by Cara Nelson
Dumbfounded, he stammered, “Uh, this is Harrison Abrahemson, from the ER. The guy who stitched up your hand? Yeah. Okay, you left your scarf there, and if you want it back, I’ll send it to you or drop it off or—whatever. Bye.” He pressed the end key and shook his head. He’d left better messages for girls in high school than that.
As he was getting in the shower, his phone rang. He grabbed it, thinking irrationally that it might be the scarf girl, but it was his uncle.
“Shit,” he muttered, and answered the phone. “Abe here.”
“This is your Onkle Knut, boy. Your Opa is very ill. How long has it been since you have seen him, Harrison? It is not fitting that you should set yourself apart from the family who loves you. It is a great grief to my father how you distanced yourself from the business he worked so long to build.”
“Knut, look, he lives in Germany. I live in New Jersey. I can’t just pop over and say hi on Sundays. I work long hours. The last time I checked, my poor pitiful Opa has a private jet. He could come see me any time he wanted to. You can give the guilt a rest now.” Abe said through gritted teeth and hung up. Knut didn’t call back, thankfully.
It did make him miserable, when he thought about it. He’d spent summers with his grandparents when he was growing up. His Opa had taught him to swim on Rugen Island, had hiked the chalk cliffs nearby. Abe had loved his grandparents very much but he always felt the weight of his Opa’s expectations—that he would study business and take over his Oma’s shipping dynasty.
His grandparents had two sons. Knut, who became a rabbi and never married, and Ambrose, who had, at last count, divorced three women without producing another heir . He wished he could have the good memories without the taint of his family’s disappointment. He wished for a lot of things. When he stepped under the stream of hot water, what he wished for most was a woman who could make him forget.
As he dried off and crashed into bed, he realized he’d left a message on a patient’s voice mail, a personal message that would link back to his private cell number. He groaned. Abe took great pride in his professional ethics—which made dating difficult, since he worked long hours and didn’t go out much. He kept his record clean, his hands clean. He didn’t want to be one of those sleazebag doctors who hit on the nurses and tried to get phone numbers from the attractive patients. Now he was trailing around after some hysterical blonde actress, using a scarf as an excuse to talk to her. He wished he could take it back, make that voice mail disappear, but it was too late. Now she had his number.
Chapter 4
Becca checked online for open auditions before her shift a Caliccio’s, hoping something would pop out at her and announce a new, successful phase of her life. As it was, she sent in her headshot and copy for a weird sounding sci-fi play and a commercial for yeast infection treatment. Becca tried to avoid those sorts of commercials, but once she topped 25, it was harder to get commercial work that didn’t involve a pregnancy test, a yeast infection or birth control—what she called vagina-centric work. No longer the ingénue who got mascara and zit cream commercials, she had to go for a more mature product set. Even though she used moisturizer religiously and kept her blonde hair a very summery shade, it was getting kind of obvious that she wasn’t a college co-ed. She stared at herself in the mirror like she did every day.
“Still pretty,” she reassured herself, but with less enthusiasm than she used to.
Becca knew she was a pretty good actress, but not one of the greats. She had dreams of taking classes at the Tisch if she ever made enough money for tuition, but no one was going to mistake her for Oscar-bait, the next young America’s sweetheart-type prodigy. Becca used to really believe that would be her story—gorgeous, relatable wunderkind, embraced by both the critics and the fans. Her face on a magazine cover would guarantee that it would fly off the racks. She’d have enough clout to choose her roles, do one movie a year, and eventually retire to the south of France in a little stone cottage. Once she was really old, like forty, she’d only do really juicy character roles that always got nominated for awards. Now here she was, waiting tables in her old boyfriend’s pasta joint, pining over some ER doctor who was hateful to her. She felt really pathetic, so she put on extra eyeliner for her shift and took her phone off the charger.
