CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’M A DOCTOR,” A moderately attractive man said after I asked what he did for a living.
I glanced at the table to my right, giving Brooklyn an annoyed look. The function room at a popular seafood restaurant in Boston’s Back Bay had been rearranged for tonight’s dating extravaganza. Small two-by-two tables were assembled into approximately four rows of five tables each, the lighting dimmed. A lone candle sat in the center of each table, offering a romantic ambiance for every three-minute session. And that was exactly what it felt like. Some of these men had serious issues. If I were a therapist, I would go to speed dating just to increase my client list. The thought of drawing up some business cards had crossed my mind more than once in the past ten minutes.
“And what is it you do?”
I turned my attention back to the light brown-haired man sitting across from me. The flickering of the candle on his skin made it appear as if he had been badly burned as a child and the flesh had never grown back. Whoever organized this event was clearly trying too hard.
“Nothing as exciting as being a doctor,” I said in a sweet voice, batting my lashes. Maybe I wasn’t taking this seriously, but how could I when the M.C. wore an oversized gaudy heart pinned to the lapel of his jacket? It was all so over the top. Drew was right, though. I had gotten some great material for a column. “Tell me more about that.” I leaned my head on my folded hands.
One thing I had learned over the years of being a serial dater was how easy it was to get the focus off myself by asking whomever I was with a question about their lives. Human beings were naturally egotistical and loved talking about themselves. For most people, their favorite topic of conversation was me, me, and more me. But there was nothing interesting about Molly Brinks. Having a famous brother helped. Once people figured out I was the little sister of the Drew Brinks, all they’d want to talk about was him.
“Oh, it’s not that exciting,” Mr. Doctor replied casually, brushing it off. I think he said his name was Curt. I glanced at the tag he wore over the breast of his shirt, noticing a mustard stain on the collar. I tried to ignore it, unsuccessfully. It glared against the light blue color. Did he not look in the mirror before he left the house?
“Oh, come on,” I coaxed. “Stop being modest. Tell me something out of the ordinary that happened today.” I raised my wine glass to my mouth, licking my lips seductively. I knew how to get what I wanted.
A nervous smile tugged at his mouth as he took a breath. “Okay. Well… This guy came in today. It was an emergency appointment. He had been trying to reattach a garage door spring. Those things are pretty heavy duty. Anyway, it backfired and smacked him right in the mouth. His six front teeth were shattered so I had to extract them, then fit him for some implants.”
I straightened my spine, then furrowed my brow. “Isn’t that something a dentist would do?”
He nodded. “Of course. That’s why he came to me.”
“Wait a minute. You’re a dentist? I thought you said you were a doctor.”
“Technically, dentists are doctors, too. It’s an incredibly specialized field.”
“I’m not discounting the fact you had to study and work just as hard as a regular physician, but what would possess you to go into a profession where you’d be despised and feared? No one likes going to the dentist.”
“That’s not entirely true,” he argued. “There are plenty of people who don’t mind it.”
“I’ll concede there’s nothing like that fresh feeling in your mouth after having your teeth cleaned, but there’s nothing fun about sitting in that chair and going through all the scraping, grinding, drilling.” I shivered. “I’d rather go to my gynecologist and get a metal instrument shoved up my vagina than go to the dentist, if we’re being completely honest with each other. At least that’s over in about a second. Not the dentist. Oh no. That shit goes on for at least an hour.”
I supposed the doctor line worked on most women. Let’s face it. If you met a complete stranger at a bar or on the street and heard he was a doctor, it upped his appeal a few points. If I hadn’t become such a cynic when it came to the whole dating charade, it may have worked on me, too. That ship had sailed long ago.
A bell dinged, signaling the “date” was over. Mr. Dentist-not-Doctor slowly got up from the chair.
“Hope you meet someone tonight,” I said in a chipper voice.
He stared at me blankly, probably still in shock at my candor. Truth be told, for a dentist, his teeth could have used a little work. “You, too, Avery.”
“Avery?” Brooklyn hissed as the men shuffled down the row of tables and we remained seated. It was a bit old-fashioned, thinking women shouldn’t be asked to get up. I would have given anything to stretch my legs and give my ass a break from sitting on this hard chair.
I turned so she could see my name tag. “I’m doing this to find a muse for my book. Why not take on the persona of my leading lady?” I beamed a wide smile at her.
“I thought you were going to take this seriously,” she whispered.
“I’m taking this seriously, but there’s absolutely no one here I can take seriously. It’s a giant waste of time.”
I noticed someone lower himself into the chair across from me. Reluctantly, I turned my attention away from Brooklyn and toward the newest man of my dreams…at least for the next three minutes. It didn’t sound like a long time. In some company, feigning interest in their high-paced employment as a cold-call salesperson, three minutes was a goddamn eternity. I hated those bastards more than dentists.
