Love Doctor

by Logan Chance

  I shovel my frame into the car the size of a peanut. Surprisingly it’s roomier than expected, but not by much.

  Once I figure out how to drive this thing, I hit the road. Being in Ferndale, California is like traveling back in time. It’s got that Mayberry feel tossed with the granola-crunchers of the Northwest. Hidden in the depths of the Redwoods, and backing up to the Pacific Ocean, it’s paradise. I can see why Booker picked this place to raise his family, because nowhere else in the country I’ve seen offers magic like this place does.

  When I pull into Booker’s driveway, Jonah and Ethan are already here. The guys wait for me on the porch, laughing as I try desperately to get out of the Scion contraption.

  “What happened to your car?” Booker asks with a smirk, his dark eyes surveying the mini rental.

  “My assistant, Rose, set it up for me.” I grab my bags from the trunk and set them down to give each of the guys a handshake.

  “You must have pissed her off pretty bad,” Ethan surmises as we head toward the front door of Booker’s two-story Victorian home.

  I shrug as we enter. “Guess she’s resistant to my charm.”

  He may be right, but I can’t think of a thing I could have done to set her off. What did I do to make her this upset?

  As soon as Booker shuts the door, his wife, Cat, waggles her eyebrows at me as she rounds the corner. “Who could resist your charm?”

  I give her a hug. “Just an assistant who hates my guts.”

  Cat smiles. “She probably doesn’t hate you that much.”

  I give a slight eye-roll. “Doubt it. She hates me.”

  “She hasn’t quit yet. Must not hate you too bad.”

  We head into the kitchen where Cooper sits eating Cheerios. Things have changed since I was here last. New granite countertops, peninsula, prep island, and new cabinets in a dark cherry-oak. It makes me feel a little guilty that I missed it.

  “You got big,” I say to Cooper, sitting at the center island.

  “I’m ten-years-old, it would be expected.”

  Booker ruffles a hand through his sandy-brown hair. “Say hi,” he instructs Cooper.

  “Hi, Mr. Declan,” Cooper complies through a mouthful of Cheerios.

  Booker laughs. “It’s Dr. Declan.”

  I hold up a hand with a smile. “Declan is just fine.”

  We all chat and catch up for a bit, and when Cat leaves the room, taking Cooper with her, I raise a brow at Booker. “I think I should be the one to address the issue we’re all thinking,” I start.

  Jonah chuckles, lounging back against the countertop. “Yes, tell him.”

  Booker crosses his arm against his chest. “Tell me what?”

  “While we’re here, none of your naked morning rituals. We don’t need to see that shit,” Ethan finishes off for me.

  Booker laughs. “I haven’t done that since Cat and Cooper moved in.”

  “So, what’s this big news?” Ethan asks Booker, changing the subject. He looks over at me. “He made us wait until you got here to tell us.”

  Booker’s face lights brighter than the sun. “Cat’s pregnant.”

  A round of congratulations ensue, and Booker looks ten years younger, like his jaded past is just that—the past.

  He opens the fridge and tosses us each a beer.

  I slap Booker on the shoulder before I take a seat at the island. “Congrats again, man. You deserve to be happy.”

  He nods in my direction. “So, do you. When are you going to settle down and have a few of your own?”

  “Not anytime soon. I’m just so busy all the time.”

  “Can’t be that busy. You found time to come here.” He pops the top to his beer and takes a long pull.

  “What’s up with the assistant?” Booker asks. “What’s her name?”

  “Rose Thorne, and who knows. Did I tell you she murdered my muffin?”

  Ethan nearly chokes on his beer as I tell them the story of Rose and all the things she does to annoy me.

  “Sounds like foreplay,” Ethan suggests, cocking a brow at me.

  “She works for me,” I dismiss the allegation. “Just because you’re in love with your stepsister, doesn’t mean the rest of us cross the lines,” I tease.

  He gives me the finger, and I laugh.

  “Do you need my love advice?” Booker jokes. “You can write the website if you want to remain anonymous.”