There was a voice mail from Hannah and one from some stammering guy who seemed like he was threatening to murder her scarf if she didn’t pay ransom or something. She played it back and realized it was Dr. Abrahemson from the emergency room. She did a little joy dance and put it on speaker to listen to it again, in celebration of how nervous he sounded. He had her scarf and wanted to meet up with her. She did a little twirl, slammed her shin against the bed, cursed it again for being in the living room, and snatched her phone up to retrieve his number.
She dialed it up and waited, pacing around the apartment gleefully. It might not be a real date, but it was at least an excuse to see him, be adorable and sexy, and hope for the best. That was what Becca was best at, after all—hoping for the best. She had needed that call for sure. It had come just when she was feeling truly hopeless and now, something to look forward to. She was musing about how it was obviously meant to be when he answered.
“Abe, here,” he said brusquely.
“Hi, Dr. Abrahemson? This is Becca Bennett from the ER. Becca—” She winced, “Abbracciabene. You called and left a message that you had found my scarf.”
“Ah. Becca. Yes. Is there someplace I could drop your scarf off?” he asked uncomfortably.
“No, I need to pick it up in person.”
“You do?”
“I’ll buy you a cup of coffee to say thanks. How about you meet me at Donovan’s on Eleventh in an hour?” Becca offered. “My shift doesn’t start ‘til five, so I have time to meet you today.”
“Ok. I’ll see you then.” He sounded uncomfortable, but at least he’d said yes!
Becca grabbed her list and navigated through afternoon traffic to the novelty shop to stock up for the party. She’d already called the guests and set up a time to meet. Now she needed party favors and stuff for the games. Obviously, a sex shop was the way to go. She strolled cheerfully down aisles of furry handcuffs and zebra print restraints, harnesses, plugs, and clamps of all descriptions as she made her selections. At the checkout, instead of blushing bashfully into her purse, she brandished her smartphone with a coupon code, demanding that the cashier give her 20% off as listed. Stuffing the merchandise into her tote, she told the guy to keep the obvious hot pink shopping bag with the dildo on it. She didn’t want Harrison Abrahemson to think she was a total pervert or something.
With just enough time to get to Donovan’s ahead of her date, Becca headed out. She settled at a little zinc table by the window, sipping her café mocha and contemplating the wisdom of adding a carrot cake muffin to the hours of exercise she already needed to do to maintain her figure for work. When the door to the crowded little coffee shop swung open and the good doctor entered, she caught her breath.
Harrison Abrahemson had looked good in scrubs, for what that was worth to a girl whose formative years were spent watching Grey’s Anatomy, but in roughed up jeans and a gray t-shirt, he was paradise. His black hair had a little bend to it that meant it was curly and overdue for a trim. His eyes, which she had thought were blue in hospital lighting, were so dark they were nearly black. He had a big nose, hawklike and rakish, and a strong jaw to match. He had runner’s thighs, muscular and lean, and the sure stride that spoke of confidence and, yes, virility. His jeans were faded, softened by many washings, and starting to fray at the hem. She wanted to run her hands up the denim to his hips and unfasten them. He hadn’t even spotted her yet.
Becca had on her uniform for work already, black trousers and a black blouse. Her blond hair was twisted up and pinned with little jeweled bobby pins, and she had on shiny pink lip-gloss and silver hoop earrings. A thin silver chain with a tiny dolphin charm lay along her collarbone, just inside the open collar of her dark s
hirt. She wished she’d worn something more alluring—like, say, Aria’s silky nightie, to attract his attention.
When the doctor saw her, he walked over and swung his chair around backward, sitting on it with legs spread wide. He was wearing motorcycle boots. She nearly bit her necklace. Instead of those hipster canvas shoes all the guys she knew had on, he was wearing badass scuffed-up black boots that made her want to do outrageous things to him. Becca took a sip of her coffee to gain a moment to compose herself, but all she did was burn her mouth. Tears shot to her eyes at the sting and she pressed her lips together to keep from shouting.
“Did you burn your mouth?” he demanded. She nodded sheepishly. He was off the chair and elbowing up through the queue to the counter in no time, and returned with a cup of ice and a plastic spoon. He got a cube on the spoon and fed it to her.
