Romance in Color

by Synithia Williams

Mild disinterest.

  “It isn’t polite to eavesdrop.”

  “It’s not like I can help it,” the kid said. “You’re right across from me, and I don’t have anything better to do. I read all of these Scientific Americans already. I thought Tesla was a car, not some guy.”

  Ian was saved from replying by the doctor.

  “Tesla was the man who invented the alternating current,” Doc Lale said, sweeping in. “The AC in AC/DC,” she said, cocking her head. “Kevin, are you going to be okay out here? I’m going to have Mr. Zamora come into my office for a few minutes. Cough really loudly if you think you’re dying.”

  She grinned and ruffled his hair. The kid smiled smugly at Ian, as if Ian should be jealous. Ian resisted the urge to kick him and instead simply followed Petra Lale into her office. She told Ian to roll up his sleeves again. His cuffs felt too tight. The spots where she had injected the allergen were red and puffy. The doctor murmured something about putting cream on them, and turned away. In a moment, she began to smooth a white ointment on his itchy arms. He swallowed hard and suddenly felt very aware of her fingers on his skin.

  Why had he never realized how small the room was? It was almost a closet, really. He turned and noticed how close her head was to his. He could study the sharp arch of her brows, her thin, dusky lips. If he moved just a little bit, he would be able to rub his cheek on her curls. Her breath fanned lightly over his neck.

  He felt a hot slide of lust and immediately tried to dampen it. So much for thinking that he wouldn’t react to her again.

  His face was on fire, although whether it was because his lower body had tightened or because he was embarrassed, he wasn’t sure. He thought of penguins in Antarctica and ice-cold waterfalls. He thought of glaciers and meat lockers. In fact, he became so busy ignoring her that he almost failed to register that she was asking him a question.

  “I was wondering,” she was saying, hesitantly. “If you have a chance, would you mind writing a review of the practice for one of those doctor rating sites? I can send you the links, if you’d like. DocStars.com is really popular, I’ve heard.”

  She was still swirling cream into his bicep as she spoke, concentrating hard on her task, as if she were deciphering Braille rather than just soothing him. Her cheeks were pink too, Ian noticed. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  She must have misinterpreted his silence because she added, “You know, be honest, of course. But I’m trying to raise the profile of the practice and every bit helps.”

  She returned his arm to him. They both stared at it, unable to look at each other. Ian tried to form a coherent thought.

  “I’ll try to think of things to write,” he said.

  She looked so sad and embarrassed that a stab of pity penetrated his confusion. She had been honest with him and had even tried to tell him that he might not need shots when others had clamored to give him more drugs and more tests. She seemed competent. Then again, he’d only had two appointments and her front office left a lot to be desired, especially with that kid around. Not that it was her fault.

  “I understand what it’s like,” he said. “All reviews make a difference. I’ll try to be fair.”

  He began to roll down his cuffs again, giving his unruly body more time to settle. He allowed himself to peer over at the doctor.

  “I’d rather get a rave,” she confessed.

  Ian laughed. “Do you have any other patients?”

  “Drowning in them,” she said. She gave a crisp nod. “We probably shouldn’t talk about this anymore. I’m stepping over the line.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” he said quickly. He forced his business mind to take over. “I noticed that you’re running the show solo most of the time. It might be a good idea to have things more solid before you ask for people to assess you. Have your receptionist in place, maybe have more magazines, or books, or maybe get a water cooler for the waiting room. You wouldn’t want superficial things to cloud customers’—I mean patients’—judgment. I speak from experience.”

  “Yes, I remember you told me that you were in the restaurant business. Is it someplace I know?”

  “Have you heard of Field? It’s a block or so from here on North West 11th Street.”

  She looked impressed. Ian tamped down the surge of warmth. “That place is supposed to be great,” she said. “My friend went last month. She couldn’t stop talking about the hush puppies. Oh, and I think she mentioned warm buttermilk biscuits. Helen likes her carbs.”

  “Sounds like a girl after my own heart. You’ll have to come with her next time. Stop by after work sometime and mention my name,” he said. “We’ll feed you real well.”

