The Doctor's Nanny

by Emerson Rose

  I need to see her again, to feel the heat of her skin near mine, nip her plump, soft lips, trace the curve of her neck with my finger and down between her . . . oh, enough. What the fuck is she doing scrambling my brain like this? I am a strong willed, stubborn, asinine, pig-headed fucking dick, and I’m standing in my living room losing my shit at the mere thought of a woman I’ve met once. One fucking time, damn it.

  I stomp to the bathroom for a cold shower. For a fraction of a second, I consider tossing the delicate, torturous reminder of my new obsession back onto the floor, but I can’t do it. When I’m in the bathroom, I lay the bunched-up piece of lace on the counter and turn on the shower. “You’re whipped,” I tell the guy looking back at me in the mirror. He looks like me, but he can’t possibly be me, because not only do I feel different, but I look different. Narrowing my eyes, I lean in close to the mirror, looking hard at myself and trying to see exactly what it is that’s different.

  Wow, King Tomas Romero has finally met his match, and for some reason the thought is slightly irritating. I was looking for this, even craving it. But I am completely inexperienced with these kinds of unbridled, no-holds-barred feelings. I am the leader, not the follower, but Holland has claimed an all-encompassing power over my senses. Every one of them pulses with desire for her.

  After a difficult time emptying my bladder, I step into the shower and brace myself against the wall as the icy water sluices down my body like a million tiny knives slicing my skin, effectively dowsing my arousal. Any other time, I would have taken care of myself under a hot spray of water, but after being inside of Holland, nothing else can compare.

  I dress in a pair of dark jeans and a bright orange fitted t-shirt and make my way through the quiet, empty club to the underground parking garage. Inside the Range Rover, I adjust the seat to accommodate my long legs. My head of security, Sebastián, drove it last, and he’s a good five inches shorter than I am. I start the engine and sit in the dark cab for a few minutes, checking my schedule on my phone and a couple of stock trading apps. When I’m done, I lay the phone in the center console and stare at it. I’m not a very patient man, and she hasn’t returned my call. I want to talk to her, but I don’t want to be a stalker, for shit’s sake. Fuck it. I want her. I’m calling. I snatch up the phone and bring up the recent call list, press her name, and wait for her to answer.

  “Hello?” She answers on the second ring.

  One word is all it takes, and I’m a bundle of emotions, ranging from an aching desire in my bones to an unfamiliar sense of calm.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” I growl, wishing I could crawl through the phone and kiss her when she giggles softly.

  “Good morning yourself, King.” I can hear the smile in her voice, and I want to ask her to repeat my name but I resist.

  “How did you sleep?”

  “Um . . . it took a while to get to sleep.”

  Good, maybe she was thinking of me as much as I was thinking of her.

  “Same here. I kept thinking about this woman I met recently. She had the most interesting grey eyes, almost transparent, with tiny flecks of violet around her irises.”

  “Sounds sort of . . . haunting,” she says, throwing my description of her eyes last night back at me. “You’re very observant, Mr. Romero.”

  “Only when I’m interested in something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I was hoping that woman—you know, the one with the haunting eyes? Well, I was hoping she would see me today. For lunch, maybe?”

  She pauses long enough that I start to think we’ve been cut off, but right before I ask if she’s still there, she replies.

  “I’d like that very much. I have to practice today, though, until four. I have a rehearsal room reserved . . .” She pauses, and I imagine her biting her lip as she constructs her invitation. “Do you want to come and listen, and then we could go for dinner?”

  “Dinner it is. I’m dying to hear to you play, Holland. Text me the address of the rehearsal hall and what room you’ll be in. I have a meeting I have to go to right now that won’t take long, but I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  “Okay . . . and, King?” she says, sensing I’m about to hang up, which I was, because I didn’t want to give her time to change her mind.

  “Yeah, sweetheart?”

  “I had a really nice time last night.”

  Now I imagine her looking down at her feet, smiling shyly with a red blush blooming over her cheeks, and that vision makes me twitch. It takes all my willpower not to moan.

  “I did too, Holland.” More than she knows. “Text me that address, and I’ll see you in a few.”

  I can feel her smile through the phone.

  “Oh, okay. Bye.”

  I disconnect the call and toss my phone into the seat next to me, grinning like a fool. After a deep, cleansing breath, I stretch my arm across the passenger seat and carefully back out of my parking spot. When I exit the garage, I fumble for my sunglasses in the blinding Texas sun. I swing left toward the home of Mexican drug lord, Hector Morales. Shipments are due to arrive soon, and my inside contact with the U.S. government is in town. Generally, these meetings are long. Sometimes days are spent making arrangements, planning, and drinking, but not today. I’m cutting out after I make an appearance. Sebastián can handle the details of the shipment while I handle the much more interesting, delicious details of a Ms. Holland Bennett.

  Chapter 5

  Holland

  “Are you out of your mind?” Savannah is staring at me when I hang up the phone.

  “Just keep your eyes on the road. I’d like to live so I can practice this afternoon.” Savannah’s not the best driver, especially when she’s distracted.

