by Tamara Leigh
Pros Cons
Less weight up front = less back strain. Surgery is gonna hurt.
Better-fitting clothes. Recovery is gonna hurt.
Fastest way to drop a few pounds. Possible complications.
Proportioned figure. Downtime following surgery.
Able to sleep on stomach. Uh … no built-in canopy for
Jogging a possibility? my shoes.
Oh! Bathing suits and nonknit dresses!
Looks like Dr. Alexander just might get his way …
Sunday, March 25
Dear Lord,
Thank You for Brother Leo and sweet little old ladies like Mrs. Farmer. Thank You for shopping sprees and modest credit card limits. Thank You for outfits that flatter and coordinating eye color (maybe I can get used to contacts). Thank You for vicarious feeding on Polish dogs, last-minute cancellations (was that You?), and Belle’s growing baby.
Help me overcome my jealousy toward Maia. (Would I be breaking any commandment if I took a peek at what Michael wrote in her copy of The Makeup Bible?) Help me guard my tongue and curb my antagonism toward that Adelphia woman. Help me be discerning about this stack of business cards. (You wouldn’t mind a bit of spider vein removal, would You? Oh, and this gap!—my fault, not Yours. Probably all that thumb sucking as a kid.) Help me make the final determination about the reduction (I really want this one). Whew!
XOXO
Kate
PS: Tithe coming soon!
ign here …” Adelphia Jamison taps the contract. “Here … and here.” She looks up. “Provided we’re in agreement.” How could I not be? I stare at the big fat numbers that follow the dollar sign. That’s a lot of money. Had I quoted the job, I would have bid it at two-thirds. But she said that was the budget, take it or leave it. Decisions, decisions.
“Are we in agreement, Ms. Meadows?”
With a glance around the conference room that has yet to admit Dr. Alexander, I nod. “Everything appears to be in order.”
“Good.” She thrusts a pen at me.
My own nails sharply contrasting with hers—paint beneath the tips and in the curves of my cuticles—I accept the pen and set my signature to the blanks that commit me to a ten-week time frame and severe penalties for delays. But there won’t be delays. I’ll make it work, even if it kills me. Which it might …
Adelphia sweeps up the contract. “I’ll make a copy, and that will conclude our meeting.”
And not a minute too soon if she wants to beat the worst of rush-hour traffic, I mull over as she exits the room. I declare, her whirlwind explanation of the contract made me feel like she was speaking a foreign language. Thus, I insisted on reading every line. Throughout, she sat with pinched lips, folded arms, and foot drumming the floor. None of which deterred me from watching out for my best interests. In fact, it only prolonged her misery, as the distraction forced me to reread several times. But now she can leave, and I can go home and figure out how I’m going to juggle this project without losing my mind. Fortunately, it’s five weeks before I begin work on the burn unit. Unfortunately, once it’s underway, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
I glance at my robust chest. “I hope you’re happy.”
“Me?” A masculine voice takes a spin around the conference room.
I jerk my gaze to where Dr. Alexander stands at the threshold.
Caught talking to my chest. Lovely. “Uh … um …”
He raises his eyebrows above the glimmer in his eyes. “Or were you talking to someone else?”
Something else. “You, Dr. Alexander. I was talking to you. I mean—” I shake my head—“who else would I be talking to?”
Surely I’ll be forgiven, as God can’t possibly expect me to admit to conversing with my bosom. That would be so wrong.
“Then in answer to your question—” he steps farther into the room—“I’m happy.”
“Good.” I stand. “Ms. Jamison is making a copy of the contract.”
He looks to my JESUS IS KING T-shirt, then my paint-streaked relaxed-fit jeans (can’t bring myself to risk the seventy-dollar-a-pop hip-huggers). Unfortunately, though I did allow time to change for the meeting, there was this one wall that stood between me and beginning work with the faux glaze first thing in the morning. Thus, I applied the last of the base coat, and now I’m paying for it. Not that I care if Dr. Alexander finds me presentable. Well, maybe a little …
He returns his gaze to mine. “I apologize for missing the meeting.”
