Fizzy takes another drag of her cigarette and blows out smoke rings. “No thanks. I’m not in the market,” she says pleasantly.
“Ooh, tell me about it. New man in your life?” Fizzy never talks about her love life, and whenever I bring mine up she avoids discussing hers.
Fizzy gives me a Mona Lisa smile. “It’s complicated. I’ll tell you another time. Let’s concentrate on finding your Dr. Hot for now. Two heads are better than one.”
I take a final sip of iced tea and get up. “I have to make dinner and feed Romeo. Wanna come over?”
Fizzy follows me to the door. “Sounds like fun, but I can’t tonight. I have plans.”
“Oh?”
The corners of Fizzy’s mouth lift into a naughty grin. “Hot date.” After a long pause, I realize she’s not going to elaborate. “I’ll take a rain check on dinner though.”
“Ha. Only if you dish about your date,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Sure.” Her tone is casual, yet noncommittal. “I’ll bring the wine.”
Romeo: Grrr. Where are you, Francesca? I’m hungry and I have cabin fever. Gotta stretch these little legs, ya know? If we were in the city, I’d be strolling in Central Park, enjoying the crisp autumn air in my Burberry coat and cap.
When we go for a walk tonight, I won’t be wearing anything but my collar. Too bad the Miami weather doesn’t allow for fashion statements in the fall. What fall? It’s late September and it’s hot and humid, even at night. I’d have more luck on my bitch prowl if I were properly decked out.
I know we can’t go back, but I wish we still lived in the Big Apple. I’m a Northern hot dog, not a Miami salsa dog.
Chapter Two
I can’t believe a month has gone by since my epiphany at the hospital. I just woke up from a disturbing dream where I’m a white-haired, withered old raisin begging a scary, shot-wielding nurse to page Dr. Hot for me. Thank God it was a dream, or rather, nightmare. I haven’t had time to follow through on some of Fizzy’s zany suggestions for meeting doctors. Honestly, I’m not sure if she was pulling my leg, but some of her ideas gave me pause. I’ll have to think about that later. If I don’t rush, I’ll be late for work.
I shower and primp. This formaldehyde-free Keratin hair treatment rocks. In no time, my hair is swingy and frizz-free, and I’m ready to devote a little quality time to my darling pup, Romeo. While I pet his caramel-colored long fur, he stares at me with doleful chocolate eyes, pouring on the guilt trip.
“Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” I croon, hoping his favorite lines will perk him up. It’s corny, but I do it in an English accent, which usually makes him purr like a kitten. Not this time—he turns his snout in the air and gives me his back.
“Don’t be like that, baby. Who’s Mommy’s good boy?” I feel terribly guilty about the twelve-hour days I’ve been putting in. I really must get home earlier today. I rub behind Romeo’s ears and then lift the velvety flap and whisper, “Fizzy’s coming over to play with you and take you for a walk.”
Usually the mention of Fizzy makes Romeo yap with delight, but he acts unaffected by the news. I offer him a doggy bacon treat and he refuses it. Gathering him close, I smother his little face in kisses. “Aw, come on, cheer up.” I gently scratch his fur from the top of his silky head to his tail, leaving him limp and satiated long enough for me to get my breakfast together and sit beside him on the couch.
A spoonful of Greek yogurt mixed with raspberries is poised midair between the bowl and my mouth when my iPhone pings with a text from my boss, Antoinette.
Need you at the station. URGENT.
“Uh oh, that doesn’t sound good. Gotta go, baby. Be a good boy while I’m gone. Mommy will try to be home early tonight. I promise.”
Romeo’s response sounds like a mixture of a gurgle and a loud harrumph. Sighing, I hand him his squeaky hamster toy, kiss his furry forehead, then grab my keys and dash out.
As I drive to the station, I relive my recent dream and fret about the fact that in one month, I haven’t met one eligible doctor. Not that I haven’t thought about it, but I’ve been really busy with work. After hours, I’ve been diligent in fulfilling my promise to St. Jude by organizing a heart disease prevention campaign for women by working with Elise Richards, the medical reporter who will do the interviews.