Over the next ninety minutes, I saw and heard it all. There was an older investment broker who, after some digging, I found was just an embellished way of saying he’d been laid off and was playing the stock market with his 401K. There were several overweight middle-aged men who still refused to come to terms with the fact their wife left them. Then there was my favorite faction of men…the hipsters. I’d never understood the necessity of wearing a winter hat indoors or sporting a pair of dark-framed glasses with fake lenses. They weren’t fooling anyone, except themselves.
“This dating thing is too much work,” I said to Drew and Brooklyn after all the sessions had ended and the majority of the attendees were indulging in the open bar. It appeared as if a few connections had been made, so the night wasn’t a complete waste of time. But for my little circle, it was. I didn’t expect anything else and neither did Drew. Brooklyn, however, seemed a little frustrated.
“No, it’s not,” she insisted, sipping on her gin and tonic.
“My cheeks hurt from smiling and pretending I was interested in stamp collections and stories of college trips to Cancun.” I rolled my eyes, then turned to the bar, signaling the bartender to pour me another glass of wine.
As my gaze shifted around the room to see men and women, who had been complete strangers earlier in the evening, laughing between sly glances and coy smiles, I considered perhaps Drew and Brooklyn were right, although I’d never admit it. Maybe I should keep my heart open to the possibility there was a guy out there who would be content with all my idiosyncrasies, who wouldn’t be offended by my sometimes vulgar language, who would love me for me.
I just didn’t see how I would meet him at speed dating or online. The man of my dreams was too good to be true, a fantasy, a work of fiction. Still, I couldn’t get the image of my father all alone in the nursing home out of my mind. He probably had more visitors than most residents, but a few hours a week was nothing in comparison to the long stretches of time he was forced to keep himself and his mind busy with little outside stimuli. I couldn’t help but wonder who would visit me when I was old and senile. If I continued down this path, I knew the answer. No one.
“There you two are!” a voice exclaimed, breaking me out of my thoughts.
I turned around to see the flamboyant M.C., whom I had renamed Cupid’s Antichrist, running directly toward us. I flashed the bartender a smile, then raised my red wine to my lips, suppressing the urge to scribble my number on a napkin and slide it to him, along with the tip, in case I ever needed a brooding bartender as a muse.
“This is the first time this has happened,” Cupid’s Antichrist continued.
“What’s that?” Drew asked.
With a grin, he grabbed Drew’s and my hand, linking them together. “I just went through all the questionnaires you filled out at the beginning of tonight and it’s too good to be true!” He brimmed with enthusiasm, bouncing in his loafers. He truly was wearing loafers. With no socks. “You two are a perfect match!”
My eyes widened in horror and disgust. Yes, I was writing a forbidden romance and the stepbrother thing seemed to be popular as of late, but there was no step between Drew and me. With haste, we both withdrew our hands, our expressions nearly identical.
“What?” he asked, looking at both Drew and me in confusion. “I thought this would be good news. See.” He held up the questionnaires we had filled out. “Avery Rollins and Jackson Price are compatible in every category.”
I almost spit out my wine, praying this was a good omen for my book.
“Maybe on paper,” Drew responded, saving me from having to answer. “But I don’t feel anything for her. In fact…” He faced me, smiling brightly. “She reminds me of my sister.”
“I’m not going to force you two to do anything,” the M.C. sighed. “But you should at least exchange numbers. You never know.”
“We’ll be sure to do that.” Laughing at the ridiculousness of the entire evening, I practically downed my glass of wine. Only alcohol could help me forget my perfect match was my brother.
“Oh, and one more thing.” Cupid’s Antichrist spun around, studying Drew. “I’m sure you get this a lot, but has anyone ever mentioned you look like that hockey player? What was his name?” He bit his lips. “He played for the Bruins a few years back.”
“Andrew Brinks,” the bartender muttered, drying a few rocks glasses.
“Yes! That’s it!” he exclaimed. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like him?”
A trite smile crossed Drew’s mouth. “I’ve gotten that a few times.”
“I figured. The resemblance is uncanny.” He grinned at Drew, then nodded at Brooklyn and me. “Have a good evening.”
After he walked away, Brooklyn turned to us, crossing her arms in front of her chest, her lips pinched. “Why didn’t you include me in your little plan?” she huffed.
“What plan?” I asked innocently.
“All of this.” She gestured between us, lowering her voice. “Am I the only one who used her real name?”
Drew and I shared a mischievous look. It was true we were compatible. We grew up together. We’d been each other’s rock through all of life’s ups and downs. We knew what the other was thinking without either of us having to voice it.
“Honestly, Brook,” I began. “We didn’t plan this.”
“I don’t buy it. What are the chances of both of you using fake names? Then both being characters from the book you’re currently working on?”
Drew nudged me. “Well, after all, we are a perfect match.”
“Sick,” I groaned.