  Despite his offhand manner, his legs shifted restlessly. He had managed to get his heart rate down again, but for some reason, he felt guilty inviting her. Hell, he suspected that he had broken at least seven commandments while she rubbed cream on his arm. Luckily, Dr. Lale didn’t sense his discomfiture. She laughed. “Someday, when I strike it rich,” she said lightly. “You’re good to go. Same time next week?”

  He nodded and stood up. Not a moment too soon. He needed some distance from Petra Lale. He needed to think long and hard before he did anything rash, even though in his mind, he’d already come to a decision. Plus, his arm itched like crazy.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Petra, Petra, Petra,” her friend and former classmate Scott Santos said. “Tell me, why didn’t we ever…?”

  Santos never finished his thoughts. He didn’t have to. Usually there was some love-struck girl hovering, ready to complete his sentences, and often that woman used that implied sympatico to convince herself that she and the Saint were soulmates. He was good, Petra admitted to herself, assessing his strong wrists and solid forearms as he swirled a glass of something golden and expensive-looking. His flexors flexed, as they should. Scott Santos was a beautiful man. Idly, she compared him to her patient, Ian Zamora. They were both dark-haired and about the same height. They were also both healthy, athletic specimens. But where Scott was big and bluntly handsome with strong arms and pretty lips, Ian Zamora was craggy, lean, and raffish. He looked like he could do real mischief, despite the preppy tailoring of his button-down shirts.

  And then he smiles, and the world tilts on its axis.

  She wondered where he was right now. Probably not drinking down soda and sucking up to former classmates. His business kept him occupied at night, and he had a girlfriend who was probably gorgeous and charming and polished—nothing like Petra. This was a dangerous line of thought, and it was one that she shouldn’t sustain. She’d had several appointments with him now and at the end of each one, when she took his arm to check his reactions, she felt her own skin grow hot. She was responding to him, yes, but she was also flushing because of the guilt she felt. She hardly knew what she was doing tonight; she certainly couldn’t afford to dream of someone else’s evening.

  Santos raised the bourbon to his perfect mouth and smiled at her before swallowing. “So why didn’t we—”

  “As a matter of fact, we did,” Petra said tightly. “For a week, in the middle of our psych clerkship.”

  Actually, it had been more like five sloppy encounters. But clarifying that their hasty hook-ups took place over the length of a business week made it sound so pathetic. Then again, so was remembering the whole affair when Santos had clearly forgotten.

  “Of course,” Santos said smoothly. “What I meant was, why didn’t we ever try it again?”

  He edged away as he said it, though, and began scanning the crowd. A few eyes blinked dewily at him. It was obscene. Even though most here at the alumni happy hour knew his reputation, he still attracted lovely, otherwise-intelligent women. She wondered if Ian Zamora had women sighing for him over their hush puppies. Hell, the man had his restaurant where he could line the ladies up and charge them for viewing. No wonder he had a girlfriend.

  Petra gulped down her club soda and wished she were somewhere else instead of trying to drum up
referrals. Helen, a neurologist, had come with her, but she was arguing with her ex-boyfriend in the corner. No help there. Petra would rather be home drinking boxed wine and reading The Lancet on the Internet than barging in on conversations and generally making an ass of herself. Buttonholing people was so out of character for her. Her embarrassment made her punchy and time was wasting.

  “Santos,” she snapped, as Scott started to creep away. “Attention back here for five more minutes, please. I was going to ask you a favor. I just started my own allergy practice over in the Pearl District and I was looking for referrals.”

  “I was wondering why you showed up at this thing. You never usually do.”

  “It’s not really my scene. I’m not good at flattery and batting my eyelashes, or even pretending that you interest me anymore. Will you help me or not?”

  She was not being smooth at all. She was going to hate herself in the morning. Maybe she should start drinking. But slurry Petra wouldn’t be able to convince any one of her peers to send her patients. She sighed and began to turn away. Santos took her arm.