“Hold that in your mouth until it melts. It’ll help.” She sat; feeling awkward, as the ice melted and he said absolutely nothing to put her at ease.
“Thank you,” she said at last. He gave a short nod of acknowledgement and held out her scarf. She took it and thanked him again.
“Let’s see your hand.”
Obediently, Becca held out her palm for him to examine. He took her hand in his and trailed one finger along the tender edge of the cut he’d stitched. She tensed, and he felt her catch her breath. Glancing at her, meeting her eyes, he dropped his eyes back to the cut, clean and masterfully closed. He pressed his lips briefly to her palm and released her hand. She gave a small gasp at the unexpected kiss and withdrew her hand almost shyly.
“It looks to be healing well. How’s the pain?” he asked stiffly.
“My hand doesn’t hurt. My heart’s still broken.”
“The restaurant guy? He’s a cheater, not worth your regret.”
“Dr. Abrahemson, I appreciate your coming to bring my scarf. Really. Let me get you a coffee. What do you like?”
“Rather without warning, I like you.” He said. She subsided into her chair, speechless. “You can call me Abe, I think, since I’ve stitched your cut and heard all your troubles and now kissed your hand as well.” For a man who’d stammered on her voicemail, he was surprisingly smooth now.
“Abe,” she said dumbly. “I’m Becca.”
“I know.”
“Of course you do. You’re my doctor.”
“Don’t remind me. I never see patients during personal time.”
“I’m not here as your patient. At least, I wasn’t until I scalded myself with my coffee like a complete idiot. I seem doomed to make a fool of myself around you, Abe.”
“I don’t seem to mind.” He shrugged. “Black, two sugars.” She got in line to get his coffee.
Abe sat at the absurdly small table, watching her café mocha cool as she waited behind a slew of other patrons. He turned his gaze back to her: the pale curve of her neck rising from the collar of her dark shirt, the wave of blonde hair that had escaped its pins and trailed down behind her ear, the tip of the tendril catching in the hoop of her earring. He wanted to tug the hair free of the silver loop and tuck it behind her ear, kiss her just beneath her ear and hear the satisfying catch in her breath when he did. He wanted to be completely unprofessional, juvenile even. That wasn’t who he was. He was an accredited physician, dammit, not a seventeen-year-old who couldn’t take his eyes off an all-American blonde.
Becca came back with his coffee and set it carefully before him on the table.
“Be careful. It’s hot,” she teased. He took a sip, grimaced and set it back down, tipping a couple of ice cubes into the cup.
Becca reached into her bag to put the change in her wallet when the tote tipped over, spilling sex toys across the tiny table. She gasped theatrically, like a scandalized dowager, as a massive flesh-toned vibrator rolled across the table and landed in Abe’s lap. A riding crop with feathers on the end had fallen beside his coffee cup, and the shiny black dildo struck the napkin dispenser and started to play cowboy music. Becca reached for it as the same time Abe did and he snatched it from her.
“How do you turn it off?” he asked, mirth glinting in his eyes as he fondled the dildo in search of a volume switch.
“Here, it’s on the base,” she said, taking it from him and turning off the music before it reached the chorus about being back in the saddle. Blushing, she stuffed the dildo back in her purse and held out her hand for the embarrassingly lifelike vibrator.
“Missing your boyfriend already?” He teased. She shook her head, mortified.
“It’s okay, Becca,” he said, and she raised her eyes to meet his. She opened her mouth to apologize, but she burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. She laughed until she choked and hiccupped, gathering up handcuffs and blindfolds and dumping them unceremoniously into her purse.
“What did you do with the riding crop?” she demanded between fits of laughter.
Mischievously, Abe pulled the toy out from under the table where he’d secreted it. Reaching across the table, he dodged her proffered hand and trailed the feathered end along her jaw, down her neck. He’d thought it would be funny but it was startlingly electric. He saw her shift in her seat, her eyes fixed on his, an,d he wondered for a second if he’d just got in over his head. He put the whip in her purse and took a drink of his coffee, schooling himself to think neutral, professional thoughts, anything really that didn’t involve Becca Bennett, a riding crop and a lot of nudity.
