He ushered her into the dimly lit foyer of a slightly upscale but otherwise typical North End restaurant, the kind of place where she was used to getting a great meal served by heavily accented waiters who knew how to wink at a woman without her date catching on.
Leo stage-whispered to her, “I get treated good here. The maître d’ had a slip and fall at the Stop & Shop. A runaway cherry tomato.” He arched a meaningful brow. “They’re the most dangerous vegetable, you know.”
She grinned, grateful that he had a sense of humor . . . until his serious expression told her he wasn’t joking.
Oh boy.
Leo’s erstwhile client showed them to a cozy booth, all red leather and candlelight. Sinatra crooned in the background. As they slid into their seats, Julie made herself ignore Leo’s pudge—anyone would look pudgy compared to Cody—and fanned the embers of optimism, struggling to keep it alive.
But as the waiter uncorked an expensive red and Leo started to download, the last spark fizzled out.
First he took her through the divorce, subtitled “Who Cheated on Who First.” Then the property distribution, down to the last Enya CD. And finally the custody battle, best described as bludgeoning each other with the children.
Then the salads arrived.
It was too cliché to be true. But when nobody sprang out to shout “Candid Camera,” Julie dug in with a fervor, willing her entrée to follow apace. Why, oh why, had she ordered the wild mushroom risotto when the menu specifically warned that it was made to order?
Wine helped. So did bread, warm and slathered with butter. She hit it hard, felt her waistband tighten. Promised herself she’d run it off in the morning.
Her thoughts strayed to the marathon. For three years, she’d thought about running it but never seemed to have the time—or, let’s face it, the discipline—to train. This year, she’d printed a training schedule off the Web, and with four months to go she was on track and feeling physically better than she had since David’s death.
Leo touched her arm. She did a mental head shake. “Sorry. Did you ask me something?”
“I was saying that I get carried away when I get going on my ex.”
Ah, a glimmer of self-awareness. Julie cut him some slack. “It’s obviously still raw.”
“I guess it is.” He smiled, ruefully, and Julie softened some more. He had a nice smile. Strong jaw, white teeth, full lips.
She smiled back.
“So you’ve never been married?” he asked.
“I was engaged, but my fiancé passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice went a little further toward rehabilitating him. “Was it an accident?”
“An illness. He had brain cancer.”
“That sounds awful.” He touched her arm again, a comforting pat that actually had that effect on her.
It occurred to her that he probably had lots of practice comforting trauma victims as he solicited their business, but she dismissed that thought as uncharitable even for her. “Yes, it was awful. Cancer’s awful.”
“I lost my mom to cancer.” He sketched an air circle in his chest area.
She cut him more slack. He wasn’t really that short.
The risotto arrived, and it was creamy deliciousness. Leo ordered another bottle of wine, turned the topic to Christmas shopping, and they spent some time bemoaning the traffic at the malls, then moved on to the Pats and their chances of making the Super Bowl.
And then, just as Julie was starting to relax, a stray leaf of lettuce slithered off a passing tray.
Onto the Tuscan tile it plopped, an oily menace three steps from their table. Instantly alert to the personal injury potential, Leo gasped and rose to avert disaster.
Too late. A middle-aged woman in heels higher than Julie’s stepped on it and sailed through the air. It happened in a blink; her feet left the ground, her arms flew to the sides. She landed on her ass, taking out a waiter with a tray full of pasta, who sideswiped a busboy and his pan of dirty dishes.
Crockery shattered stupendously, silencing the place. For five seconds, at least, nobody moved.
Nobody except Leo, her hero, who was already in motion. He reached the woman first, untangling her from the heap, swiping spaghetti from her cheek. Asking if she’d hit her head, hurt her back, bruised her hip.
Too dazed to answer, she watched dumbly as he whipped out his phone and hit 911.
Then others mobilized. A patron helped the waiter to his feet. The maître d’ helped the busboy, then handed him a mop.
Only the woman remained on the floor, guarded by Leo, attentive and in charge. Julie could only admire his Good Samaritan spirit.
