Riley headed down the stairs after grabbing a shirt off the pool table, one that Vanessa was too focused on Riley to notice before. She followed his clean, masculine scent down the stairs and watched his back muscles ripple as he pulled the shirt sinuously over his very broad and toned shoulders. If she had a phone that recorded stuff, that was definitely a video she’d watch over and over. She wanted to shout in protest and tell him it was unnecessary to cover such a perfect powerful torso, but luckily, the superego maintained control. It was fortunate for her that she did refrain because all of her professionalism and credibility would have flown right out the back windows of this glorious house if she didn’t.
She watched the fluidity of his movements down the stairs. At the bottom, she stopped to watch him walk into the kitchen wondering what would happen if his low-riding silky basketball shorts happened to slide just a little…
C’mon, Nessa. Get a hold on those hormones, babe. You don’t wanna blow it. He is a potential client. Chill out. YOU can do this. You CAN do this. You can DO this. You can do HIM. Shit. Wait. What I meant to say was you can DO him. Dammit. You better stop it, woman. He’s off limits! Stop it, now.
“Um, Dr. Taylor. You okay?”
Riley’s words brought her out of her trance-like mental berating. She realized that her eyes had been closed as she had resorted to the yoga-like, in-through-the-nose-out-through-the-mouth, breathing exercises she had to perform right before she had a panic attack. Such exercises kicked in automatically, like her mind was attuned to her rising adrenaline, so she rarely had the attacks anymore.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she snapped and then quickly corrected. “I mean, yes. Thank you.”
His mouth moved sideways and his eyes crinkled. The jerk is trying not to laugh. He began moving around the kitchen, collecting ingredients.
“Wait, you’re actually going to make the waffles? Not just toaster waffles?” He can cook, too? Damn.
“Of course. My grandmother taught me. She was a full-service country cook.” He poured buttermilk over flour and added eggs while the waffle iron heated on the marble counter. “She never used those boxed mixes, and she threatened my sister and me if we ever became lazy cooks. The secret is cinnamon,” he stage whispered. “Oh, dang, she swore me to secrecy. You won’t tell her, right?” Those dimples seemingly winked at her. Fuck, I’m in so much trouble.
She shook her head, more to shake off her desire than to answer his question. “Well, I’ll make a deal with you; if you agree to allow me to treat you, I can’t tell her,” she teased. “Added incentive.”
“You can’t anyway, unless we hold a séance or something.” He smiled, those killer dimples completely disarming her senses. He turned his back, and she used the reprieve to formulate a coherent thought.
“When did she die?” she asked solemnly, thinking that may be one of the “significant blows” Charles mentioned.
“Thirteen years ago. I was seventeen. It was her time. She was 94.”
“Dang, you had a 94 year old grandmother at seventeen?” Again, her thoughts burst through her resolve.
“I was a very late in life child. My mother was 44 when I was born.”
He placed a glass of orange juice on the bar in front of her. “Please sit down, Dr. Taylor. You’re making me nervous.” He motioned to the bar stool on the opposite side of the island where he worked.
Vanessa hated bar stools. She could never sit on one gracefully, but she took advantage of the opportunity while he turned his back to put the carton of juice back in the refrigerator. She grabbed the glass of juice as she hiked her right butt cheek up onto the stool.
She woke up fifteen minutes later.
***
Vanessa noticed the overpowering scent of cocoa butter and sweat invading her semi-consciousness. She opened one eye to see a giant black Speedo stretched across a very hairy backside.
“What happened?” she asked, trying to sit up from her reclined position. She realized she had been moved to the overstuffed couch in the living room. Her head pounded, and she fell back against the pillow. “Ouch.”
The hairy man turned around, bulbous stomach almost hitting her in the face. His wild black hair stood out in all directions, both on his head and his body. He had to be the hairiest man she had ever seen.
He held a pen light and shined it in first in her right eye then in her left. “Are you feeling nauseated?” he asked in a slight accent she couldn’t place.
She swallowed. “No. Again I ask, what happened?”