“No problem. Ms. Jamison covered the contract.” Rather, I covered it. Wondering what’s taking her so long, I heft my bag onto my shoulder. “So, Dr. Alexander, did you read Dale Carnegie?”
He smiles. “It’s on my to-do list.”
I wish he wouldn’t smile like that. Makes him far too appealing.
“Can you spare an hour or so, Ms. Meadows?”
I frown. “For?”
“To discuss your ideas for the burn unit. Of course, if you have another date …”
“Not tonight.”
“Then you’ll have dinner with me?”
He didn’t say anything about dinner, just a discussion. And why does he keep asking me out? Merely the means by which he conducts business?
“An early dinner,” he clarifies.
“How early?”
“We could leave in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes!” I open my arms wide. “Do you really want to be seen in public with this?”
His mouth tilts. “It’s not a date.”
“Obviously!” I mentally huff and puff in an attempt to cool the heat rising in my cheeks.
“Well?”
Now that I’ve accepted the job, I suppose we should discuss it. “All right. Dinner it is.”
A moment later, his “colleague” sweeps into the room. “Clive!” She halts alongside him and sinks her red-tipped claws into his sleeve.
Red. Christopher’s favorite color. I don’t like red. Not candy apple red, not Santa Claus red, not—
Dr. Alexander leans toward her to receive a peck on the cheek.
“Let me guess …” She sparkles beneath his regard. “A difficult surgery?”
“Yes.”
“But successful.”
“Appears to have been.”
She smiles larger, only to drop a size or two when she remembers me. Crossing the room, she extends a sheaf of papers. “Your copy of the contract, Ms. Meadows.”
I accept them. “Thank you.”
“Well, that wraps it up. Nice meeting with you.” She thrusts out a hand that I clasp, only to inwardly grimace at the clammy palm beneath mine.
Thankfully, she quickly disengages and swings back to Dr. Alexander. “Since we’ve been condemned to rush-hour traffic—”
Thanks to the demanding Ms. Meadows.
“—how about we wait out the exodus over an early dinner?”
First condemned, now exodus. She really is put out.
Dr. Alexander’s face turns apologetic. “Ms. Meadows has agreed to have dinner with me to discuss the project.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “Good idea.” A long pause follows, which I take as an opportunity for Dr. Alexander to invite her along. When he doesn’t, she presses her shoulders back. “Well, I’d offer to join you, but my day has been tedious enough as it is.”
Was that a slam? Humph! One would think I stole her date out from under her nose. But then I guess I did.
She saunters out of the room but pokes her head back inside. “Forgot to mention that Adam’s looking for you.”
The name rings a bell, but it’s Dr. Alexander’s stiffening that returns me to the hallway outside his office the other day when Dr. MacPhail asked to discuss some “matter” with him.
“Thank you, Adelphia.”
She frowns. “You’re not going to give in, are you?”
He glances at me. “This is not the time to discuss it.”
“Oh.” Her eyes flit to me. “Of course.” Then she disappears.
An awkward silence—weighted by my curiosity—follows. I step forward. “So, fifteen minutes?”
He nods. “Provided you’re not opposed to a simple meal, we can walk to the sandwich shop down the street.”
Sounds safe enough for someone in my state of dress. “Sure.”
“Meet you in the lobby.”
Twenty minutes later, we walk side by side through the lowering of day, passing from light into lengthening shadows and exchanging niceties. The nippy air causes me to shiver, and I hug my arms tighter. Why, oh why, didn’t I retrieve a sweater from my car? It’s not as if I don’t know San Francisco’s intemperate moods.
The next shiver that runs through me coincides with the ring of Dr. Alexander’s cell phone. He pulls it from his belt, peers at the screen, then returns the phone to its holder. Obviously, not someone he wishes to speak with.
I shiver again.
Fortunately, Dr. Alexander slows as we approach one of those chain cafés that dot the city with nearly as much enthusiasm as the trendy coffee shops. As I prefer nonformulaic restaurants, I’m a little disappointed—until he opens the door for me into Home-Baked Breads & Things.