Until, that is, the EMTs came in and crowded him out.
Then, as he gave the woman’s hand a last encouraging squeeze, he slipped a business card into her palm.
CODY TAPPED A finger on the bar, and the pretty bartender set another cold one in front of him. Sam Adams, Boston’s finest.
Ignoring the glass, he tipped the bottle, glanced up at the game. The Celtics, what else? Boston fans were rabid. Red Sox, Bruins. The Patriots, for Christ’s sake.
He could get on board with the beer, but the Pats? Forget about it.
His veggie burger appeared, half buried under fries. He poked it with his finger. Overdone, of course. No surprise. He’d long ago accepted that bar menus weren’t designed with vegetarians in mind. He drowned it in ketchup and hot sauce. He could eat an old boot like that.
Taylor Swift whispered through the sound system. A couple canoodling over their wine kept drawing his eye. He had to laugh at himself. For his first thirty-three years, he wouldn’t have given them a glance. Now envy gnawed him. Hit-and-run relationships had lost their thrill. He wanted what those two had—eyes only for each other.
For a couple of months there, he thought he might have found that with Bethany. But all it took was proposing to her to find out she was as bad as the rest of them, just looking for a doctor who could give her a country club lifestyle.
Hell, maybe he should’ve stayed on the family ranch with his brother Tyrell. That way, if a woman came after him, he’d know she was interested in him, not just his earning potential. The irony was, Ty made shitloads more money running the ranch than Cody’d ever make as a doctor. But women didn’t get it, and he was sick of fighting the stereotype. For now, he’d rather be lonely—and damn it, he was lonely—than give his heart to another social-climbing beauty queen, no matter how nice her rack.
He was getting set to head back to the Plaza for a pre-shift nap when the blonde who’d been eyeing him from the end of the bar broke away from her gaggle of girlfriends and shimmied her fine ass onto the stool beside him.
“Hey, cowboy.” Her smile was friendly. “What brings you to Beantown?”
He looked down at himself, then back at her. “Is it the boots?”
“Nope,” she said. “I couldn’t even see them from where I was standing.” She cocked her head, assessing. “I think it’s the vibe. You’re too laid back for Boston.”
“Folks do seem in a helluva hurry here.” He signaled the bartender to bring her the drink Texas courtesy required.
She smiled her thanks, then flipped her hair over one slender shoulder. “You’ve got all of us speculating. The smart money’s on undercover federal marshal hunting down a fugitive”—she waggled her fingers to show that was her bet—“but there’s also a vote for billionaire oilman slash venture capitalist, and one holdout for ex-ballplayer turned scout.”
“And you got elected to unlock my secrets?”
“Not exactly.” Her hazel eyes twinkled. “We sort of auctioned you off, and I won.”
That pulled a laugh out of him. “Well, honey, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m just a doctor.”
Her shoulders slumped. Her eyes fell. “Is that all? Just a doctor?”
For a moment he thought she really was disappointed, and his spirits rose. Julie Marone hadn’t been impressed either. May
be Boston women were different. Maybe doctors weren’t considered a catch in this town.
Then the blonde lifted her head and there it was, the avaricious gleam in her eye. His own shoulders drooped. He could really like this girl. She was smart and pretty and funny, and he could use a friend in this town.
Now all he wanted was to get away from her.
Peeling a few bills from the roll in his pocket, he dropped them on the bar and stood up. The girl’s eyes widened. “Wait. You’re leaving? You didn’t say what kind of medicine you practice. Or where you live. Or if you’ve got a girlfriend.”
“I’m an ER doc,” he said, “which means shitty hours and not-great money. I live in a hotel. And my girl Betsy’s moving in with me next week.”
She deflated. “Oh. Well, it was nice meeting you.” She rallied with a smile, and Cody felt a twinge of regret for another relationship that died before it was born.
Lifting a hand to the gaggle, he walked out the door and into the lonely night.