“Any blurred vision? Headache? Hearing ok?” The mystery of the sweaty cocoa butter smell solved. It was him.
“No, yes and yes. Um, who are you?”
“Dr. Vladimir Drakena.” That can’t be his real name. And why did he sound like the Count from Sesame Street when he said it? “I’m Riley’s next-door neighbor.” When he turned around and bent over again, she saw Riley, one arm across his stomach, the other bent, his hand nervously rubbing his chin watching the doctor intently. He stood shirtless again, with a look of utter concern on his face. When he noticed her looking at him, he smiled tentatively.
She put her hand up just above her right temple and felt the rather large bump that had formed while she was out. Then she noticed her three-quarter sleeve that once covered her arm was now missing. In fact, her whole shirt was missing. She had been covered with the shirt Riley once wore and a throw that she recognized from the back of the couch. Her hair was damp and her neck felt sticky.
“Ok, what the hell happened?” she thundered, sorry that she did when her head throbbed.
Riley stepped forward. “You hit your head. Best I can tell, you fell forward when trying to sit on the stool and your head met the marble counter. I heard a thunk, and when I turned around, you were on the floor out cold.”
“So why am I shirtless, wet, and sticky?” The question got a snicker from Dr. Drakena. She shot a death glare at his back.
“Orange juice,” Riley briefed, as if that was enough of an explanation.
She gestured to her chest. “That doesn’t explain why I’m shirtless.” She narrowed her eyes. “You just felt you needed to get a look and felt comfortable undressing me?” she dared. Riley gaped like a deer in the headlights. “I thought we established I’m not a prosti…”
“She shouldn’t do much today,” Dr. Drakena interrupted. “No driving or other strenuous activity. And you need to watch her for signs of a concussion: nausea, vomiting, extreme dizziness, sleepiness or anything out of the ordinary for the next few hours.” He nodded to Riley, and it irritated Vanessa how the doctor only addressed him, not her. Riley stepped forward and shook the doctor’s hand. “Now, since she is awake, it looks like she will be okay. Therefore, I must get back to Tatiana and my hot tub.” He brusquely grabbed his medical bag and left.
When she heard the door close, she stared at an embarrassed Riley, who refused to make eye contact.
“You couldn’t have asked Dr. Dracula to get dressed before treating me?”
“Drakena. And he did get dressed.”
Vanessa milled that around for a moment, shuddering after receiving the full mental picture. “Gross.”
“Yeah, you probably don’t want to know what I saw when I interrupted them.” He smirked.
She still stared at Riley. “Are you ever gonna answer my question?”
“Well, I kind of hoped you had forgotten.” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Then he turned serious. “I saw you on the floor, and when I checked you out and saw you were still breathing, I called Javier to help me move you, but I didn’t think you’d want the orange juice to stain your white shirt, so I put my shirt over you and took off yours. Javi stayed with you while I went through the gate to next door. Once I came back, I rinsed it out in the sink for you while Dr. Drakena checked you over.” He grinned slightly. She continued to glare. His smile slowly disappeared and he shifted under the weight of her stare. “Ugh, fine. Javier suggested I take off your shirt because he didn’t want the couch all sticky, and I thought you would be more comfortable – to not be sticky, too.” He paused and looked down at his feet. “It made sense at the time.”
“Good call.” She noticeably felt her neck. “You can’t afford to get a couch cleaned? And you thought this gave you the op to sneak a peek, maybe cop a feel?” Her tone remained surprisingly calm.
“Trust me, I didn’t see anything,” he defended. “I immediately draped my shirt over you before unbuttoning your shirt.” He looked down at the floor. “The feel was accidental.” He lifted his eyes carefully. “I was concerned for you. I wasn’t thinking clearly, and Javi seemed to know what to do. I just followed his orders.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Jeez, you were unconscious on my floor, for cripes sakes.”
“And his first thought was to undress me,” she stated, not asked. “Neither one of you thought to just put a towel down?”
