Best Medicine, The

by Brogan, Tracy

  I picked up my steak knife and considered slicing my wrists. Gabby was right about one thing. People do lie on their applications. Or at least exaggerate. That photo of him must have been decades old.

  “Where did you go to school, Phil?” I spoke loud enough to be heard over his laughter and his chewing.

  “School? Case Western. PhD in engineering. Didn’t you read my profile? I read yours. Plastic surgeon, huh? You must be very confident.”

  “Confident?” I was, of course, but it seemed a peculiar point for him to land on.

  He stuffed another bite of meat in his mouth and talked around it. “Yes. I mean it takes a pretty confident woman to spend her life making other women more beautiful. I really respect that. And thanks, by the way. Too bad all homely women can’t afford plastic surgery.” He laughed again. “Have you had work done yourself? Those look pretty real.”

  He pointed his fork toward my breasts.

  Oh.

  No.

  We were done here. I’d kept my promise to Gabby to stay for at least one drink. I’d even ordered dinner, although watching him chew had ruined my appetite. It was time for an extreme tactical maneuver. I reached down and pulled my phone from my purse.

  “Sorry, I have to take this call. It’s from the hospital.”

  “I didn’t hear it ring.”

  “It’s on vibrate.”

  I put the phone to my ear and pretended to answer a nonexistent emergency summons. “Hello. This is Dr. Rhoades.”

  While I fake listened to my fake caller, I plotted my escape route. Twenty steps, right out the front door. A front door that was opening as if my eyes were willing it to let me out.

  My imaginary Tyler Connelly walked in and . . . wait . . . that was not my imagination!

  I sat motionless as the very real and very symmetrically gifted Tyler Connelly strolled in through the door and sauntered over to the bar.

  Chapter 9

  HE WAS TAN AS EVER and wearing charcoal-gray pants and a white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up. Damn, he looked better in person than in my imagination. How was that even possible?

  He shook hands with the bartender, then eased onto a stool. For so many reasons I didn’t dare examine, I did not want him to see me with Phil the circus clown.

  “An emergency, you say?” I said to no one on the phone. “Stabilize the patient. I’ll be there right away.”

  I dropped my phone back into my purse. “Sorry, Phil. I have to go back to the hospital. Best to you and the toilet seat business.”

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re leaving? We’re in the middle of dinner.” His voice rose.

  I sighed. “No, not really. You’re in the middle of a monologue.”

  He frowned. “Well, that’s all kinds of rude, don’t you think?”

  Yes, it was. But I was tired and cranky, and I’d done my due diligence to this farce of a date. And Phil was an asshole.

  “Yes, it was rude. So is monopolizing the conversation and pointing at my breasts.” This night was on a collision course anyway. I may as well let it crash and burn.

  His cheeks were chipmunk round, full of gargantuan bites of roast. “That was a compliment. Those boobs look real even though they’re big.” He gestured with his hands, as if cupping his own impressive mammary glands.

  “I have to go.” I reached down to grab the handle of my purse.

  “But what about dinner?” His voice rose even higher. My skin started to heat with the flush of embarrassment.

  “You’ll just have to eat without me. Sorry.”

  “No, I mean who’s going to pay for yours? Not me. Not if you leave right in the middle of it.”

  I just wanted to get out of there as quickly and as surreptitiously as possible, but his voice carried like the screech of a seagull, and all the people within a three-table radius turned our way. So did all the people at the bar.

  Including Tyler Connelly.

  “You’re a classy guy, you know that, Phil?” I pulled my wallet from my purse and opened it, praying I had cash. Of course I didn’t, because I never have cash. I yanked out my debit card instead. I was going to have to wait here while the waiter cashed me out. Unbefuckinglievable.

  I looked around, hoping to catch the server’s eye.

  I caught Tyler’s instead.

  He had the good manners not to smirk. He picked up the beer that the bartender had just set in front of him, and he took a sip. Watching.