Chapter Three
* * *
THE CLOSING WENT off beautifully. When the empty-nest Westins turned the key over to the newly pregnant Andersons, Julie felt more than just the satisfaction of a job well done; she felt joy, made all the brighter and deeper by the wistfulness that limned it.
Back at the office, she handed off the fifty-thousand-dollar commission check to Jan. “You can bring that to the bank and take the rest of the day off.”
It was their routine after closing a big sale, and Jan was obviously expecting it. Her huge purse squatted on her desk, ready to go. “I’m getting a mani/pedi,” she said. “Wish you could come with me.”
“So do I.” Feeling resentful, Julie held out her hand for the pink slip with Cody Brown’s number on it. “I can’t believe I let him rope me into this.”
“I can.” Jan giggled. “I’d let him rope me into just about anything. Then he could use that rope to tie me up—”
“Jan Marone!” Julie was shocked. “I told you not to read Fifty Shades!”
“And it was the worst advice you ever gave me.” Jan dug through her purse, past the kitchen sink, and came out with a dog-eared copy of the first volume. Tugging the pink slip from Julie’s fingers, she stuck it in the middle of the book and handed it to Julie. “See you Monday. Meanwhile, have fun with Dr. Do-Me.”
Slack-jawed, Julie watched her formerly repressed cousin scoot out of the office. Then she shook the pink slip out of the book. She certainly would not have fun with Dr. Do-Me.
Maybe if he’d been plain old Cody Brown, she would’ve considered it, because even she had to admit that three years without sex was two years, eleven months, three weeks, and six days too long. But losing David had shriveled her libido along with her heart, and even though both had finally stirred to life when Cody walked into her office, she wasn’t going there with a doctor. Not a chance.
She’d learned all she needed to know about doctors when David was ill, starting with the neurologist who wrote off his headaches as migraines—until the MRI they insisted on revealed the tumor. After that, he’d shuffled them off to a surgeon, who’d pushed them on to an oncologist, who passed them off to a radiologist . . . In all, David had seen a dozen doctors, and each one—each almighty specialist—had offered them hope but brought only misery. Surgery. Radiation. Chemotherapy. All had hurt David, and hurt Julie too, because watching him suffer was a brand of torture all its own.
And when their miracles inevitably failed, each one of those high-dollar doctors wrote it off to statistical probabilities and pushed David down the line without a backward thought. Until finally, there weren’t any more specialists, and he was left to walk the last leg of his journey alone, with only Julie and the wonderful hospice nurses at his side.
Oh yes, she’d had enough of doctors to last a lifetime.
So why, why, why had she taken Cody on? What was she thinking?
She wasn’t thinking, that was the problem. She was feeling. And those feelings were all wrong. They’d suckered her into this BAD IDEA. And if she wasn’t careful, she’d make a BAD MOVE. Which, with a doctor—who was a player to boot—would certainly lead to a really BAD ENDING.
She could only hope he was as motivated as he claimed. With luck, he’d jump at the first place she showed him, and she’d be rid of him before she made another mistake.
She dialed his number, got his voicemail: “It’s Cody. Start talking.” She hung up. Damn him. She didn’t want to drag this out.
Outside, a sleety December drizzle came down from a leaden sky. Cars shissed past, spraying sludge. She sprinted next door to the Plaza and marched straight up to the desk. “I’m looking for Dr. Brown,” she informed the pretty brunette with the “Ashley” nametag. “Can you ring his room?”
Ashley broke into a smile. “Oh, Cody’s not in his room. He went down the street to Starbucks.” Looking up over Julie’s shoulder, her smile widened. “Here he comes now. And he’s got my latte. Isn’t he sweet?” She sighed.
Julie turned around. And sure enough, here came Cody, swaggering across the ultra-opulent lobby, a dozen gilt-framed mirrors ricocheting his reflection off every wall. Even if she’d tried, she couldn’t escape the golden streaks in his hair, or the stubbly, sun-kissed jaw. She couldn’t ignore the nut-hugger jeans that served up his package on a plate, or the battered leather jacket, unzipped to display a rain-spattered T-shirt plastered to his paving-stone abs.
