by Ruby Lang
“Do the sliders have wheat? I’m allergic to wheat. And I can’t have soda.”
“You can take off the bun and just eat the pork. Or maybe we can find something else for you. Spinach dumplings?”
Petra and Kevin shook their heads.
“Polenta, cheddar, and scallion croquettes?”
They shook their heads again.
“We’ll find something. And maybe we can have lemonade on hand. Lemonade is okay, right?”
“Yes,” Kevin said. “But not with mint.”
“Are you allergic to mint?”
“No, I just don’t like it.”
Ian thought of delivering a lecture about how the kid couldn’t afford to be fussy, given his limited options, but Petra held up her hand. “Kevin, Mr. Zamora, this is a very nice offer, but I can’t actually come with you.”
“Why not?”
She addressed Kevin. “I can’t date a patient, or double date with one.”
“Actually, it’s not a date,” Ian said.
“Right,” she drawled. Nonetheless, she was blushing and stealing glances at him.
Ian felt a surge of hope. I might not get Maced, he thought giddily. His shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“Like I said, it’s a thank you. And a sort of apology.”
She seemed wary. At least she was looking at him.
“I’d like to take care of your dry cleaning bill, if you’ll let me. Your coat and dress probably got dirty last night. It was a beautiful dress.”
“I’ve never seen you in a dress, Doc,” Kevin said.
“It was red, and it looked silky, very soft.” He had wanted to run his hands over it.
As if she had heard his thoughts, her eyelids fluttered closed. Yes!
Then they snapped open. “The blogger, Sally Kerns, contacted me today. I wouldn’t worry.” Petra turned away. “She doesn’t blame you and she’s not going to pan your place. I don’t have any influence over her, anyway.”
“Ian’s just trying to thank you, Doc.”
“Look, Ian—Mr. Zamora, you can’t take Kevin to a bar, even if you’re the owner. Kevin, what would your father say?”
“He won’t mind, especially if there’s a doctor there. What if you have to save my life?”
“You’re right, Kev,” Ian said. “Doctor, you’ll have to come in an official capacity.”
Petra glowered but Ian turned to Kevin. “You and your lady friend can give me detailed notes on what you think of the place. It’ll give you something to talk about.”
“I always have something interesting to talk about,” Kevin said.
Petra coughed. It might have been to cover up a laugh.
They moved aside to let some other people past on the sidewalk.
“You should also wear a suit,” Ian added.
“I hate suits.”
“Sophisticated women like men who look polished and smell good and make an effort.”
Kevin turned to Petra.
“I’d love to see you in a jacket and tie,” she said, with an evil glint in her eye.
She was taking her revenge on both of them. Ian liked that.
“Don’t worry, you’ll look sharp, Kevin,” Ian said. “It’ll be a private, pre-opening dinner. We’ll have candles, nice music. The staff will hang on your every word. The lady will be impressed.”
Ian put his arm around Kevin’s shoulders. He glanced back at Petra. “Six o’clock tomorrow. I trust you know the address.”
CHAPTER NINE
Outmaneuvered, Petra fumed, surveying her living room. Just what did Ian Zamora want with her anyway?
Who cares? her hormones screamed.
She grabbed her headphones and her running shoes and set off toward the waterfront path. It was still chilly and rain threatened. Her eyes watered in the cold air. But pushing against the wind and wet suited her mood today.
He wasn’t her patient anymore, was he? It had been months since the last time she’d seen him. And sure, Sarah had warned her not to complicate things, but what harm was there in having a small drink with him, and with Kevin as a chaperone? The man was grateful.
Franz Ferdinand shouted out from Petra’s headphones, asking if she “wanted to.”
“Yes!” she yelled, running faster.
She didn’t have to be instantly suspicious of everyone who seemed to enjoy her company, she thought. And she had done some real doctoring that night.
Pausing to stretch her tight hamstrings, she texted Helen.
I am awesome! she wrote.
You are awesome, too! she added, as an afterthought.
