by Max Monroe
I rolled my eyes at my mom’s ridiculous use of my nickname.
“Break any hearts lately?”
I smirked. “I never break hearts.” At least never intentionally, that was for damn sure.
She scoffed and pulled away to walk around the counter and lean into it. “So only four or five, then?”
“I’m kind of busy, Mom,” I avoided, picking up the chart from the counter and rounding it.
She pursed her lips. “Mmm-hmm. That’s the usual too.”
“Mom—”
“It’s fine, Scotty.”
“What brings you to town anyway?”
“Your father’s god-awful schoolmarm of a wife invited me to their anniversary party.”
I laughed. “That doesn’t mean you have to go.”
“Of course it does! I can’t let her win.”
“Mom.”
“She listens to Christian music, for Pete’s sake.”
“Linda is a nice lady.”
She scoffed. “Nice. Exactly. I don’t trust it.”
“Well, trust it or not, they’ve been married for fifteen years now. It says so on the invitation.”
She gave me a mocking smile and patted my cheek a little too roughly to be loving. I grabbed her hand to stop the assault and trapped it between both of mine.
“Look, if you’re well behaved, I’ll let you go with me.”
“I’ll go on my own.”
“Mom,” I chastised.
“Fine. I’ll be good. Whatever the hell that means. But you have to give me some kind of a reward.”
That sounded a bit like blackmail…
I quirked an amused brow. “A bribe, you mean?”
“Don’t mock the bribe, Scott.” She winked. “I did it all the time with you.”
“Fine. What do you want?”
“The party is Saturday, and I have no plans for tomorrow night,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
My eyes narrowed, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. My mom was notorious for trickery. Honestly, I blamed myself for not seeing this one coming.
“So, by no plans, you mean you’ve made plans for both of us without my knowledge, and now, in exchange for also escorting you to a party where you will, in all likelihood, not behave, I get to take you somewhere else I’ll hate.”
“You doctors are smart.” She grinned like the Cheshire cat. “All that schooling. It must be good for something.”
I sighed and smiled at the same time.
“So where are we going tomorrow night, dearest Mother?”
“Kinky Boots.”
“Kinky Boots…the Broadway show?”
“I’ll meet you at your place at six forty-five,” she said by way of answer, scooping her purse up from the desk and walking straight out the automatic doors.
I looked around, and set after set of eyes jumped away.
Good Lord, my mom knew how to make an entrance and an exit. That woman was hell on wheels, and I’d rejoice the day she found a man who kept up with her feisty ways.
With no choice but to give in to the fact that I’d be seeing fucking Kinky Boots tomorrow night, my mind wandered to an irritatingly recurrent thought, and I decided there was something I had to do before I got consumed by the exciting—and oftentimes bloody and gross—world of emergency medicine.
“I’ll be back in just a minute,” I told the ER charge nurse for the night. Beverly nodded. She was a lot more lenient than Deb, the slave driver.
Against my better judgment, I stepped around the corner, scrolled through my recent calls, and clicked one to dial. It rang back in my ear as I waited.
“Heeello?”
“Harlow?”
Yeah. So, apparently, the article was bothering me a little more than I wanted to believe. But this was good. I could talk to her really quick, get all of my gripes off of my chest, and then get on with my night and my job.
“That’s me. Who’s this?”
“It’s Scott.”
“Scott who?”
Scott who? Was she serious?
“Scott Shepard. You’ve called me before. Don’t you have my number saved in your phone?”
“Ohh. That Scott. Sorry, I know a couple, and I didn’t bother to look at the caller ID when you called.”
I ran a frustrated hand through my hair. “Who in the hell doesn’t look to see who it is when someone calls?”
“Sometimes, I don’t. Is that all you needed?”
“Is that all I needed?” I nearly roared. What an irritating woman. “I didn’t know about your fucking loony tunes habit before my call, so, no, that’s not the reason for my fucking call.”