  “I know you’re new to the Bell Harbor Singles scene,” Phil said, still not modulating his voice in the slightest. “So I understand this is all a little overwhelming, but you can’t just walk out on a date. Word gets around.”

  “Does it?” If that were true, I would have been forewarned about him.

  “Yes, it does, and men aren’t interested in dick teases.”

  I felt my mouth go slack and my mind go blank. Well, it was blank for a split second. Then it filled with a vision of me clubbing Phil Carter over the cranium with one of his own goddamned toilet seats. Before I could articulate a response scalding enough to do justice to my outrage, Tyler got up from the bar, leaving his beer behind, and walked over to our table.

  “Good evening, Dr. Rhoades,” Tyler said, no hint of mockery in his voice. “Heading out? I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Who are you?” Phil asked, pointing with his fork again.

  “I’m a friend of Dr. Rhoades’s.”

  He was my friend at the moment. He might be a whiskey-drinking, dog-walking dock demolisher, but under the circumstances, he was the better of my options.

  “I have to pay for my meal first.” I held up my debit card.

  Tyler looked at it for a second, then scowled at my date. “Dude, seriously? Man up.” He reached over with both hands to scoot out my chair. I rose instinctively. It seemed we were leaving. I dropped my card back into my purse.

  I felt the eyes of the other diners boring into me from every different angle, but when I looked around, everyone seemed to be studiously staring down at their own food.

  “Only seventy-two percent,” I heard Phil mutter. “It figures.”

  Tyler’s hand was light on the small of my back as we walked to the door. I should have told him I was fine. I didn’t need him to escort me out as if I were some damsel in distress. Men like Phil Carter didn’t scare me. The only part about this whole fiasco that upset me was how I’d wasted a perfectly good evening. I could have been at home in my fat pants reading about advancements in rhinoplasty instead of watching that slob gobble up his food like a pelican.

  We left the restaurant, and as soon as we’d moved past the windows, I stepped away from Tyler’s side and stopped walking.

  “Thank you. That was very thoughtful, and I appreciate your assistance. I could have handled him myself, though.”

  “I’m sure you could have, but he was an asshole.”

  “Yes, he was.” I sighed and slung my purse over my shoulder, crossing the strap in front of me, and started walking again.

  Tyler fell into step next to me. “So why were you with him?”

  I smiled tightly. “Long story, but I’ve got it from here. I’m good. Thank you.”

  It crossed my mind just then that there was a downside to walking places. I had no car to jump into to whisk me away. I’d walked to work that morning and had planned to walk home from the restaurant. I’d lived in Chicago long enough to know how to get myself safely from point A to point B. I had my whistle and my mace, and in a pinch, I could throw an elbow and run pretty fast too, but none of those things would help me get away from Tyler Connelly if he was set on going full white knight on my behalf. I could hardly knee him in the groin for being interested in my welfare.

  “It looked like a date,” he said. Curiosity curled around his syllables.

  �
��It was a date. An accidental date.” I started walking faster.

  He kept pace. “How do you end up on an accidental date?”

  I really didn’t want to talk about this. Not with him. He looked so good in that white shirt it simply wasn’t fair. Especially after the nightmarish forty-five minutes I’d just spent watching Phil Carter grind up his food.

  “How did I end up on an accidental date? I’d imagine about the same way you accidentally end up on a stolen Jet Ski. Shit just happens sometimes, doesn’t it?” I should be laughing, but it didn’t feel that funny. Or maybe I should be angry, but mostly I just felt tired. Phil Carter was already history. But Tyler Connelly was right here, right now. And I needed him to be someplace else before I started feeling . . . appreciative.

  He stopped walking, and foolishly, so did I. We were standing on the corner now, near Jasper’s restaurant. Yellow lights shimmered through the window, splashing in patterns against the brick sidewalk. Music played from outdoor speakers, something jazzy and mellow.