She started to jog slowly again.
Just stay cool, she told herself. Even if he really liked her, even if he asked her out, she wouldn’t be able to go out with him. She should enjoy some wine she’d never normally be able to afford, ogle Ian just a little bit before she never got to see him again.
She jogged a little faster and stared out at the water. “How many miles do you run?” a guy shouted, catching up to her.
“I don’t know,” she yelled back.
She decelerated even more to let him pass, but he matched her pace.
She smiled, more of a baring of teeth in the cold wind, to encourage him to move on. He grinned back. What was she going to have to do, slap him on the butt?
“You have good turnover,” he yelled. “I’ve been watching you for the last mile.”
He’d been watching her…footwork. Great.
“Yours seems awesome, too!” she shouted back.
There didn’t seem to be a lot to say, but Foot Man loped along beside her.
She had been out of the loop for so long. Was he actually trying to pick her up?
She assessed him. Nice running gear. No eau de homeless about him. She couldn’t appraise his hair color—rain and sweat had dampened and darkened it—but she’d guess it was a shade of brown. At least it wasn’t pulled into a ratty ponytail. Bone structure and muscle structure looked good. Eye color, again, difficult to tell, but at least she couldn’t see any jaundice.
There’s more than one way for me to keep my distance, she thought.
• • •
She had brought a date.
He had planned to talk to her, charm her. He planned for interruptions from Kevin and Lilah, and possibly Gerry. He was prepared for an uphill struggle.
He had not planned on her bringing a man.
At least she had the sense to look slightly ashamed of herself. She also looked great. He wondered if she had worn the silky blouse and slim jeans to impress the young one she’d brought.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Ian said.
“Marsalis.”
“Right. Marsalis.”
The fucker.
• • •
Ian’s knee brushed Petra’s. She tightened her hand around a water glass and willed herself to keep still. It was hard to know how successful she was. Her skin tingled.
Ian appeared unaffected, as if the touch had been an accident.
The staff began bringing out little plates and while everyone exclaimed over the food, Petra compared the men surreptitiously. Marsalis wore skinny jeans and a soft tee printed with sparrows and vines. He had another bird tattooed on his arm. He probably had a thorough knowledge of indie bands. But there was something unformed about his features. He was soft in the cheeks and around the chin. Even the way he mouthed his vowels and consonants seemed mushy. He was probably a couple of years younger than she was. She put her chin up. She could handle it.
She turned to Ian. He wore his usual button-down and jeans. His clothes were softer, a little broken in. She could imagine his thigh muscles, flexing underneath the denim, as he sat forward and explained each dish to Kevin and his date, Penny. He blinked and Petra watched his long eyelashes brush against his cheek.
She shouldn’t be noticing Ian’s lashes, or picturing the rippling that went on under his clothing. Marsalis was here, and he was buff, and he had a tattoo. (Of c
ourse, the ink probably increased the likelihood that he had hepatitis C, but she decided to ignore that for now.) Overall, Marsalis probably lent her some kind of hotness cred due to his youth and hipness.
But Ian was endlessly fascinating, despite the fact that she knew so much about him. She knew how old he was. She knew that he’d had his appendix out, and that his father had died of mesothelioma, and that his eyes widened and he sucked his cheeks in lightly when he felt pain. She knew that his touch set her skin fizzing.
She wondered how he looked when he came.
He met her eyes and lifted an eyebrow, as if he knew what she had just been thinking. She couldn’t look away. Lust arced between them. He edged closer to her and his knee brushed hers again. His thigh felt hard.
Foul, foul! screamed inner Hippocrates. Somewhere he had obtained a ref’s whistle and he blew it until his little toga strained.
She bumped away quickly and ended up closer to Marsalis. Stupid red leather seats.
Kevin announced that he would tell the tale of how he’d managed to get his father to throw up the night before.
“This isn’t table talk, Kevin,” Petra said automatically.
“I don’t mind,” said Penny eagerly.
