationary, replacement scrubs, superhero capes, pasta dinners, lunch boxes … or clothing.
“Should we call it even? No more thank-you’s,” I suggest.
“Okay.” She lifts her gaze, eyes going a little cross-eyed like her focus is centered on the bridge of my nose.
“Okay.” I release a slow breath, but it does very little to relax all of my body. “Can I ask your age?” I’m not sure why I’ve been so chicken about asking her age. I think it worries me that she’s too young, and I’ll feel like a dirty old man having really inappropriate thoughts about her.
“I’m thirty. Why?”
“You just look young.”
“I wear massive amounts of sunscreen.”
I nod slowly.
Just kiss her, you big chicken!
What if she doesn’t want to be kissed by me? Or flirt with me? I internally laugh at the memory of her comment and at myself for being just as awkward. Why does something so simple have to be so complicated?
“I have a forty-five-minute drive home.”
And school the next day. Where is my head?
Oh, that’s right …
“Of course. I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”
“Okay.” She smiles.
I love her okay’s. They feel like more than the average okay.
“I’ll walk you out.”
“Have you not closed all of your rings?” She holds up her wrist, signaling to her watch.
I chuckle. “All rings were closed hours ago.”
“We could track each other. Share our rings. Did you know that?”
Rings. Kisses. Trips to the on-call room for sex.
For the love of God … get your shit together, Elijah!
“Never mind. That’s weird.” She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at herself just before opening the door and scurrying ten steps ahead of me. Her pace gains momentum with the hill of my driveway.
My long strides catch up to her at the bottom of it. She looks both ways and bolts across the street to her car, clicks the locks, and opens her door.
“Goodnight!”
“Dorothy Mayhem … you’re killing me.”
She turns just before ducking into the driver’s seat.
“What do you mean?”
Resting my hands on my hips, I drop my chin in defeat and stare at my untied gray canvas shoes. “What if I did ask you to dinner tonight to … flirt?” I glance up, digging my teeth into my bottom lip on a slight cringe.
Her body remains stoic as her eyes shift from side to side, like she’s been caught on a hidden camera. “Well … then I wore the wrong outfit.” She refuses to look me in the eye.
“I think you look amazing.”
“Yes. But this is a playdate outfit. Maybe even one I’d wear to apply for a babysitter position. It’s fun, but wholesome. Practical and safe.”
I just want to spend one day in her head. Everything about her fascinates the hell out of me. The curiosity gives me such a high.
“Tell me about your flirting outfit.”
“Well …” She clears her throat, keeping her focus on the big hill leading out of my development. And of course … her cheeks are perfectly flushed as she talks to the wind. “Since Romeo was involved, I would have chosen my red dress with white stripes. It hits just below my knees, but it’s strapless. And I would have worn my blue cardigan with it and matching blue wedge sandals with straps that tie around my ankles. Flirty … but appropriate for young eyes.”
“And if Roman wouldn’t have been here tonight?” I stare at the side of her head, wondering if she’ll look at me again before driving home.
She narrows her eyes. “I would have taken off the cardigan after you invited me into your house.”
The picture she paints in my head does all kinds of wicked things to me. Why imagining her in a striped strapless dress has such a physical effect on me is a mystery. It’s not like she suggested showing up wearing nothing but high heels and a trench coat. Dorothy Mayhem possesses her own brand of seduction, and I’m completely entangled in every part of it.
“And in this scenario, would you have kissed me after I walked you to your car?”
She turns completely red. I feel certain even her toes hidden in those blue shoes have to be red. “You’re making fun of me.”
Her comment knocks me back a good ten steps, even if my body remains right next to her. Why would she say that?
“If you want me to watch Roman, just let me know. I need to go home now.”
“Why would you think I’m making fun of you?”
She slides into the driver’s seat. “Because it’s ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous?”
“You. Me. This! The doctor and the transporter. Dr. Elijah Hawkins and … me! My idol’s ex-husband. Dr. Hottie Hawkins. This is just … a joke. And I don’t think it’s funny.”
As my thoughts snag on Hottie Hawkins, she tries to shut her door, but I block it with my body.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa … no. Just … no.” I duck my head into her vehicle.
Her eyes nearly pop out of their sockets as her head presses firmly to the headrest, unable to avoid my face … my total invasion of her personal space. My lips … inches from hers. “If I don’t do this, I won’t be able to sleep, or think, or function at work tomorrow, or focus on anything but why I was too chicken to kiss you.”
“You’re going to—”
Yes. I kiss her. I kiss her because it’s all I can think about. She turns me into a child, much like Roman with his one-track mind when he wants something.
Dorothy doesn’t kiss me back. She doesn’t move at all. So I pull away and swallow my pride, standing tall so she can’t see my anguish as I run a frustrated hand through my hair and sigh, ready to bang my head on the top of her car. I’m out of practice with … everything. And it sucks. It makes me hate Julie that much more.
Julie took her time, sorting her feelings, slowly detaching from me without me knowing, planning her escape and new life. I feel like someone kicked me out of a moving vehicle—tattered,
bruised, and lucky to be alive. But clearly I have no clue how to navigate after what felt like a near-death experience.
“I’m sorry, Dorothy. Please forget that happened.” I talk to the roof of her car like she talked to the wind. And there is little doubt that my face matches the red dress she described to me.
You’re an idiot, Elijah.
“Goodnight.” I make a one-eighty turn and cross the street, not looking in either direction as if I don’t care if a car hits me—because at the moment it would be a quick way to put myself out of my misery.
Chapter Eight
Kiss and Tell
“It must be Friday!” Mom greets me from her desk as I open the door to her office, holding her favorite salad.
“Favorite day of the week.”
She makes her way to meet me in front of her desk, taking the salad from my hands and planting a kiss on my cheek. “Emily’s funeral was yesterday. Did you go to the funeral?”
“You know the answer.” I take a seat as she shuffles back to her desk chair. With very few exceptions, I attend my patients’ funerals—if I can’t save them.
“No. I assume you did, but sometimes your schedule doesn’t allow it. So I didn’t know for sure. How’s Mary Ann doing?”
Mary Ann, Emily’s mom, lost her husband and daughter within six months of each other. I referred her to my mom when she asked if I had a recommendation for a psychiatrist. She also wanted me to keep my mom updated on Emily’s progress.
“I’m surprised you weren’t there.” I sip my coffee, focusing on the photo on her desk of Roman and me.
“I’d planned on it, but I had an emergency.”
I nod slowly, feeling melancholy from the past few weeks. It’s not just Emily dying or even the botched dates (or whatever they were) with Dorothy. Everything has simmered into a feeling of failure and loneliness.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Emily?”
Mom nods, peeling the lid from her salad.
“No.”
“Okay. Is Roman excited for his trip?”
“Yes.”
She shoots me a half grin and a single lifted eyebrow. “That’s it. Just yes? What’s wrong?”
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