When he looked up from his coffee, her expression wasn’t shocked, wasn’t annoyed—it was teasing. She bit her lip and it nearly undid him. He had to get the hell out of this coffee shop before he violated his professional ethics and a blonde waitress as well. She took a drink of her coffee, her bedroom eyes never leaving his, and he was unaccountably jealous of the paper cup her lips were wrapped around. Everything about her made him jumpy, seemed to sting his skin with want. He wondered if she’d been in any movies and if he could stream them on Netflix after his shift. He wondered if she liked a shower in the morning or at night, if she hummed while she washed her hair. If she’d let him wash her hair or make her scream and beg for more. He was completely speechless.
“I want you to go out with me. When are you free?” Becca asked distinctly, and he stared at her. He’d thought she’d be shrinking with humiliation after the sex toy avalanche, but he had to admire her resilience, her boldness.
“I work a rotating shift. I also cover for other doctors so my schedule is unpredictable at best.”
“When do you work tomorrow? I’m off work the next two days.”
“Tomorrow? I—you’re a nice kid, Becca, but I don’t date patients. When I was an intern, I worked with a hospitalist who was always harassing the nurses and trying to pick up patients. I decided right then and there that I would never take advantage of my position. I can’t go out with you, Becca.”
“Wait. I’m a nice kid. You won’t take advantage of me. Is this the 1960s? I’m pretty sure we’re about the same age. You’re not an authority figure in a position to take advantage of me. I’m fairly certain I have the mental capacity and emancipation to decide if I want to see you or talk to you or do things to you without being imposed upon. It isn’t, in short, your decision whether I want to fuck you or not,” she finished emphatically. He shut his eyes, shook his head slightly and smiled. It was a heart-stopping smile, all crooked roguishness and pure sex.
“So do you want to?” he challenged.
“I’m undecided at this point, but the odds are pretty good.”
“That’s unfortunate. As charming as I find you, I can’t see you again. It was a mistake to call you in the first place, honestly. You could have claimed your scarf at the hospital without my interference, and the fact that I saw you today is a serious lapse in professional judgment. I don’t seem to be very good at marshaling myself around you, so it would be best if this were goodbye. I’m not going to endanger my professional ethics just because I have trouble—”
Becca cut him off, leaning acro
ss the table and clutching his face with both hands, kissing him. She slid off her chair and moved closer without releasing him, feeling the stubble along his jaw against her palm, the silky curl of his hair in her fingers, the taste of coffee on his tongue. Abe looped an arm around her hips, holding her to him, but seemed content to sit there and be kissed by her for the entire world to see. When she raised her head with a smile, he nodded.
“Tomorrow at six. I get off at five; it’ll give me time to shower.”
“Good. I’ll take you bowling,” Becca said decisively. “The crap in my purse is for my sister’s bachelorette party. Just so you know,” she added. “And I decided I wanted you when I saw you bandaging that doll for a kid at the ER.”
“Is that all I need to know?”
“For now.”
Abe got to his feet and walked her out.
“Are you going to work now?”
“Yeah. It’s just a few blocks from here. I’ll walk.”
“Let me walk you.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Isn’t your ex-boyfriend there?” He raised his eyebrows with a grin that made her think he was probably a troublemaker, too.
“Should be by now. Why?”
“Just thought it wouldn’t do any real harm if I showed up with you, let him know you’ve moved on. It might make you a little more comfortable at work tonight. Knowing that he thinks you’re not alone.”
Becca looked up at him, touched he had thought about her discomfort in working with Chris, about how she hated being alone.
“There’s so much injustice in the world. Let me do this.”
She nodded, feeling suddenly teary. She looked down at the sidewalk and blinked back tears. It had been a while since a guy had been kind to her. Chris, come to think of it, had never really been nice to her at all.