Chapter Four
Dean
“Mr. Alexander.”
“That’s me. How can I help you?” I asked.
“30UnderThirty is holding one of the most prestigious fashion shows of the summer downtown this evening. At The High Line. As one of the most influential people in the city, we’re inviting you to the event.”
“Well, I’m honored,” I said. “When will the event begin?”
“They’ll start seating at six, and once the show is over there will be light drinks and hors d'oeuvres to indulge in. The designer will be sticking around for questions and the models will be there entertaining. It’ll be a real spectacle.”
“Sounds like a wonderful night,” I said. “Count me in.”
My life came with a lot of perks. Being labeled this year as one of the most influential thirty people in the city under thirty years of age, it got me invited to a lot of events. Restaurants with Hollywood’s elite. Exclusive late-night parties with billionaires I could rub elbows with for the hospital’s sake. Movie premiers I could attend. But this one was new. I’d never been to a fashion show before, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.
But a night out was a night out, and I had the weekend free to do whatever I wanted.
I walked over to my closet and opened the door. The light flickered on and cast a warm hue over the three suits I owned. I didn’t like suits. I was more of a polo and trousers kind of guy. But when the event called for a suit, I knew how to deliver. I pulled out my navy blue pin-stripes along with a pale blue button down and golden cufflinks. I shined my shoes and readied myself for the evening, then I walked out to my car and headed downtown.
The High Line was one of my favorite places in all of downtown. It was an elevated garden of sorts with an attached enclosed space where a variety of parties were thrown. It was the perfect place to throw something like this, in my opinion, and I was excited to be attending. The views from the elevated top were outstanding, and being surrounded by all of the nature growing up from the floor of the rail lended a natural landscape to a city surrounded by concrete and brick. I drove to the parking deck about half a mile down the road and parked, relegating myself to a peaceful walk.
I didn’t get out into the city much. But when I did, I enjoyed walking around and taking everything in.
There were couples holding hands and parents pushing their children in strollers. People walking their dogs and friends laughing at jokes. Some people were using those selfie sticks to snapshot their memories and tourists were pointing at all the tall buildings. People of all shapes and sizes roamed the streets of downtown New York City, and each one of them had a story.
I learned that very quickly in my trade.
I made it a point to talk with all my patients. At least, as much as I could. And each of their stories was individual and unique. No one story was the same, and no one person reacted to the same trauma as the prior individual. As a doctor, diagnoses were always the same few things. But as someone who entertained the mind of their patient, that landscape was forever changing.
Like the foliage of The High Line.
I gave my name to the man at the front and he led me straight in. I recognized some of the other people there. They were people around the city who had been featured in the article alongside me. I held up my hand and walked over to them, then quickly plucked a flute of champagne off a passing tray. I caught up with some of them and they updated me on their lives. Filled me in on things that had happened between the time we all interviewed for that sprawling article and now.
“My wife and I finally got married.”
“We got approved for adoption. We fly out to China next weekend to meet with our soon-to-be son.”
“My boyfriend and I ended things, but it’s fine. The perk of being a psychiatrist is knowing how to get through the heartache better than most.”
“I got a dog. But that’s about it. The life of an advertising executive isn’t what most people think.”
I listened to them all talk about the developments in their lives, but a woman caught my eye. She was standing across the room talking with a very short woman, and she had me captivated. Maybe it was her hair. Blonde and long, but tinted with shades of green at the end. Light green and dark green and this medium sort of blend that coated the tips of her hair. Her skin was this light shade of tan. Almost pale, if you put her in the right light. She had this rosy tint to her cheeks that reminded me of a pale pink rose, and with the ends of her hair being green, it reminded me of a bush.
Or a vine.
“So what have you been up to, Dean?”
I cleared my throat and forced my eyes away from the woman.
“Relaxing this weekend. There was a massive pile-up of cars on the highway the day before last. The hospital was swamped.”
“Oh my gosh. Yes. The party bus, right?”
“They all went to your hospital?”
“Did everyone make it out all right?”
“How long did you have to work?”
“What was the worst injury you saw from that accident?”
Their questions flew by my head and I managed to answer them as best as I could. But my eyes wouldn't stop roaming over to that woman. She was tall. But then again, she was standing by a very short woman, so it could’ve only been perspective. But the curves on her body. Wow. They left me breathless. Long legs flexed in a soft pair of heels, but there was power to her movements. An unspoken grace as she walked alongside the person she was talking with.