“Oh-kay.” She was completely nonplussed. “So, what’s the reason?”
Clenching my fists as tight as I could manage without causing serious injury, I worked to steady my words. “The article.”
“What article?”
Oh my God. I was going to strangle a woman for the first time in my life. In fact, I’d never even considered it before now. But for Harlow Paige, I was willing to get dressed, take a cab, climb whatever fucking flights of stairs I had to, and bang on her door in order to do it.
“You know what article.”
“Is it about you?”
“Of course it’s about me!” My voice felt scratchy as Beverly came to a sliding stop around the corner. I waved her off with a wildly gesticulating arm.
“Well, geez. I didn’t know. Maybe you really love Sia, and you’re mad about the piece I did on her hair. What do I know?”
I closed my eyes tightly and took a deep breath. “Harlow.”
“Okay, fine. Which article about you?”
“Harlow!”
“Well, there are two. Be realistic here. I’m not a mind reader!”
“I talked to you. I cooperated. I gave you plenty of juicy, true material to use for those photos. And yet, I read the fucking article, and not one word of it was what I actually told you.”
“I had another inside source.”
“One better than me?”
“Yes, if you must know. You’re biased.”
“I’m biased,” I repeated.
“Yep. You like to sugarcoat things about yourself, obviously. So I had to talk to another inside source.”
“And that person would be?”
“I can’t tell you that. But if I get permission from them, I will.” She paused and I sighed, deep and beleaguered.
“Okay,” she relented. “I got permission.”
I furrowed my brow in confusion. “Just now?”
“Yep. I’m the inside source.”
“How the fuck are you the inside source? I’ve never met you.”
“Ah, see, that isn’t something my source is comfortable divulging.”
“Your source, meaning you.” My temples throbbed with my now heavy pulse.
“Exactly.”
“Harlow—”
“Listen, Scott, I’ve really gotta go. But it was nice chatting, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay—”
“Talk to you soon.”
Click.
I stared down at the screen of my phone, a deep, piercing frustration making my eye twitch.
Goddamn this infuriating woman. I was half tempted to track this columnist down and give her a piece of my mind in person.
Because seriously… Who in the fuck is this Harlow Paige?
“Tell me you’re excited, Low.”
Internally, I sighed. “I’m excited, Dad.”
He scrutinized me with his gaze and one heavy brow slanted in disapproval.
“What?” I questioned. “I said I’m excited.”
“You’re not acting excited.”
“How many times do you think we’ve said excited in the past two minutes?” I asked, hoping that I could redirect the focus away from my lack of excitement to see yet another Broadway show with my father. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved them, but this was the third show in the span of three w
eeks that he’d begged—and all but forced—me to see with him.
And since my mother and Jean-Pierre had never been big fans of musicals, I was my Dad’s go-to gal for everything bright lights and show tunes.
My mother and father—a complete anomaly—were literally the happiest divorced couple on the planet. They’d thrown in the towel on their marriage when I was eight years old, and they’d been best buds ever since.
Hell, my father often tagged along on trips with my mother and her second husband of sixteen years.
My stepdad, Jean-Pierre, was an American transplant from Paris and the apple of my mother’s eye. Yes, he did have an accent. And, yes, it probably did sound extremely sexy to any American woman who wasn’t his stepdaughter.
The only downfall of my parents’ divorce and my mother’s marriage to Jean-Pierre was that they weren’t fans of musicals.
Thanks for nothing, guys.
“Don’t act so crabby, Low,” my dad remarked. “Kinky Boots has won every major Best Musical award, including a Tony. Anyone sitting in your seat right now would be excited.”
“Don’t forget the Laurence Olivier Award,” I added sarcastically. I’d heard more about Kinky Boots from Dad over the past week than most of the cast probably even knew, and they acted out the show six nights a fucking week.
“Exactly,” he agreed with a giant grin. It was safe to say his sarcasm radar was off-kilter. Blame it on the Kinky Boots, I guessed.