  “Such fucking comedians you all are.” I smile. “Enough about Rose. What’s going on with you guys?”

  Booker spends the next few minutes filling us in on Cat and the pregnancy. When he called late the other night, it was because Cat isn’t handling being pregnant very well. Instead of morning sickness, Booker tells us it’s more like all-day sickness. His love advice website is booming with traffic and he’s thinking about turning it into a vlog.

  “I’d love to have you on the show sometime,” he says.

  “Anytime, just let me know when.” I look over at Ethan. “How’s Nova?”

  “She’s still as feisty as ever.”

  I take a pull of my beer listening as he tells us about traveling with Nova so she can use the experiences as segments on her show, ‘The Fun Girl.’ I never thought I’d see the day that Ethan Hale, bad boy movie star, would fall in love. But, then again, Nova is no ordinary woman.

  “Actually, as soon as Nova is done filming, I go back into the studios to film a movie with Chelsea.” Ethan waggles his eyebrows at Jonah, then at me.

  “Are you love interests?” I ask, shocked that Jonah would ever be ok with this. It’s bad enough when I found out Jonah was dating my sister, but now learning Ethan might be her love interest in a movie makes all the sick feelings come back.

  “Over my dead body,” Jonah says and Ethan bursts out with laughter.

  I let out a deep breath. “I was worried there for a second. Bad enough I have to see Chelsea kiss this asshole,” I point at Jonah. “But, having to see her kiss you would be worse.”

  Ethan holds a hand over his heart. “I’m hurt you would feel that way. But, no. Chelsea and I actually play brother and sister in the movie.”

  “As her real life brother, I feel sorry for your character,” I say before taking a swig from my Heineken.

  “I heard that Declan,” Cat chastises, walking in the kitchen, “and I’m going to call Chelsea and tell her what you said.” Her blue eyes shine with humor.

  We congratulate Cat on her pregnancy, and I stand to pull her in for a hug, asking her how far along she is and if she’s taking her prenatals. A true doctor at heart.

  Later in the evening, when we’re getting ready to go out for dinner, I can’t help but think about something Cat said about Rose. She said Rose hasn’t quit yet, and the thought gnaws at me. The fact she hasn’t quit means she’s happy at her job. Either that or she needs the money bad enough to work for someone she hates. But, I don’t think it’s that. I think somewhere, deep down, she enjoys working for me. She must like me a little bit. Maybe I could be a little bit nicer. Maybe these gentler thoughts I’m having about Rose are all the side effects of having three faces of love staring at me all day. I perch on the edge of the bed in my room and send her a text to test the theory.

  “Everything go ok in the office?”

  I start small, nice and neutral. A few seconds later she replies. “Yes, very quiet. Tame, actually.”

  Now what? I can’t ask her what she’s wearing, although I’d really like to know, so I stay neutral.

  “If you need anything, let me know.”

  “You do the same.”

  I swear she does these things to irritate me. Where’s the exclamation point, an emoji, anything at all? I stand and slide my phone in my pocket. Cat is wrong, she definitely hates me.

  The next morning, the guys and I head off to the nearest golf course under a clear blue sky. I’m glad I came on this trip. It’s been too long since I’ve hung out with all the guys together. After we’ve finished the round of golf, we he
ad to the members only bar inside and take a seat.

  “How do you feel about becoming a dad, Booker?” Ethan asks, popping a few peanuts into his mouth.

  The bartender slides Booker a Stella Artois, and Booker takes a long pull before answering, “Actually, I’m pretty fucking stoked.”

  “That’s pretty cool.” Ethan pulls a black jewelry box from his pants. “I’m going to ask Nova to marry me.” He opens it, showing us all the square cut diamond inside.

  “Dude, why are you carrying it around with you?” Jonah asks.

  “I’m not letting this puppy out of my sight,” he answers back.

  I laugh. “You sure she’ll say yes?”

  He shoots me a death glare. “Of course she will.” A look of panic crosses his face. “At least she’d better.”