Was she one of the models?
“Excuse me,” I said. “I think I see someone I know. It was a pleasure seeing all of you again.”
“We’re all going out for a late bite to eat after the fashion show, if you want to come, Dean.”
Alexa, the psychiatrist, batted her eyelashes at me. She was a pretty woman, but being a rebound wasn’t my thing. I didn’t date much, nor did I date to simply have company. I wanted a family. Children. A wife. A home. I only dated women I could see myself having that sort of life with.
And while Alexa was incredibly intelligent, the two of us didn’t click.
“Thanks for the invitation. If I’m feeling up for it, I’ll definitely tag along,” I said.
I threw back the rest of my champagne before putting my empty drink on a passing tray. I was approaching this woman at just the right time. The shorter woman walked away, leaving this beautiful angel all alone.
So I swooped in to see if I could get her name.
“Dean Alexander,” I said.
I held out my hand and she took it willingly. Such soft skin. Warm to the touch. I smoothed my thumb over her knuckles before I dropped it and flashed her a kind smile.
“Ivy Breckenridge,” she said.
“Your name is Ivy,” I said.
“It is. I’m the choreographer for the show tonight.”
“I was just standing over there thinking to myself how the color of your hair and the tint of your cheeks reminded me of a rose bush. Or a dew-coated vine of some sort.”
“Glad I could live up to my name,” she said with a smile.
Such a soft smile. Calm. Delicate. Her lips were full, with a hint of gloss that sparkled on top of her skin. And her eyes. A calm, delicate brown, with flakes of yellow that glistened wildly underneath the illumination of the room we were standing in.
She was beautiful.
“So you’re the choreographer,” I said. “That must be exciting.”
“It can get tricky at times, but I enjoy what I do,” she said. “What do you do, Mr. Alexander?”
“Please, call me Dean,” I said. “And I’m a doctor. At Bellevue.”
“I saw your hospital on the news a couple of days ago. Is everyone okay?” she asked.
I usually brushed off questions like that, but there was a genuine concern that rose up in her eyes. Filled with curiosity and a gut-wrenching want to know if everyone had come out all right. It was new to me, to see someone so concerned about the well-being of others they’d never known or interacted with.
It pulled me deeper into her gravitational field.
“Not everyone,” I said plainly. “But we did what we could and that’s all anyone can ask of doctors.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. It…”
My mind flashed back to that woman. To the boy I held as he cried. To the phone conversation I overheard but felt like I shouldn't have been a part of.
“Mr. Alexander?”
“Dean, please,” I said as I pulled myself from my trance. “And don’t be sorry. It’s our job, and it’s one we do proudly.”
“So what brings you to the fashion show tonight?”
“I was invited,” I said. “I would ask how you were invited, but it’s pretty obvious from the profession. Though I have to ask, will the models be doing the tango or twerking down the catwalk?”
Ivy giggled and I watched it light up her eyes. She was tall. I was six-foot-three and her head came up to my shoulder. The perfect height to lean on me so I could wrap my arm around that luscious dip in her waist. Her legs were long and her arms were graceful. Her shoulders were broad, supporting a chest that would’ve made any man pant from across a room. Holy fuck, this woman was a dream. A soft place to land with kind eyes and a genuinely good heart.
And the more I talked with her, the more I figured I would have plans after the fashion show.
“So what do you do when you’re not-?”
“Ivy! I need you. Now.”
Her head whipped over to the side as the small, ornery woman approached us.
“Hold on, Mr. Alexander.”
“It’s Dean,” I said.
“Yes, right. Of course. Sorry. Hold on,” she said. “What is it?”
“One of the models isn’t here,” the shorter woman said. “I need you to come with me now.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Ivy said, “I need to tend to a problem. It was nice meeting you Mr. Alexander.”
I watched her walk off, her stride broad and her legs glistening in the designer shorts she was wearing. Her heels clicked along the floor, flexing her legs and giving me a beautiful look at her toned thighs. I shoved my hands into my pockets as her luscious ass bounced around, teasing my fingertips as her cheeks threatened to fall just beyond the threshold of the hem of her shorts.
“It’s Dean,” I said to myself.
Then she disappeared up the steps and walked out of sight.