  “Petra, I’m sorry,” he said, looking slightly shamefaced. “I’m at that huge group practice, Westside Associates, and we’re really working to compete. Plus, Ray Khatri—he was a couple of years ahead of you, I think—his office is right next to mine, so I usually try to send people his way. He’s a good guy.” He attempted a smile and shrugged.

  “Asshole,” Petra muttered into her club soda. Louder, she said, “Just throw me a bone, Santos. One out of every five patients, or something. Ray won’t notice if it’s infrequent. Please,” she added.

  Santos sighed and rubbed through his hair. “I forgot what an intense little person you are, Petra. Guess Ray can’t complain if I keep it on the down low. I’ll see what I can do.” He relaxed a little more and pursed his lips. “Good for you for striking out on your own. If I didn’t have all this debt from med school, I’d love to start a solo practice instead of dealing with the bullshit. I don’t know how realistic it is for me, though. I guess we all think we can make our own hours, not have to see eighty coughs and colds a day.”

  He looked at her with lazy jealousy, or at least as much envy as a hot, single, male physician could muster up for a desperate woman. He slid nearer to her once again. “So, Petra, maybe sometime we can get together and reminisce about the time we spent in the…”

  His smile gleamed in the night.

  “The utility closet?” Petra finished for him. “And the seventeen minutes door-to-door that we took off to screw in the apartment I shared with Helen? That sounds unbearably romantic, but I think I prefer to leave those memories pure and sacred. You know, something to keep me warm in the cold nights.”

  Santos laughed again, pecked her on the cheek, and started to stroll toward a knot of fresh-faced dermatology residents. “Actually, Petey, I think we went to my place,” he called softly. “And we took at least twenty-two minutes, if not twenty-three.”

  Petra watched him disappear and swore softly. The bastard was right on the location, at least. She turned and went to rescue Helen from her ex. This was definitely shaping up as one of the most humiliating nights in recent history.

  • • •

  Ian raced to get the check to table sixteen. It was going to go down as a bad night. Two of his servers had called in sick, Gerry was having some sort of meltdown over pork bellies, and Danielle had popped in while he was in the middle of plunging a toilet in the men’s bathroom. She only had two minutes, she said. She was meeting sorority sisters for drinks, so he had settled for kissing her on the cheek instead of the long talk he’d wanted to have with her.

  It wasn’t working out between them and she didn’t seem to know it.

  Then again, he hadn’t much noticed it either, until he realized in his allergist’s office that he would rather make time for a series of painful shots than actually spend time with his girlfriend.

  Ian sighed. He and Danielle had managed to miss each other for nearly a week now. She had recently made partner, and she had hundreds of very close friends whom she did not want to disappoint. And he was busy cajoling suppliers, fixing plumbing, and dealing with health inspections by day, while by night he was defusing tensions between Gerry and hostess Lilah, and Gerry and the pastry chef, and all of the front of the house staff. He was greeting guests, hiding mops, finding mops, and doing the floors, and everything in between.

  He could have pushed it. He could have set aside some time to take her to a movie, or drink a cup of coffee, or even just drive her to work. Not once had he even tried. He couldn’t muster the interest.

  He looked down at his stained shirt and sighed. He was no prize, either. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to stick around tonight. He smelled like steak and sewage. He mentioned that they needed to chat, and she had agreed before breezing out the door. Maybe she was feeling the same way.

  He checked his phone and grimaced. It was already eleven. The guests wouldn’t see him, but the staff would. It was times like these that he hated being the person in charge. He tramped down to his office and stripped off his offensive clothing.

  A knock sounded at the door. “Everything okay?” Gerry asked, sauntering in.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be upstairs being a chef?”

  “Isla’s working it,” Gerry grunted. “Although she under-salts everything. You’d think she’d have learned that from the fancy institute of culinary ass-lick she attended.”

  Gerry had a grudge against culinary school. He was largely self-taught.

  “I’d hit that, though,” he added.

  “Harassment,” Ian said ominously.