I’m most happy about Mom, who is so excited about being interviewed on TV. Poor Mom had such a rough time after the heart attack, trying to follow new diet restrictions and forcing herself to exercise. And to make matters worse, she was worried about me and Dad and how we were coping with her recent brush with death.
Dad was the Rock of Gibraltar—but not me. Even though I tried to act serene for her sake, I was sick at heart and a jumble of nerves, worrying about the woman I love most in the world—Mom. After her heart attack, I was tormented by the need to be nearby to lend support and keep an eye on her progress. I left my job in NYC and hightailed it to Miami where I was lucky to nail a job at WBCG. It was pure serendipity (and a lot of fervent promises to St. Jude) that landed me at the TV station as their “Roving Social Diva”.
When I arrive at work, I stand outside Antoinette’s office and brace myself for the “urgent” meeting with her. She answers my knock with a shout, “Hold on. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
So much for her emergency. While I wait, I check my iPhone.
Two messages from Chloe, who lives in Manhattan. The first one: “Hey, Frankie, call me. I told Harrison about your problems with Romeo and he says to bring him in tomorrow morning at nine. His office is open on Saturdays.”
Romeo’s been acting up lately. Before I left for work yesterday morning, he turned up his snout and left me another nasty little present under the dining room table. He was probably mad that I put in another long workday. Either that or he’s having digestive problems. I need to take him to Harrison soon or quit work.
Next message: “Where are you? Call me. I miss you.”
I miss Chloe too. We’ve known each other since we first met as college freshmen. We were roomies for four years and traveled together every summer. She’s the sister I never had. Chloe understands me, and she gives good advice even though she’s stuck in a long-term relationship with Brad, her commitment-phobic high school sweetheart. She dresses retro early 60s and loves Rock Hudson and Doris Day movies, even though she is a feminist at heart. Go figure.
From what she’s told me, Harrison is a bit of a gypsy who doesn’t like to settle in one place for long. He recently relocated from Colorado to Miami and Chloe says he doesn’t know many people here besides his veterinary partner. Even though I told her about the scene I caused at the ER last month, she is convinced we’ll make the perfect pair.
Me? I’m not so sure. I haven’t seen Harrison since that morning at the hospital. Of course, I have been keeping a low profile and trying to avoid running into him when I think he might be jogging or walking his dog.
Anyway, dating Harrison is out of the question. If I’m going to marry a doctor, he has to be a people one. I’ve already had my heart broken twice falling for the wrong guys. This time, I’m going to follow my head, not my heart. I’ve been too naïve and trusting in the past. It’s time to hone my instincts about men.
A shout from Antoinette gets my attention. I square my shoulders and enter her office.
Without looking up from her computer screen, Antoinette snaps, “Sit down. We need to talk.”
“What’s wrong?” I sink into the chair in front of hers and notice a bulging vein in Antoinette’s taut (thanks to Botox) forehead—a sure sign that she’s stressed out.
“Elise is in labor.”
“Oh, no! Wasn’t she due at the end of next month?” Elise’s medical segments are so popular that she’s neck-in-neck in ratings with Dr. Eric Champlain, Channel 4’s popular medical reporter.
“Tell that to the baby or babies. She’s having twins.”
“Yes, I know.” At forty, Elise is a single mother of t
wins, and now they were born way early. Her temporary replacement hasn’t arrived yet. Talk about complications.
I wonder what all this has to do with me as I watch Antoinette hammer her pen on the desk like a woodpecker’s beak.
“Elise was supposed to tape an interview today with Dr. Devon Hamme, the Australian celebrity sex therapist who wrote Orgasmic Secrets Revealed. I want you to do the segment.” Her shrewd eyes pin me with a look that says you better do a good job.
“You want me to interview him today?” I gulp at the short notice.
“Yes, today,” she confirms as if I’m dense. “And starting tomorrow, you take over Elise’s medical beat.”
I am stunned by her statement—more like appalled. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined I’d be a medical reporter. I don’t want to be one. Not me, no thanks. I am not your typical hypochondriac who loves to research every medical detail and obsess about it. I’d rather not hear or read about illnesses at all because then I begin to worry I might have them.