  “Wait. I thought you changed your mind. I thought you didn’t want to mess with the most eligible player in the U.S.

  And now you’re planning on sneaking off to have dinner with him? How do you plan on getting away with that, anyway? Your mama is picking you up after practice. I offered, but she said no.” She’s been whipping her head back and forth between the road and my face while she speaks. Her blonde hair is flying around in the breeze from her open window. Her hands speak with her words, gesturing here and there while she keeps tucking her wild hair behind her ears. She’s adorable and annoying.

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “You’ll figure it out. Holland, you’re starting to worry me. Who are you, anyway, and what have you done with the real Holland? You have one make out session with a hot guy, and suddenly you’re scheming and sneaking around and making dinner plans. You were going to forget him; too old, remember?”

  “I didn’t think he’d call me after you read that stuff on the Internet.” I throw up my hands and let them slap against my bare thighs. Shit. I wish I had worn something more sophisticated than a t-shirt, jean shorts and my sparkly Chucks. He’s taking me out to dinner, and he thinks I’m at least twenty-one.

  “Yeah, well he’s still that guy. Just because he called you doesn’t make him any less of a player.”

  “Shut up, Savannah. If it weren’t for your summer itinerary, I wouldn’t be in this mess.” The second the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. She was only trying to make me happy, and it’s not her fault this thing with King and me happened.

  “I’m sorry, Savannah. I didn’t mean that, really.”

  “I know,” she says, reaching out to hold my hand. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt, and he seems like the kinda guy that could do some really serious damage, ya know?”

  “Yeah . . . I do.” I really, really do. I’ve never had feelings like this before. I can’t tell if they are normal, first time liking a guy kind of feelings, or really serious adult feelings. I do know one thing, though. He called. He wants to see me, and I’m not missing out on the opportunity to see him again with clear, sober eyes. It will also be sort of interesting having the home field advantage this time.

  “You have to do me a huge favor, Savannah. Se
riously huge.” I need something else to wear. I can’t let him see me looking like . . . like a teenager. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye.

  “Shit . . . I’m afraid to ask. What kind of favor?”

  “I need something to wear. He’s going to a meeting, and then he’s coming to listen to me practice. I look like a teenager.” I gesture at my outfit.

  “You are a teenager. Holland, are you sure about this? Sooner or later, he’s gonna know you’re only nineteen. What then?”

  “I’m going to New York this fall. I’ll never see him again after that. I just wanna have some fun. Please?” I beg with my hands pressed together in front of me. She looks at me quickly. I hold up my hands in their prayer position and beg again in a tiny voice, fluttering my eyelashes.

  “Please.”

  “Oh, God. Okay, who can say no to that face? What do you want me to bring you?” she says with a deep sigh.

  “Thank you.” I squeal and side hug her awkwardly from the passenger seat. “How about a dressy romper and some heels—not stilettos. My feet are still sore, but something casual.”

  “Okay. Yeah, I have something like that. I’ll bring it over. What about your hair?”

  “Crap, I didn’t think about that. I’ll just take out the ponytail and wear it down.”

  “You’re gonna have a rubber band ring. I’ll fix it for you.”

  “I knew I could count on you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “I have a feeling I’m gonna regret it someday when you’re bawling on my shoulder about this guy breaking your heart, but if you’re dead set on playing this out, I can’t let you do it alone.”

  I love her.

  Savannah drops me at the curb in front of STRINGS, the music studio I’ve been practicing at since I was ten.

  “You promise you’re gonna help me?” I say, turning back to look through the open door of her parents’ Durango before I close it.

  “Duh, of course, dummy. I told you I would. Hurry up and get in there so I can run home and get you an outfit that will make you look old,” she says, swishing her hand at me to close the door. I take my violin from the seat and push the door shut with my hip. She doesn’t even wave goodbye. She’s on a mission to help me in her true best friend fashion. There’s no stopping her now.

  Inside STRINGS, the cool air rushes over my sweaty skin. Texas in the summer is no joke. It’s hot out there, and I’m glad I’m in here. I bypass the counter where most people check in. Shanna, the woman who makes the appointments, nods at me when I walk by. I’m here twice a week to practice and record my music. She knows me on sight. Halfway down the long hall, I remember that I should probably warn Shanna that I’m expecting visitors today. I hadn’t even thought about her. What if she accidentally says something to my mama the next time she calls for a time slot? I guess I’ll have to cross my fingers and say a little prayer that she doesn’t, because it’s too late now. He’s coming, and I’m not stopping him.

  I step around the corner and wait for Shanna to finish checking someone else in. When she’s done, she turns her attention to me.

  “Hey, Shanna. I wanted to let you know my friend, Savannah, is going to be dropping by this afternoon for a few minutes.” Shanna knows Savannah, and she also knows I take my music very seriously, so she doesn’t balk about me having a guest, but I’m not sure what to tell her about King.

  “And uh . . . a man is coming to hear me play too. If you could let him come back, he’s an um . . . he’s an orchestra scout.” She raises her eyebrows. There’s no such thing as an orchestra scout and she knows it, but whatever. It’s an excuse to get him back there. I don’t want her thinking he’s my boyfriend. He’s not, I don’t think. I don’t know what to call a man—who is six years older than me—that I’m interested in and have already slept with on our first non-date.