  Tyler slid his hands into the pockets of his charcoal pants. I wanted to ask him where he’d been that he’d gotten dressed up, but more answers would only lead to more questions. And more attraction. I couldn’t deny that something about him stirred me, but I also couldn’t deny it was pointless to pursue it. Hilary would tell me he was the wrong kind of man, and she’d be right. Nothing he had to offer was on my list of requirements.

  “Yes, shit just happens sometimes.” He nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off me.

  I wondered if he was having illicit thoughts about me just then. I was feminine enough to hope so. List or no list.

  “Well, thank you again.” I turned to leave.

  “I sacrificed a beer,” he said, his voice following me as I tried to retreat to the safety of my solitude.

  I turned back, like Alice looking down the rabbit hole, knowing I shouldn’t. “What?”

  “I had a full beer waiting for me at that other restaurant, but I’ll look kind of foolish if I go back there now. So, I guess I’ll just go into Jasper’s and order another one.” He tipped his head toward the nearby doorway.

  “Are you suggesting I owe you a beer?” He clearly was, and I bit back a smile.

  His smile, on the other hand, was broad. “Of course not. I would never suggest such a thing. Good night, Dr. Rhoades.” This time he said my name as if it were my 1-800 moniker. How did he manage to make Dr. Rhoades sound so very naughty?

  He turned, walked inside, and left me alone on the sidewalk clutching my purse as if it were a life preserver. Did he think I’d follow him in there? Should I follow him in there? My brain said no, but then again, my brain always said no.

  Hilary thought I should loosen up and have more fun. But Hilary also thought I fell for unsuitable men. On purpose. Apparently I was going to get it wrong either way. So in that case, what the hell?

  Tonight, I’d give my brain the evening off and finally listen to another part of my anatomy.

  Chapter 10

  TYLER WAS SITTING IN A booth rather than at the bar. Arrogant bastard. He’d known I’d come in there. I dropped my purse into the seat and sat down with a plunk.

  “One drink.” I held up my index finger. “One drink, and I want to know why you didn’t tell the police you were returning the Jet Ski.”

  He stared back for what felt like a full minute but was probably ten seconds. “Two drinks, and you tell me how you ended up on a date with that douche bag.”

  I shook my head and smiled. “No, we’re not negotiating. I set the terms.”

  “Why should I agree to that?” He leaned back and rested one arm along the back of the seat, the picture of nonchalance.

  “Because you’re the one who asked me out to dinner.”

  “This isn’t dinner. This is you following me into a bar. I set the terms.”

  He’d tricked me. This was me following him into a bar. I nearly giggled. And I am not a giggler.

  “One drink,” I said. “And I’ll answer all your questions. Two drinks and I’m liable to tell you where the bodies are hidden.” I never could hold my liquor.

  He laughed at that, making all of the tight spots inside me loosen and all the loose spots tighten. I never should have come in here, but I was still glad I did.

  A dark-haired waitress in a crisp white shirt came over to take our order. I asked for a martini, not to be elegant, but because I loathe gin. It was the only surefire way to make sure I didn’t drink too much, too fast, and accidentally go all Stella trying to get her groove back. Tyler ordered a beer and the waitress left.

  I tapped my fingers on the table and looked around. A dozen or so couples were in here tonight. Candles glowed in every nook, and the air was heavy with the scent of warm cinnamon bread. This place spelled intimate with a capital INT. I tapped louder.

  He laughed again. “Nervous much?”

  I looked back at him. “I’m not nervous. Should I be? Why? Are you an ax murderer or something?” I said it too fast. Maybe I was nervous. A little nervous.

  “I’m not the one talking about hidden bodies. Maybe I should be nervous about you,” he said.

  Realistically, he should be. I had almost eight years of wisdom and life experience on this young gun. Just because he had perfect white teeth and shoulders wide enough to block traffic, that was no reason for me to be the least bit intimidated. I was in charge here.

  “Bell Harbor Singles,” I said with falsely defiant confidence.

  “What?”

  “That’s where the douche bag came from. An online dating service. So far I don’t recommend it.” I folded my hands in front of me.