“I… I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he stammered. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “Honestly, Dr. Taylor, I’ve never been so scared. When I saw you on the floor. . . At first, I thought you were dead.” Now it was his turn to shudder. He leveled his gaze at her. “I’m glad you’re not,” he added quietly.
His last words filled her with warmth, and she reluctantly smiled. He noticed. His full-on, pure-dimpled smile followed. They held each other’s eyes for an immeasurable moment, both grins fading. She felt the air change, become thicker and charged. Goosebumps raised on her flesh, as if his gaze was actually touching her. She blinked and sat up, shaking away the feeling.
“I think it’s safe to say this first meeting was. . . unsuccessful,” she said as she cuddled the shirt to her chest and ignored the throbbing above her right eye. “I think I’ll be heading home.” She stood and quickly fell back on the couch, fumbling to keep his shirt from falling. She winced and attempted to stand again.
“No you’re not,” he said, stepping closer to her and setting his hands on her shoulders to steady her. He removed his hands quickly, as if her flesh was too hot to touch, which, since he touched her, felt that way to her, too. Their eyes held for a moment, and then he looked away.
“I can’t very well stay here all sticky and shirtless, Mr. Tate. I should go home and get cleaned up. We can talk tomorrow.”
He stepped back from the couch. “You heard Dr. Drakena. You shouldn’t drive. I have a shower you can use, and I even have some clothes that’ll probably fit you here.”
She bit her lips together. All her planning in her head the night before had done no good. Never in her wildest dreams could she have planned for a worst-case scenario like this. If she had any idea this would happen, she would have cancelled.
“I’m not sure that’s ethical, Mr. Tate. If I am to be your therapist. . .”
“I haven’t agreed to that, yet, Dr. Taylor.” He smiled shyly. “After you are less sticky, we can discuss it. I still owe you a waffle.”
***
After slipping his shirt over her head when he turned his back, Riley led Vanessa upstairs to a room that she was sure was not his since it was filled with boxes and bags containing women’s clothes.
“I’m sure you can find something in here that will work. Most of the clothes are new, and you can keep what you wear.” He turned to go, but paused. Without turning back to look at her, he continued. “Do you think you are okay to be left alone? You did just suffer a pretty nasty head bump.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tate. I’ll be fine.” I hope.
He closed the door without turning back. She surmised it probably had something to do with the room or all the clothes in here.
Vanessa dug through the bags – pretty swanky stuff, mostly from boutiques she had driven by on Rodeo and other high-end places. There was really nothing she would ever wear though, mostly very short skirts and fitted dresses. The two pairs of pants she found were too small and too long. She kept digging. The only thing she would wear was a pair of black knit yoga capris, way overpriced, and a royal blue designer t-shirt, both items had the tags still on them. Who pays $105 for a plain t-shirt? At least I’ll be comfortable. What is with all these clothes anyway?
Shoes were another issue. Going barefoot didn’t seem very professional, and capris with her own black patent heels were a little too low-rent porn star for her. She found a pair of fancy flip flops, one size too big, but they would have to do.
Before getting in the shower, she looked at herself in the mirror. The orange juice had almost dried in her hair making it difficult to take down. The bump on her forehead was quite noticeable; purples and blues already appeared, and she was thankful that at her last haircut, she agreed to allow the stylist to give her bangs.
She showered quickly, difficult to do in the spacious shower with two opposing jets relaxing her to the point of jello status. It was especially challenging to be careful not to ruin her makeup.
All the bath products available were way too fancy to have been bought at the local Walgreen’s. The bathroom felt bigger than her new apartment, containing both a shower and a large Jacuzzi tub, and this was for the guest room. She could only imagine what the master bath looked like. Stop imagining, Nessa. You’ll never see it. This isn’t going to work out. Get dressed and get outta here, and fast. Not just out of the bathroom, either. Go. Now. Back to Texas where you belong. You’re in way over your head.
A knock at the door broke another mental ass-chewing. “Dr. Taylor? The waffles are ready. I’ll be out on the back patio.”
“Okay.”
You goofily sing-songed that “okay?” What a dork you are, Nessa.