He glanced down at his watch, and his smile grew wider. “Only thirty minutes until show time.”
My dad had always been one of those people who arrived everywhere way ahead of schedule, and it was a serious pain in my ass, especially tonight. I understood getting somewhere on time, or even five to ten minutes early, but holy mother of egg rolls, no one needs to get anywhere with an hour’s worth of time to spare.
Mmm…egg rolls…those would be so perfect right now…
I glanced inside my giant purse—which probably wouldn’t fit the dimension requirements for carry-on luggage with Delta—and rummaged through my snack pocket. Fuck yes! A small bag of M&Ms and a snack-size bag of Lay’s potato chips. I knew exactly what I would be doing for the next thirty minutes. It definitely wasn’t egg rolls, but it would do.
My father glared the second my fingers touched the chip bag, the edgy rustle of plastic like a gunshot in the relatively quiet room. It sounded like heaven in the form of snack food to me, but obviously, my father thought otherwise. His gaze tracked down the source of the noise like a goddamn homing device.
“Low,” he chastised.
“What?” I whispered back. “I’m hungry, and it’s not like the show has started. We have at least another thirty minutes before the lights dim and someone starts belting out show tunes.”
“It’s not show tunes, Harlow. It’s Broadway,” he added on a sigh. “And do you remember who helped write this award-winning show?”
“Cyndi Lauper,” I answered. With the way my dad had beat that information into my brain, there was zero possibility of me forgetting it.
“Exactly.”
The words Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and Eat Potato Chips were on the tip of my tongue, but I decided to take it easy on him. The man enjoyed his Broadway shows, and even though I’d always had a tendency to bitch and moan when I got dragged along, I loved my dad. Seeing his smiling face during the shows and hearing his excited chatter afterward was always worth it.
I wasn’t always a hard-ass. Just on occasion. Most of the time I was a real fucking softie at heart, especially when it came to the important people in my life.
“No snacks until intermission.” My dad gave me the look. You know, the one parents give their eight-year-old kids when they meant business.
“You do realize that I’m twenty-nine, right?” I questioned, and he smirked.
“Yeah, but you’ll always be my little girl, Low,” he responded. “And right now, I refuse to sit by and watch you disgrace this theater with greasy potato chips.”
I bet Cyndi Lauper’s dad would let her eat potato chips before the show…
It was in moments like this I’d wished my parents would’ve stayed married longer and at least birthed me a sibling to share the brunt of their meddling. Some days, being the only child was a real pain in my ass. Other days, it was fantastic, but days like this, when all I wanted to do was eat potato chips before Kinky Boots, it was a real drag.
“Excuse me,” a sophisticated older woman whispered toward us. “Do you mind if I slide in?” she asked and held up her tickets. “My son and I have those two seats in the middle.”
“Of course,” my father answered immediately and hopped to his feet to let her pass through the small aisle. I followed his lead, albeit a little less gallantly, as I shoved my potato chips back in my purse and awkwardly stood out of her way with my bag pressed to my abdomen.
“Thank you,” she said with a soft smile and sat down in the empty seat beside my father. “I had hoped to get here earlier, but my son is always running a few minutes behind.”
My father glanced at the empty seat beside her, and she chuckled nervously.
“He’s answering a quick work call outside the doors,” she explained. “I swear, my Scotty doesn’t get a minute’s rest with his job.”
“I feel the same about my little Harlow,” my dad said with a soft smile. “It’s like pulling teeth to get her to go to a Broadway show with her dad.”
Little Harlow? Jesus Christ.
“Considering this is the third Broadway show we’ve seen in the past three weeks, I call baloney, Dad,” I chimed in. He chuckled, but his eyes never left the woman sitting beside him, and oddly enough, her gaze never left him either.