  “Alright, Holland, I’ll send them back. No messing around, though. Your mama is paying for practice time, not social time.” Crap, there goes all hope that she won’t mention this to my mother. I’ll just tell her the same thing. I met him at orchestra practice. He was looking for talent, so he came to listen to me play.

  Wow, I can’t believe how the lies are piling up. I’m digging myself in deeper and deeper with everyone. I’ve gone from goodie two shoes to juvenile delinquent in twenty-four hours.

  “I know, Shanna. It’s all business, cross my heart,” I swear to her and make a quick X over my heart before darting back down the hall.

  In room three, I move the microphone away from my chair. I’m not recording today, so I set my music on the stand and take my violin from its case. I perch on the edge of the chair with my back straight and close my eyes. After a few cleansing breaths, I raise my bow and begin to play a partita of Bach’s. I don’t need the music. I know it by heart. It flows from me like water down a stream. My body sways with every note; emotions that only my instrument can conjure stir in my soul. I was born for this. I need it. To live without my music, I am simply not me.

  Chapter 6

  King

  Walking down the narrow hallway to room three, I try to shake the irritation caused by the suspicious, overbearing woman at the counter in the lobby. I can’t remember ever being so thoroughly scrutinized by a woman. You would have thought she were Holland’s mother by the way she looked me up and down before allowing me back. As if she would be able to stop me. Nothing is going to keep me from my beauty today, and certainly not that opossum-looking old guard dog.

  The rooms are supposed to be soundproof, but I can faintly hear the music coming from room three—Holland’s room. With my hand on the doorknob, I look through the small window in the door and stop dead in my tracks.

  There, in the center of the room, sits the most angelic creature, playing the most remarkable music I’ve ever heard in my life. I frequent the symphony and listen to classical music often, but nothing I’ve ever heard compares to this. Nothing. I never imagined that watching Holland play the violin would be so fucking sexy. The passion rolling off of her body is awe-inspiring. Her eyes are closed, and it’s as if her body were composed of the music. Her every movement flows and jerks with the difficult piece. I lean my head against the door and enjoy the sight of a true professional musician melding with her art.

  She told me she played, but this—this is so much more than simply playing an instrument. Her music demands my attention, exactly the way her body did on the dance floor last night in the club. Holland doesn’t just play music; she is music.

  “Uh, Mr. Romero?” A voice behind me snaps me from my reverie, and I turn to see who would be so daft as to interrupt someone listening to an angel playing music straight from heaven. The best friend from last night at the club stands holding a bag and a piece of clothing on a hanger.

  “Hi, I’m Savannah, Holland’s friend.”

  “Of course. Yes, I remember. It’s nice to see you again.” I glance through the window again and back at Savannah. “Holland invited me to listen to her play. She’s amazing.”

  “Yeah, she’s special. Not another one in the world like her,” she says, rising onto her toes to look over my shoulder through the window.

  “She asked me to bring her something to change into after practice. She uh . . . didn’t plan on dinner and stuff tonight.”

  “Ahh, I see. Should we wait out here for her to finish this piece?” I ask.

  “Probably not. This is her favorite, and it goes on for like forever. I’ll let her know you’re here when I go in and give her this stuff.”

  “All right,” I say, stepping aside and opening the door for her so she can interrupt Holland.

  She’s in another world and doesn’t even notice that Savannah has entered the room. The music pours out into the hall for a moment, blessing my ears, until the door slowly closes, muffling the elegant notes. I look through the tiny window one last time and see Holland jump and drag her bow screeching across the strings when Savannah taps her on the shoulder.

  Chapter 7


  Holland

  “Shit, Savannah.” I curse and jump when I screech my bow over the strings, ruining the piece of music I was so lost in.

  “Shut up and let me block his view of you,” she says.

  “Huh? What, he’s here?”

  “Yeah, he’s early and he’s waiting in the hall. He saw you,” she says, hitching her thumb toward the door.

  “Shit. Did he say anything? Do you think he noticed how young I am?” I ask.

  “No, actually he didn’t. He said you were amazing. I think he was probably so into your playing that he wasn’t really looking at your clothes and hair and all that crap.”

  Well thank God for that. I lean around Savannah to see if he’s still watching through the window in the door, and she quickly steps in front of me.

  “What are you doing, dummy? Don’t let him see you again. You need to change. Move over there in the corner close to the door so nobody can see, and I’ll try to do something with your eyes. Why is he here so early anyway? I don’t have time to do crap to your hair now,” she says, flicking a wild chunk of my hair over my shoulder.

  “How am I supposed to know? Come on, walk with me and make it look casual. Did he ask you about the clothes?”

  She walks backward toward the door, pulling me along and acting like a human shield. King didn’t see me when I peeked the first time, and she’s not about to let me risk it again.

  “That was really casual, Savannah.” I roll my eyes.

  “Shut up.” She yanks the rubber band out of my hair and begins fluffing and fussing with my waves. I didn’t do a thing with it today. She’s got her work cut out for her.