  “I’m sure she will,” Jonah adds, looking at the bartender. “Martini. Gin, not vodka. Obviously. Stirred for ten seconds while looking at an unopened bottle of Vermouth.”

  The guy behind the bar stares blankly at Jonah, unsure of what drink to actually make him.

  “He’s a movie savant,” I say. “Just ignore him and give him a beer.”

  Jonah laughs. “Sorry, I’ll take a Stella too.”

  The bartender bends to grab his beer from the cooler, and pops the top off. He hands it over to Jonah with a smile.

  “He’s probably quoting some movie no one has ever seen,” Ethan adds, grabbing the bartender’s attention.

  “Oh shit, you’re…”

  Ethan smiles. “The one and only.”

  But the bartender isn’t listening, he’s shoving a scrap of paper at Ethan, asking for an autograph. Ethan’s cool with it, and he passes Ethan a pen across the oak bar.

  “Everyone’s seen Kingsman,” Jonah adds as Ethan scribbles his name onto the white slip of paper for the bartender.

  “Never heard of it,” Booker says.

  I tap my beer bottle with Booker in a cheers. “Me neither.”

  “Did you say your assistant’s last name is Thorne?” Jonah asks, changing the subject. “Rose Thorne, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Isn’t her dad that guy on the TV?”

  “What guy?” Ethan is very interested.

  “The one...the preacher dude,” Jonah adds.

  Booker and Ethan laugh.

  “No way.” I’d know this fact. I did a thorough interview, and this is something that wouldn’t have slid past me. Not that it really matters, and it wouldn’t have affected me hiring her, but I would just know if her father was a famous preacher.

  “Yes, Grace with Greg. Or something like that. He preaches about honesty and such.” Jonah grabs his water bottle and takes a swallow before continuing, “Gregory Thorne? I think that’s his name. I photographed him once and he mentioned his daughter—Rose.”

  I grab my phone from my back pocket. “Siri, who is Gregory Thorne?” The search pulls up images of a man behind a podium, preaching to the masses. I pull up a few of the sites, searching for any mention of a daughter. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.” Jonah and the guys stop what they’re doing and peer over my shoulder, trying to get a better look at my phone.

  I can’t believe she never told me this. I can’t believe I have to find this out from my own brother-in-law.

  But, there she is, in color, sitting next to a woman with a red bob, and the caption reads, ‘Wife and daughter to Gregory Thorne sit in the audience.’

  I guess I don’t know her as well as I thought I did. And that makes me sort of angry. Like I should know all the things about her but I don’t.

  My head is pounding, like someone beat it with a sledgehammer. It’s not like it’s a big deal, and I’m not quite sure why I’m having a hard time with it. Is it possibly the fact I don’t like someone else knowing something about my girl that I don’t know? Not my girl, but my assistant. You know what I mean.

  There’s this whole new side to her I haven’t quite figured out, and now all my thoughts are once again centered on her for the remainder of the trip. On the ride back to the airport the next morning— in my toy car—I can’t help but wonder what else I don’t know about this woman.

  When I’m back to the office on Monday morning, I try to control my wicked thoughts when I see her now that I know she’s a holy woman. I give her a good morning and stalk into my office and check over my schedule for the day. I have one new client scheduled early, and I let Rose know I’m ready.

  I sit back, staring at all the degrees hanging on my wall, waiting for my next client to walk in.

  And when she does, I realize I’m not ready at all.

  7

  Rose

  “Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.”

  — Virginia Woolf

  Art is sacrifice. So I’m sacrificing my lunch hour and two hundred dollars for some insight on sex. I’ve thought about it, and I have to break the barriers of my comfort zone in order to make myself better. This is my very own plot twist. Or this will be when Dr. Sincock fires me.

  “Did my client cancel?” he asks, puzzled, as I cross to the leather chair in front of his desk.

  “No,” I take a seat, “it’s me. Hi.”

  His brows draw together. “Um, what do you mean? Hi.”