  “Oh, please, you’ve been hanging out too much with lawyers. Us restaurant people are constantly horny. Comes from not enough sunlight and lack of exercise. And don’t you try to pretend that you’re above it all, Lord Military Pushup of the Washboard Abs. You may look like a goddamn footballer, but underneath it all, you’re a troll like the rest of us.”

  “I am,” Ian said gloomily.

  He paused, gauging what he should say. If he told Gerry how distracted he’d been and that his doctor was the one doing it to him, he’d never hear the end of it. Still, he had to give Gerry a warning shot.

  “I’m breaking up with Danielle.”

  “Wow.” Gerry shook his head. “Really. Wow. I was resigned to a lifetime of that woman. And yeah, she’s all wrong for you, but wow, Ian Zamora is backtracking on the master life plan.”

  “Thanks, Ger. Way to rub it in.”

  “Sorry, sorry. I can’t—this is really unlike you. I’ve never seen you deviate from long-term goals before. I mean, raising the capital, finding this space, building the place, the business—I’ve seen you over the years. This has never happened before.”

  “Okay, Gerry, I get it.”

  But Gerry wasn’t done. He dropped into a chair then sat up abruptly. “It’s the shots, isn’t it? It’s all fun and games until someone sticks you with a needle.”

  Ian grimaced and debated what to tell his friend. “I’ll still be going in for them for a while.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s good to…not be allergic to dust. And cats,” he said.

  “O-kay,” Gerry said. “You’re not planning on opening an antiques store soon, are you?”

  Luckily, a knock sounded on the door and a fresh crisis blew in. As he and Gerry raced up the stairs, Ian berated himself for not admitting to his friend that he had enough of a crush on Petra Lale to keep going back for more of her medicine. Then again, the less Gerry knew about some things, the better.

  At the end of the night, Ian stuffed his soiled shirt in his backpack and checked his pockets for his iPhone. After a terse farewell to his staff, he set out into the humid air.

  His apartment was only a few blocks from the restaurant. When he had first started Field, he lived by the airport with four roommates and three messy dogs. On nights when he couldn’t be bothered to drive home, he would spend the nigh
t on the cramped floor of his office. Now he lived alone in a nice enough apartment. He should have loved the high ceilings and the big windows that faced the sun. But he was never there during the day, and at night, when he returned, he found the dark and silence depressing.

  He had no family left. His mother passed when he was a teenager and his father died on a night very much like this one, when Ian was in his twenties.

  Gerry was right. Ian wasn’t one to abandon the plan. But he’d started this relationship—all of his relationships—hoping it would be serious. Yet he still felt alone. Part of it was that he worked a lot. But then, he worked because he had no one else. He assumed that when he met the right person that he’d be able to relax—that he’d want to enjoy that feeling of togetherness that he’d never had.

  Ian sniffed the air. He was in the mood to make reckless decisions. He could avoid his apartment if he walked toward the water to Chinatown. He could go to a bar and drink. He could get into a fight, steal a motorcycle, TP someone’s lawn so that he wouldn’t have to be lonely and vulnerable for another goddamn night. He could abandon the weeks he’d spent cultivating one girlfriend so that he could pursue this indefinable and possibly imaginary thing with a gray-eyed woman who stabbed him with two needles every time they met.

  He paused as a taxicab discharged a passenger in front of him and with a start, he realized that it was Petra Lale. It was as if his loneliness had conjured her.

  “I am never, ever wearing shoes again,” Dr. Lale was muttering as she bent to adjust the strap of her shoe.

  The jolt of seeing her under streetlamps, instead of the harsh fluorescent glare of her office lights, made his heart race. Deference for her healing skills was not at the top of his mind right now. She was wearing a short trench coat and high, very wobbly heels. She had nice, if unsteady, legs. He wanted to close his fingers around her ankle and slide his thumb up. He tried to cover his lechery with fake heartiness. “Petra Lale, MD,” Ian said, as she turned slowly. “Are you drunk?”

  Her head whipped up. “Ian.” A pause. “No, I’m not. I swear, it’s just that I’m not used to these stilettos. I can’t move more than six steps without feeling like the Little Mermaid after she grows feet.”