Marsalis and Ian shrugged at the same time. Petra darted a quick glance at Ian and saw him looking at her from under his lashes. She glared.
Fine. Kevin’s anecdote would probably curb any desire she felt to curl her fingers in Ian’s collar and lick his lip. She should be encouraging the kid to gross them out.
“I wanted to make a go-cart,” Kevin said eagerly, “but my dad wouldn’t let me. So I decided to make a milk carton raft instead.”
“You can’t have milk,” Petra said right away.
“I just needed the containers. My dad uses milk in his coffee.”
“That’s what you get from this, that he can’t have milk?” Ian said to Petra. “How about the fact that he’s making a raft?”
Antagonism, and something else, shimmered between them, again. Petra’s hand tightened into a fist.
Kevin ignored them both. “So my dad came home last night, and was, like”—he did a high-pitched voice—“What is that smell? And I reminded him that my olfactory sense was gone.” He used the word olfactory with pride. Penny gave him a sigh that sounded suspiciously adoring and Petra loved her. “And Dad was like, It smells like something is rotting in the guest bedroom.”
“Hoo boy,” Marsalis said.
Ian regarded him stonily.
“Please tell me you rinsed the milk cartons,” Petra said.
“I thought I had. Anyway, when I opened the door, Dad practically fell backward. And then I dragged the raft over to show him, and he threw up on it.” Kevin looked pleased.
“All that work,” Marsalis said sympathetically.
“Don’t encourage him,” Petra and Ian said together.
Kevin smirked.
Ian turned to Marsalis and said, “So, Marsalis, how did you and Petra meet?”
Asshole, Petra thought. Stupid, annoying, sexy, smug, goddamn thigh-rubbing asshole.
“We were out running along the greenway trail,” Petra interjected tightly.
Ian didn’t even look her way. He and Marsalis seemed to engage in a kind of male telepathy that, if heard aloud, probably sounded like grunting and chest beating. Another plate came and Penny dug into clams and breadcrumbs. At least someone was enjoying the evening. Petra let out her breath slowly.
“Do you live around here, too?” Kevin asked.
“Yeah,” said Marsalis. “It’s a great nabe. I share a place with a few other guys.”
“A few?” Ian asked.
“Five or six. It’s sort of a floating number. We live in a loft. Open space, you know.”
“Cool,” said Kevin. “Do you do any multiplayer games together?”
“We all go off to our corners for Empire, and we yell at each other.”
“What if you want to get alone with a girl?” Kevin asked.
Petra kicked him. The white oak table was hiding a multitude of sins tonight.
Marsalis smiled lazily. “It’s cool. We understand when someone needs privacy.”
Ian’s eyes glinted in the candlelight. “And what do you do for a living, Marsalis?”
“I take a few classes at Willamette.”
Petra’s mind stuttered. How old—?
“How old are you?” Kevin asked.
Petra couldn’t kick him again. She was his doctor, and she was pretty sure that First, do no harm covered bruising. “You don’t have to answer that,” Petra said.
Marsalis grinned lazily. He reached over and put his arm around Petra. She winced and tried to cover it with a cough. She couldn’t help herself.
Ian, to his credit, did not smirk.
It was a school night, so Penny’s mother came by to pick them up at eight. Kevin gave the servers and Ian and chef Marcia a tiny bow. Penny, taking her cues from Kevin, performed a curtsy and echoed his words. Kevin held the car door open for Penny.
Now, it was just Petra and the boys left.
Awkward.
“Well,” said Petra.
“Well,” said Ian.
“Can I walk you back home?” Marsalis asked, slinging an arm around Petra and kissing her on the cheek.
But it was too late for Petra. Inner Hippocrates was wringing his hands.
Ian interrupted. “Actually, Marsalis, Petra and I have some business to discuss. Why don’t you head on out alone? The night is young.”
And so are you, Petra thought, looking sadly at Marsalis.