Disappointment taken hostage by the scent of freshly baked warm and crusty loaves of bread and sweetly sticky things like cinnamon rolls and cherry tarts, I drag in noseful after noseful. If not for fear that I might end up in a humiliating heap, I’d close my eyes and transport back to my grandmother’s kitchen, which often smelled like this.
Of course, it didn’t look like this, I muse as I survey the café with its rustic decor, scuffed cement floors, mismatched tables and chairs, and alcoves that offer privacy to those who don’t care to sit in the open. Nice. Now if the food tastes half as good as it smells, this could prove a real find.
“This way.” Dr. Alexander leads me past scattered diners to the back of the café, where those waiting to whip up our meal are a surprise themselves. Their aprons are simple white jobs, and all bear evidence of food preparation: mustard stains, oil spots, and various other condiments destined for the plate but sidetracked by a wayward hand.
“What can I get you?” asks a round-faced young man with holes in his earlobes threaded with what seem like small pieces of pipe. I’ve been seeing more of those lately but still haven’t figured out what it’s about. Not sure I want to …
I look at Dr. Alexander. “Any recommendations?”
“Carnivore or herbivore?”
I blink. Did he really say that? Hardly original, but definitely cute. “It’s Monday, right?”
His left eyebrow goes up. “It is.”
“Then carnivore it is.”
The right eyebrow joins the left. “Meaning tomorrow is herbivore?”
“Actually, I practice omnivore-ity on Tuesdays.”
He gives a short laugh that jump-starts the humming at my center. Love his laugh!
“If I’m not careful, I might get to like you, Kate.”
Get to like me … Kate, rather than Ms. Meadows. I stare at him.
To my relief, he doesn’t sink back into his brooding self but turns to the menu on the wall behind the counter. “The turkey club is good, as is the ham and Swiss on Asiago, but if you like—”
“Asi-what?”
“Asiago, a cheese bread. Quite good.”
“Say no more.” I smile at the holey young man behind the counter. “Ham and Swiss on Asi … uh …”
“Asiago. With everything, ma’am?”
I peer at the small writing on the menu. “Everything but onion.”
“And you, sir?”
“The same, less the onion as well.” Dr. Alexander looks back at me. “Don’t care for onion either?”
I scrunch up my nose. “Wreaks havoc with my breath. And believe me, you won’t want to get anywhere near me if—”
I nearly choke. How I hope he doesn’t take that any other way than intended.
Something flickers in his eyes. “As I said, it’s not a date.”
“And thank goodness for that. I mean … not that I … uh, you …”
“I understand, Kate.”
Still Kate? Why that pleases me, I don’t know. Of course, we are going to be working together, so it follows that we should transition to first names.
Soon I carry my sandwich and milk—paid for by Clive—and follow him to an alcove. As always, there’s that moment of awkwardness when a Christian knows they should offer up thanks for a meal but hesitates for fear of appearing odd. Even in the presence of fellow Christians, it’s not unusual to feel discomfort, but in the presence of nonbelievers it can be excruciating. Of course, Dr.—uh, Clive—could be a believer.
A moment later, he lifts his sandwich to take a bite.
Despite the temptation to follow suit, I lower my head and send up silent thanks for my meal. When I settle back in my chair, I discover that Clive has returned his untouched sandwich to his plate.
“Done?”
I nod. “Brownie points in heaven, you know.”
Ooh, I said that aloud, didn’t I?
Sorry, Lord. Didn’t mean to make light of You. It just … fell off my lips.
I take a bite of my sandwich—not a bad strategy, as the process of digestion curbs a wayward tongue. Not that one should rely on such, as it’s the waistline that suffers. And I certainly don’t want to work any harder at Pilates.
Still hate the class, but I’m determined to get my money’s worth. And I am. Beneath the table, I grip my thigh. Not that it was ever really flabby, but it’s begun to solidify.
“How is it?”
I jerk my hand off my thigh, only to realize it’s the sandwich he’s talking about. “Very good.”