Antoinette continues, oblivious of my growing despair at her decree. “We’ve gotten great feedback from your WBCG Heart Miami spots. The testimonials from women who’ve had heart attacks and survived are very popular.”
“Really? I’m thrilled to hear it’s a success.” Wow, this from the boss who never has a kind word—ever.
She gives a brisk nod. “We’ve had many calls and emails asking about Bowled Over. Looks like your bowling for heart health event will be a success. Good job.”
I can’t believe my ears, she’s actually giving me validation. “Thanks! All the time spent on this campaign will be worth it if we reach many women and make them heart healthy.”
“Yeah, uh huh.” She doesn’t sound like she’s interested in the health benefits, but then, Antoinette is a numbers cruncher—of viewers. “So it’s perfect timing for you to fill in for Elise.”
“But Elise was going to conduct the interviews. I’m the organizer. She has the medical background, so naturally she’s the best interviewer.”
“Not anymore. Elise’s replacement wasn’t scheduled for another month. Now that she’s on maternity leave, you are up front and center as our medical reporter until she comes back.” Elise’s maternity leave is for two months! Antoinette’s square-shouldered posture dares me to defy her. Man, for someone so petite, she can be pretty imposing.
My inner voice warns me I could lose my job. “Um…okay…but can I keep my job covering the social scene?” I ask after a moment of hesitation.
Her piercing eyes bore holes into mine. Today she’s sporting turquoise colored contacts—last month they were emerald green.
“Think you can handle both?” she challenges in a sharp tone.
Time to suck it up and summon my old motto, “Fear is not an option.”
“Absolutely!” I say with all the fake enthusiasm I can muster. I love and value my job too much to give it up—that’s why I tolerate Antoinette’s rudeness. I also need it to pay my bills…and care for my little Romeo.
Antoinette’s iPhone rings and she answers it with a coy, “Hi, Daddy, are we still on for tonight?” She covers the mouthpiece and mouths to me. “That’s all.”
She hands me Orgasmic Secrets Revealed and shoos me out of her office. I linger for a moment watching Antoinette transform from a shrill tyrant to a flirtatious girl. Her head is cocked to one side and she’s cooing to her sugar daddy husband, who is twenty years older than she and worth his weight in millions.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day, bad boy,” the newlywed Antoinette gushes as she leans way back in her chair and props her red patent leather peep toe shoes on her desk. She twirls her long platinum blond hair and bats her false lashes beneath thick bangs. It’s surreal how much she looks like an aging Alice in Wonderland who has had too much cosmetic work.
When she realizes I haven’t budged, she murmurs into the phone, “Hold on a minute, Daddy.”
Giving me a hard, brittle look, she’s all business again as she covers the mouthpiece and barks at me, “Better hone up on your orgasms. Dr. Hamme will be here in an hour.”
With a sigh, I nod and leave.
As I close the door, I tell myself that this new assignment is perfect timing for my Heart Miami campaign. But deep down I’m dreading it. I am not the ideal person to give in-depth stories about illnesses or medical conditions.
Making the best of it, I try to put my worries aside when suddenly I’m hit with a giddy thought. I just found a way to meet doctors.
It’s temporary, until Elise gets back, but it gives me two months to meet and date as many doctors as I can. Who cares if that seems frivolous? I’m on a mission and it’s not as if I asked for this assignment, I was ordered to take it.
I run to my desk and make a quick study of Orgasmic Secrets Revealed. Thank God I became a whiz at speed-reading in grad school. I take a visual picture of the chapters in my mind and then browse through the book, jotting questions as I go along. Lots of testimonials (one lady calls him a miracle worker at energizing lady bits) and lots of graphic pictures keep me flipping the pages.
When I’m satisfied that I have enough material for a decent interview, I glance at Dr. Hamme’s credentials on the back cover. Oxford, then Stanford…pretty impressive.
I open the back cover and check out his photo on the inside flap—thick dark hair, piercing silver eyes like a Siberian husky’s, and a jaw so sharp it could cut glass. He’s almost too good-looking with perfectly proportioned features and an enigmatic expression that lures women to his secrets.