Marsalis nodded. He looked amused, as if older women often used him for the purposes of making their elderly lovers jealous. He shrugged into his leather jacket and ambled off. Ian and Petra watched him and waved, like a pair of doting grandparents. His shapely rear end disappeared behind a corner.
“Don’t say anything,” Petra said, holding up her hand. “I’m already trying to imagine myself explaining the statutory rape charges to a medical board.”
“He didn’t get to say how old he was,” Ian noted.
“The less I know, the better,” Petra said.
• • •
Ian pursed his lips and he saw that she clenched both of her fists. Still no polish on those fingernails. He gestured to the bar and she sat down. He reached up, nabbed two wineglasses, and poured them each some red. “Is it really worth all this trouble to get rid of me?” he asked.
“Is it really worth all this trouble to pursue me?”
He looked her directly in the eye. “It is,” he said.
She shot him one long, hard look, and he met her eye, almost found himself pulling her toward him. But he couldn’t touch her, not yet.
“It’s complicated,” she said, finally. “There are other major circumstances. But a big issue is that you were my patient and it would be unethical. The American Medical Association considers it misconduct when doctors carry on with patients, with good reason, and except in special cases, the AMA frowns on relationships with doctors even after the patient is no longer a patient. Their guideline says doctors and patients should wait at least six months after the patient ceases to be a patient. In Great Britain, relations are banned outright. Maybe it sounds like quibbling to you, but I’ve sunk so much of my life into this practice. My savings, my degree, my reputation. I just can’t risk any trouble so close to the beginning of my career.”
Petra fiddled with the stem of her glass.
“I don’t want to make problems for you, but if what you tell me is accurate, no one—not even the American Medical Association—can hold your actions against you. I came on to you. You stayed professional. That’s my story. Plus, I’m no longer in your care and I haven’t been for almost six months. You made sure of that. Did you write the letter because I made you uncomfortable in any way? Because I’m sorry if I did, but you and I know that there’s more to it than that.”
His gaze searched hers again. It was her turn to lo
ok uneasy. “No, I was protecting myself in case you thought I sent the wrong signals.”
Ian was pleased about that one.
“And what signals were those?” he asked, giving her a dark look.
“No. No, you were my patient. There should have been nothing. Radio static. Cone of silence.”
“I never quite understood what’s so terrible about a doctor dating a patient.”
“Of course it’s terrible. You come to me because you’re sick and vulnerable and in pain. I’m supposed to help you not take advantage of your weakness.”
“But I don’t feel exploited. I came in to your office because I get sniffly around cats. It’s a minor inconvenience, which, as you pointed out, would be helped if I stopped hanging around felines. I’m not dying. It’s not like you would be putting a clown nose on me and posting pictures of it while I’m lying in a coma.”
“Minor inconveniences turn into life-threatening events every day. You’re still under my care technically—and really, forever. Unless you’ve found a new physician, I am your allergist. What if you have a reaction to something else one day, and you end up in that coma?”
“Really, you’d do the clown nose thing?”
“Big red shoes and a squirty flower. And naked pictures, of course.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she stuck out her chin, as if she already knew what he was thinking and needed to stop it. “My point is that I need to be able to treat you and be objective if you stop breathing and go to the hospital. You also have to feel comfortable to come to me and speak honestly. That’s more likely to happen if you don’t think that I might exploit you.”
“But I stopped being your patient. You even backed it up with a letter. And I feel comfortable coming to you. And I like speaking to you.”
She looked guilty, then hurt. That hurt him.
“I sent you that letter because I couldn’t be a competent doctor for you, because I was afraid that I’d let my feelings cross the line. I hate the fact that I couldn’t be your physician. What am I if I’m not good?”
“You are.”
“Well, you have feelings for me, so your word doesn’t count for much.”
They looked at each other. She was right. It wasn’t just that she smelled nice and he enjoyed the shape of her legs and ass encased in those jeans. He liked her because of who she was, and she had always tried to be a good person. He wasn’t sure he had liked anyone quite this way before.