I glanced back and forth between them while they made small talk about the weather and then moved the conversation along to their favorite Broadway shows. Seeing as they didn’t know each other from Adam, I was a bit shocked by how easily their conversation flowed, and the fact that my father was actually showing interest in chatting up a woman.
For the past decade, the man had seemed content to stick to his routine, never once seeking out female companionship, apart from his time with my mother and Jean-Pierre.
“I’m Nicole, by the way,” she said with a shy smile, and my father grinned in response.
“It’s nice to meet you, Nicole. I’m Bill.”
Surprisingly, the next twenty minutes continued that way. The two of them chatted, while I sat back in my seat, daydreamed about my goddamn potato chips, and counted the lines of the ornate ceiling mindlessly.
It was only the sudden movement of Nicole hopping to her feet that pulled my attention away from my snack fixation. If you ever want someone to want something so badly they can hardly breathe, tell them they can’t have it.
“Oh! Scotty! Over here!” she whisper-yelled toward the main aisle, and my gaze followed her line of sight.
A tall, dark, and handsome drink of a man—at least that was how he appeared from my current shoulder, back, and tight ass view—stood a few feet away from my seat scanning the room across from us. The sound of Nicole’s voice did as she intended, though, grabbing his attention and turning it—and his body—toward us. Familiar chocolate brown eyes flashed with recognition when he finally spotted Nicole, and I nearly fell out of my seat.
Holy shit. It’s Scott Shepard.
What were the fucking odds?
“Scotty,” Nicole whispered again, for what purpose, I didn’t know and didn’t care. I was too busy hyperventilating. Dr. Erotic grinned as he strode toward our aisle.
The chances were fifty-fifty, whether he would give us his back or his front for the theater aisle shuffle, but as he got close, turning to the side and rearranging his feet to slide in, I knew I’d lost the odds. Fuck. He’s giving us the face.
Holy moly, I could not believe Scott Shepard’s mother was the one who’d been chatting with my father for the past twenty minutes.
I should have bought a fucking l
ottery ticket.
I did my best to shield my face with my hand, but my father was no help. Nudging me to stand up and let Scott into our row, he had no idea what a terrible fucking job he was doing of covering for me until it was too late. Even then, he didn’t really know what a clusterfuck he’d created. But I knew. Boy, did I know.
“Excuse me,” Scott said as the front of his body got close enough to heat the front of mine. It was nothing more than a polite statement to apologize for such an intimate position, but when his eyes locked with mine, recognition instantly set in. It took a moment for his mind to catch up with his eyes, but when it did, a slow, easy smirk kissed his lips. I wasn’t sure if it was all in my head, but it felt like it took him a tremendously long time to move on from me to the empty spot beside his mother.
“Scott,” his mother said the second his extremely fine ass touched his seat. “We have the best seat mates tonight.” She tossed a soft smile directly at my father.
“It appears that way,” he responded with a grin and a brief, and surprisingly not violent, glance in my direction.
Relief set in when it appeared that he might have just recognized me from my stint in his ER and hadn’t yet realized I was, in fact, the gossip columnist who’d written a few, and slightly embellished, articles about him.
Okay. This can work, Harlow. Just play it cool and avoid saying your name at all costs.
But that hope only lasted for all of ten seconds.
“I’m Bill Paige, by the way,” my dad introduced himself and shook Scott’s hand. “And this is my daughter, Harlow.”
Ah, fuck.
It was a real fucking shame Scott was such a smart guy. If he’d been stupid, it might at least have taken him a little longer to make the connection that was sure to ruin my night.
“Harlow Paige? As in the Harlow Paige from the Gossip column?” he questioned.
Goddammit…
“Yep,” my dad answered proudly. All I could think was uh-oh. “That’s my Harlow. Are you familiar with her work?”
“It’s you?” Scott’s—now glistening—eyes never left me. “I thought your name was Frances?”
How in the fuck did he know my first name?
My eyes all but bugged out of my head. My chart. “You said you weren’t going to look at my name.”