Looking at Dr. Hamme conjures all kinds of sexual fantasies and I begin to lament that I haven’t had a date in the past year. Is that normal? I ask myself. Of course, I answer, what do you expect? You’ve been too busy with the move and the new job.
I stare at Dr. Hamme’s hypnotic eyes as if in a trance. What orgasmic secrets does he have up his sleeve? I wonder wickedly. And how does he look in scrubs?
“Ahem.” The sound of a man clearing his throat comes from behind me.
Startled, I drop the book on my lap and look up into a pair of dazzling silver eyes peering at me with amused curiosity. Dr. Hamme’s eyes—there is no mistaking them.
“Hello, I’m Francesca Lake,” I say, pretending to be composed as I extend my hand. Don’t think about the lurid pictures in his book.
He takes my hand and shakes it firmly. No wimpy grasp here. “I’m Devon Hamme. Nice to meet you.” Ooh, women will love his Aussie accent—I do.
“It’s a pleasure. This will be an, uh, interesting interview,” I say. Ugh, that sounded lame. Is it obvious I’m a little nervous about the topic?
He smiles indulgently and that’s my cue to glance at my watch. “Showtime!” I say, nearly toppling over as I shoot up from my chair.
Twelve minutes later, the interview is over and I’m impressed at what a natural Dr. Hamme is before the camera. He’s charming and knowledgeable, articulate and forthright. Not at all sleazy. He wouldn’t reveal any of his orgasmic “secrets” but he gave enough hints for me to make his book my bedside companion tonight.
In the green room, Dr. Hamme shares a cup of my favorite pomegranate green tea with me. To my surprise, he invites me to dinner and I accept. My first date with a doctor begins today. I can hardly believe how easy it was.
“Great,” he says, glancing at the address I’ve scribbled on a napkin. “Pick you up at seven.”
He shakes my hand and I enjoy the feel of his firm clasp, admiring his elegant hand and long fingers. When he releases my hand, I feel his middle finger glide ever so lightly across the inside of my palm.
I snatch my hand away and give him a sharp look. Did he do that on purpose? His innocuous smile makes me wonder if I imagined it. I collect myself and watch him leave the room. Is that the way Australian men shake hands with women when they meet them? I don’t think so…
Now I’m having second thoughts about our date. Why did I accept so impulsively? What if Devon Ha
mme turns out to be a weirdo, or worse yet, a pervert? I was foolish to give him my home address! What do I really know about him?
I’m supposed to be dating prospective husbands. Do I really want to be called Mrs. Hamme? Makes me sound like a married version of Miss Piggy. Well…it doesn’t matter—I can keep my maiden name for professional reasons.
Remember all his brilliant credentials, I tell myself to bolster my confidence. He studied at Oxford and Stanford and he’s a public figure—a celebrity. He was on The Today Show promoting his book and he acted like a gentleman during our on-camera interview, even though the subject was sensitive.
Okay, I feel better now. Dr. Hamme wouldn’t be stupid enough to pounce on me on the first date.
Would he?
Romeo: Francesca tried on a gazillion outfits while yakking with Fizzy about her date with some dude she’s calling Dr. Orgasm. She finally settled on a red dress and now she’s running around picking up because the sexpert is coming over tonight.
Hey, lady, what about me? I’m trying not to be bitter, Francesca, but your move to Miami tore me away from my delicious little creampuff, Principessa. That mignon bison frisé had me at the first swish of her perky tail.
Looks like I won’t be getting any action today—again. Ruff. I need to get out more. Time to implement Plan A…
Chapter Three
I’m pacing my living room, feeling antsy about my date with Dr. Hamme, when my cell phone rings. I check caller ID and answer.
“Hi, Mom. Sorry, I can’t talk too long. I’m going out in a few minutes—with someone.”
“With someone…on a date?” she guesses before I utter a word.
Should I tell her about Dr. Hamme? Mom means well, but she gets overly excited whenever I mention a guy. And getting overly excited isn’t exactly good for her heart.
“Yeah. Kind of a date,” I say in a blasé tone.
“What does he do? How old is he?” she inquires in an eager tone.
“He’s a doctor. I think he’s thirty-nine.”
Paging Dr. Hot Page 2