Ashley sighed again.
Julie set her teeth. Okay, so he didn’t look like any doctor she’d ever encountered. So what?
Then he ran a hand through his dripping hair, pushing it back from his brow, and her mind’s eye blinked like the shutter on a camera. As clear as a bell, she saw him saunter from her bathroom, towel slung around his hips, wicked smile on his lips, shoving back his wet hair as his honey brown eyes walked the length of her very naked body.
The image was so real, so breathtakingly vivid, that her hand flew to her cheek; she could’ve sworn she felt beard burn.
He pulled up beside her, smiled down into her eyes. “If I knew you’d be here, I’d have brought you a latte.”
His drawl was a feather that whispered over her skin.
Then Ashley butted in. “Cody, the hospital called. They said you weren’t answering your cell.”
It hit Julie like a slap, snapping her out of her spell. The hospital, that’s where he belonged, not barging into her bedroom or her visions.
Taking a looong step back in both body and mind, she headed for the door. “I’ll wait outside,” she threw over her shoulder.
“It’s raining,” Cody called after her, but she kept moving, out onto the sidewalk.
Pausing under the awning, she unbuttoned her coat, flapping it open and closed. She was too young for hot flashes. This heat was all Cody.
For three years she’d been frozen up like a glacier. Why was she melting down now, at the wrong time, with the wrong man?
He was a doctor, damn it! He belonged in a white coat, in a dreary office, spewing nonsense to hapless patients who didn’t know better than to trust him. But instead her traitorous body—not to mention her stupid psychic eye—had him stripped down to his birthday suit, waltzing across her bedroom like he owned the place.
No way could she spend the afternoon with him. She’d have to tell him that something came up, she couldn’t help him after all.
But she couldn’t tell him to his face. Oh, no. He’d smile all over her and she’d knuckle under again.
She’d call him, that’s what she’d do. Then there’d be no crinkly eyes, no dimple. No stupid sexy stubble. On the phone she could behave like the mature professional she was.
With a last fleeting glance, she turned her back on the door—and ran.
STEPPING OUTSIDE, CODY glimpsed Julie’s red coat disappearing around the corner. What the hell? He couldn’t have been more than two minutes, and she’d ditched him.
Before he could ask himself why he didn’t just let
her go, he took off after her.
She moved fast, but Cody was faster. He might walk like a snail, but he ran like a jaguar, even in cowboy boots. He spotted her going down into the T and he poured on the gas, caught up to her before she shot through the turnstile.
When he touched her arm, she jumped a foot. “What the hell?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” he said. “I turned around and you were gone.”
Her cheeks were flushed. “I-I thought the hospital needed you. That you’d have to go.”
“It’s my first day off in a week,” he said. “It’d take a plane crash to get me back there today.”
“Don’t you have patients? Don’t you think they might need you?”
She sounded pissed, though he couldn’t see why. “I’m an ER doc. I treat traumas. Accidents, gunshots, food poisoning.”
That seemed to befuddle her. “So you don’t have your own patients?”
“No, I treat ’em and pass ’em on.”
She stiffened again. “So you just shunt them through the system? You don’t take responsibility for them, or follow up to see whether they live or die?”
“I keep ’em alive, Julie. That’s my job. Then I move them along to docs who can treat them long term.” He plowed a hand through his dripping hair, spattering raindrops. “Can we get out of this weather? Find someplace warm and talk about what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing’s bothering me.”
Yeah, right.
“Then let’s find someplace warm and get lunch.” He tried the smile, though he was starting to doubt its mojo. She seemed semi-immune to him. One minute she looked like she wanted to eat him up, the next she was trying to dish him off on some other Realtor, or running away from him altogether.
He had to admit she’d caught his interest, but was she really worth all this trouble?
Then she opened her coat, flapped it a few times, and he got an eyeful. Her white silk blouse was wet, glued to her bra and transparent as glass.
He jerked his eyes up to her face before she noticed him staring, but the lacy pattern was burned into his retinas.
The Wedding Date: A Christmas Novella Page 2