  I know this is insane, and far outside the realm of employer/employee boundaries, but after giving it some thought, I’ve realized he’s right. My book is tame. I’m tame. These characters are an extension of me and my experiences. The emotions and personalities flow freely, but when it gets to the sexy parts, it’s lackluster. I’ve dwelled on his casual comment since he said it. Renting him a miniature car was satisfying but doesn’t fix how right he is. In order to make my book better, I have to take constructive criticism, and I need Dr. Sincock’s expertise. Without him knowing, of course.

  “Well,” I cross my legs, settling back against the padded chair, “I’ve lead a somewhat sheltered life, and I’ve realized it’s affected me in certain... aspects.”

  And it has. Sadly, that statement is not a manipulation of the truth.

  “Rose,” he gives a little disbelieving shake to his head, “are you wanting me to counsel you on sex?”

  “Well, not like that,” I hedge. It’s a hundred degrees in here. Even the backs of my knees are sweating.

  “Like what then?” he asks, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the desk, interlocking his fingers together.

  I really have no idea what sex therapy entails. I look at the clock ticking away above his head. Five minutes already gone of my hour. “I can’t orgasm during sex,” I blurt out.

  “Oh my god, Rose,” he blurts back, standing. “You can’t tell me these things.”

  “Why? You’re a doctor, and I’m in need of help,” I appeal to his suited back since he’s now facing away from me, gazing out the window. Obviously, I could search the web, watch porn, or read something, but that’s like hearing about someone else’s cookie and trying to recreate it. Unless I know the actual recipe, or how the cookie tastes, I can’t really paint a picture of how delicious it was. I can’t make the reader feel what I felt. Which hasn’t been a lot. Maybe I’m frigid.

  He turns to face me. “There are other therapists.”

  “I can’t just go to anyone.” I meet his gaze. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”

  “This would be highly unusual,” he tells me, taking a seat again behind his desk, his face a complete mask of what he’s possibly thinking about my request.

  “That’s not a no.” Desperation to not fail drags me from my chair to stand in front of his desk. “I’m just hoping maybe you can give me a few pointers.” His face still gives nothing away. Maybe he’s in shock. I should leave now, but instead I blurt out, “Maybe you can just give me one.”

  I think I crossed a line. Well actually, I know I did. I just asked my boss to get me off.

  He laughs, but it’s fake. As fa
ke as the orgasms I pretended to have with my previous lovers. “Rose, that’s not how sex therapy works.”

  “Right, I know. I didn’t mean that,” I lie, because I want to die of embarrassment. “Just say yes, please.”

  8

  Declan

  The majority of doctors consistently report working overtime.

  I’ve never crossed the boundaries of patient to doctor, ever. The line has always been drawn with a bold permanent marker, but for some reason Rose blurs that line for me.

  It’s as if she drew it in chalk, and it’s a single raindrop from washing away. Raking a hand through my hair, I try to get a handle on the situation. A reason to justify agreeing to what she’s asking of me. This is perfectly normal, isn’t it? People come to me all the time for advice and therapy. I’ve always been the voice of reason for my friends, the sounding board for everyone close to me. I’m a professional, so I can do this.

  “Let’s consider this a consultation.” Her shoulders slump with relief. “Have a seat, and I’ll just ask some routine questions.” I start with the obvious. “Are you sexually active?” God, please say no.

  Her cheeks flush, and she glances down for a second at her nails. “Yes.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Her eyes shoot up to mine. “No, I’m not.”

  I lean back in my seat. “Yes, you are.” All my years of doing this has made me in tune when someone isn’t being completely honest. Rose is definitely fibbing. I’m both elated and curious as to why she isn’t having sex.

  I stand, turning my back on her to stare out the window, pulling at my collar. Is it hot in here? “Are you dating?”

  “No.” I turn to face her and she stands. “This was a mistake.” She rushes to leave, and I take a few steps to stop her at the door. “I shouldn’t have thought this was a good idea.”

  I place my hand over hers on the handle of the door. “It is a bad idea.” Our eyes meet. “Sit down,” I tell her, against my better judgement.