  Tyler’s smile blossomed slowly but completely. “Why on earth would a woman like you need a dating service?”

  That was a compliment in there, plain and simple. And I liked it. I decided to reward it with bold, straight-up honesty. That would save us both a lot of trouble in the long run anyway. “Because I work all the time and rarely date, but my parents have reunited after a twenty-three-year divorce and now they think I should find myself a husband.” I leaned forward for emphasis. “Are you prepared to marry me, Mr. Connelly? Because if you’re not, and I assume you’re not, then there’s not much point in taking me out to dinner.”

  I’d kept my tone light and playful, but his eyes rounded in surprise, and I heard him inhale sharply.

  “Wow. Jesus. When you decide to set the terms, you really set them, don’t you? Now I see why there are bodies.” He chuckled self-consciously and turned to see the waitress coming with our drinks. He reached for his and took a swallow. A big swallow.

  Now who was nervous?

  She set my drink in front of me on a square cocktail napkin.

  “Will you two be having dinner this evening?” she asked innocently.

  I smiled at him expectantly, batting my lashes. “Are we having dinner, Mr. Connelly?”

  He blinked fast, as if sleet were zinging him in the face. As if the waitress had asked, “Will you be fornicating this evening as a prelude to marriage, or were you hoping to just fuck around?”

  “No dinner. Just drinks,” he said emphatically, but he smiled. And I smiled back.

  “Very good.” She took our menus and walked away.

  I sat back and lifted my very strong martini. “To just drinks, then.”

  He clinked his mug against my delicate glass, and took another hearty chug.

  “Marriage, huh?” he said, after setting down his beer.

  “Yep. Why? Are you not a fan?” I was flirting. Hilary would be so proud of me.

  Tyler chuckled. “Um, I’m not opposed to it. In a global sense. I just, uh, haven’t given it much thought.”

  “Truthfully? Neither have I. But this last birthday catapulted me into all sorts of things I’ve never thought about before.” There was no way the gin had a
lready gone to my head, so why I was being so forthright was a mystery. Maybe it’s because I had nothing to lose. Tyler was adorable, and sexy as hell, but this really was just drinks. Now that I’d decided to look for a real boyfriend, that’s what I wanted to find. A real boyfriend, not some random scuffle between the sheets. Regardless of how enjoyable it might be, Tyler was a detour I didn’t have time to take.

  He rubbed his thumb across his jaw, right where I’d given him stitches. “Catapulted into what sort of things?” he asked.

  “Things like marriage. And . . . family.” I’d very nearly said children, but that was just too much. I couldn’t expect any man to relax with all that on the table. I was amazed he hadn’t bolted already. He must really want that beer.

  “Well, that’s, ah . . . huh. That’s intense stuff.”

  I laughed at his very appropriate reaction.

  Sure, I was being honest, but I was also teasing him, trying to see how far I could push. “So, you see, Mr. Connelly, I really have been trying to do you a favor. I’m trying to save you time and energy. You don’t want to take me out to dinner.”

  “I don’t?”

  I shook my head. “No, because, as I said, I’m looking for a husband.”

  His eyes filled with mischief. “Well, maybe I could be your last hurrah before marriage.”

  Everything inside me lit up like Christmas morning. Oh, Lord. Maybe he could be. Now he was flirting back, and I was drowning in those Caribbean-blue eyes. This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all.

  “Let’s talk about you,” I said, deftly steering the conversation to shallower waters. “First of all, tell me about the guy in the bathrobe.”

  Tyler chuckled and shook his head, leaning back against the booth. “That’s Carl, my mother’s third husband. She won him in Vegas.”

  “Won him?”

  “Yeah, not really. She went to Vegas with some cash in her pocket and came home with him. Not much of a prize, but he’s a good enough guy. He puts up with my mom. That’s not easy.” His tone was a mixture of affection and frustration. I recognized that because it was the tone I used when discussing my own parents.