“Glad you like it.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, we make small talk, during which Clive receives another call and responds to it the same as before.
“So what have you got for me?” he asks once our plates are clean.
I pull my bag onto my lap—a bag that is lighter than it should be. With dread, I open it. “Ohhh. I left my sketchbook at home.”
He glances at his watch. “Would you object to me having a look at it there?”
I blink. “I could bring it by the hospital tomorrow.”
“I’ll be in surgery most of the day.”
“The day after?”
“Out of town.”
“I … guess you could follow me home.”
He pushes his chair back. “Let’s go.”
Outside, in the dusk of approaching night and a breeze that’s gone from nippy to chilly, I shiver again.
Clive halts. “Take my jacket.”
I glance behind and discover that he’s already shrugged out of it. “Thanks, but it’s not much farther.”
He holds it open for me. “Your teeth are chattering.”
“But you—”
“Don’t need it.” He smiles crookedly. “Hot-blooded.”
I’ll bet he is. Naughty, Kate!
Clenching my teeth to keep them from clacking, I slide my arms into his warm and toasty sleeves. Mmm …
Over my back, Clive pulls the lapels closed, and I shudder as his hands brush my collarbone.
It’s the cold air. Has to be. However, as we resume our pace, I have to admit that I’m still attracted to him. Don’t want to be, but it’s true. And unwelcome, considering I have Michael who’s attracted to me, even if his attentiveness toward Maia is greater than it should be.
Twenty minutes later, I find my suspicions all the more founded when I pull into the itsy-bitsy driveway of the Victorian-era house I share with Maia in the Alamo Square Historic District. Smiling tightly, I wave back at Michael and my housemate where they sit on the top step illuminated by the porch light. So he showed up unannounced. Again.
Stepping out of my car, I glance over my shoulder at where Clive pulls into the single curbside space deeded to our address.
“Kate!” Michael calls as he rises from the step.
“Hey!” I call back.
Maia unfolds alongside him. And, by golly, no amount of jealousy can hide the fact that they’re a handsome couple.
“Nice place.” Clive steps alongside me.
Grateful for the distraction, I peer at the narrow house sandwiched between two others and silently concur that its whimsical pastel colors and exuberant trim lend just the right amount of charm. Of course, that’s what Maia paid me well to pull off three years ago—and how we met.
I look back at Clive. “Thank you.”
He smiles.
Like that smile, not to mention the way the breeze fingers his hair and the shadows of night soften his jaw—mere observations, of course.
Clive raises an eyebrow. “Kate?”
“Uh, come on up.” As he follows me toward the steps, concern pinches Michael’s brow. And he’s not the only one to react to Clive’s presence. Maia’s eyes light up, her tongue sweeps her bottom lip, and she angles her body to best show off her figure (as if she has a bad side!).
The moment I step to the porch, Michael slides an arm around me, pulls me in, and plants a kiss that leaves no doubt that he’s marking territory. Might he think Clive and I are returning from a date? Of course, that would mean he’s playing dirty by “marking” me in front of another man. Not exactly what one expects from someone who said there was no exclusivity to our dating.
“Missed you.” He pulls away just enough to give me air. “So who have you brought home with you?”
I draw back, and after a slight hesitation, Michael eases his hold enough to allow me to turn to Clive, whose smile of moments earlier is gone. Meaning Michael did what he set out to do, which was sabotage my date—
It wasn’t a date! It was a business meeting.
“Well?” Michael prompts.
“Uh, Michael Palmier, meet Dr. Alexander. Dr. Alexander—Michael Palmier.”
Michael’s arm at my waist tightens. “Doctor, hmm?”
Clive inclines his head. “And you, Mr. Palmier?”
“Makeup artist, author of the bestselling The Makeup Bible.” Michael thrusts a hand forward. “And, of course, Kate’s boyfriend.”
“Of course.” Clive catches my eye as he accepts Michael’s handshake.
Warmth flushes me, and my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. When the men unclasp hands, what follows is an awkward silence—until Maia clears her throat.