CHAPTER EIGHT
THAT DAMN BLINKING CURSOR had been mocking me all Saturday morning as I stared at it with pure hatred. I was convinced the geniuses who developed word processing software didn’t include the blinking cursor as a way to signal the user as to his or her place in the document. Oh no. Those bastards had a much more sadistic purpose…to remind those of us on a deadline of the impossibility of our task. I’d bypassed the time for fucking off on my procrastination continuum. Now was the time to do all the work while crying. Although I was pretty sure the sound escaping my mouth would be more appropriately categorized as a call of distress.
I had forty hours until I needed to hand in a rough draft of the first 20,000 words. If I didn’t sleep between now and Monday morning, I would have to write 500 words an hour. It wasn’t an impossible task, apart from one rather minor detail. I was still sans muse. The words that once flowed so freely and easily were hard to find. I was more than aware of the fact that it was probably all in my head, but that still didn’t help me find the words. I’d lost count of the number of times I’d written several paragraphs, only to go back and delete them. It was the same crap I’d been writing for years now. I was tired of it.
In a moment of desperation, I’d broken down and signed up for several online dating sites. I’d even reached out to one of my sorority sisters, Debra. She had a marketing degree and now worked as a “dating consultant” at a high-profile dating service. Apparently, extremely wealthy men paid the equivalent of most people’s yearly salary to have someone else find them potential dates. Since I had been a bridesmaid at her wedding, she owed me one and was more than happy to see if she had any clients in the area who were interested in meeting me. I was writing a billionaire businessman romance. What better source of inspiration than going on a date with a ridiculously wealthy businessman?
After too many hours of staring at my laptop in frustration, my projected target in the corner of the screen mocking me with a total word count of one hundred, I shoved away from my computer. In the past, some of my best story ideas came to me when I stepped back from my laptop. I needed to do that again.
The sun shining, warming the city, I decided it was the perfect weather to go roam around town and people-watch. My impetuous plan to try online dating to find a muse wasn’t going to help me deliver 20,000 words by Monday morning. At this point, I needed to consider the option of just writing 20,000 words of complete crap, then rewrite it once I had a muse.
Pulling on a light jacket, I found my hobo sack of a bag and threw a notebook and pen into it. I gave Pee Wee a few kisses, trying to ignore the utter despair on his face at the thought of me abandoning him, even for a minute, then left my apartment, making sure to stop by the café to grab a coffee for the road.
“You meet someone last night?” Aunt Gigi asked before I even had a chance to say hello.
“No,” I answered, heading behind the counter to pour a coffee. “But I did end up being a perfect match with someone based on the compatibility questionnaire we all did when we signed in.” I turned to my aunt, whose expression lit up.
“Really? Who?”
“Drew.” I grabbed a cover and sleeve for my coffee, then headed back around the counter.
Her face fell. “How about online dating? Did you put up your profile yet?”
Taking a sip of my coffee, I tried to hide my scowl. “I’m working on it, Aunt Gigi.”
“Did you make sure to include a photo?”
I scrunched my eyebrows, wondering how my sixty-five-year-old, gray-haired, bingo-playing aunt could possibly know anything about online dating…or dating in general, for that matter. She had been married to my uncle Leo for forty-five years.
“I did some research for you, Molly Mae.”
I practically spit out my coffee. “Research?”
“Yes. According to a few dating… What do you call them? Bogs?”
“You mean blogs?” I asked in a mildly condescending tone. My aunt had trouble running the register at the coffee shop, wishing it were a purely cash business, like in the “good ol’ days”. I wondered how she even knew how to turn on a computer.
“Yes. That’s it. Blogs. They said in order for your profile to get more attention, make sure you have a good photo, and not a selfie or a mirror photo. Your aunt Teresa just got one of those fancy Canon cameras. If you want, I can call her to come take your photo for you.”
Giving her a terse smile, I grabbed a muffin, then headed toward the front door. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You’d better,” she warned. “If you don’t, you’ll never find someone. You don’t want your ovaries to shrivel up, do you?”
I groaned, rolling my eyes. “What is it with all you people and shriveling ovaries? I’m pretty sure that’s not even a thing!” I opened the glass door to the café.
“Have a good day, Molly Mae,” she called after me, a lightness to her voice. She knew how much I hated the shriveling ovaries comment.
I stepped onto the sidewalk, the North End burgeoning with people on a beautiful Saturday morning. Only in New England could it be in the sixties one day and snowing the next. A lot of locals complained about the weather, and I probably would have been one of them if I had a job I had to commute to. I loved watching the snow fall from the comfort of my couch as I snuggled up with Pee Wee. There was nothing like seeing the leaves change colors in the fall. I didn’t even mind the humidity that made the air stagnant during the hot summer months. Despite my outward cynicism, I liked to consider myself an optimist…one grounded in realism. I didn’t care if it sounded contradictory.
I navigated the few short blocks to the subway station and made my way down to the platform. I remained lost in my thoughts, trying to find a story that continued to remain hopelessly out of my grasp. Within minutes, a train arrived, filled with out-of-towners and locals alike. I stepped into one of the full cars, holding onto a rail as it sped through the darkened tunnels beneath Boston. After a short trip, the train pulled to a stop at the Park station and I squeezed out of the crowded car.
Emerging on street level, I inhaled the city air and squinted, readjusting my eyes to the sun. I headed down a paved path through Boston Common, dodging runners and cyclists. Street hawkers sold t-shirts, snacks, water, and other souvenirs with the name of my beloved city in large bold letters. This was one of the city’s biggest attractions, despite it being just a bit of green space in town. With its prime location near the theaters, hotels, and shopping, it was the perfect place to people-watch and even eavesdrop on conversations.
Settling beneath a large oak tree in an area with a good view of the winding paths and pond, I pulled out my journal and pen, scribbling down whatever popped into my head. It didn’t have to make sense or even be in a complete sentence. Hell, sometimes it was just a bunch of profanities strewn together. It was simply a way for me to write something. Many times, that something turned out to be everything.
After several minutes passed and my hand began to cramp, I flipped back through my random thoughts. It ran the gamut from why anyone would want to be a dentist, particularly if they’d sat through a crappy high school production of Little Shop of Horrors, to my father and the news I’d received the previous day about his deteriorating condition. I wondered if he was in any pain. I wondered what it felt like to be dying. I wondered if he wished things had been different, whether he regretted shutting people out of his life after my mother left. I wondered whether I was headed down the same path.
When a rumble ripped from my stomach, I reached into my bag, pulling out the chocolate chip muffin I’d swiped from the café. Almost instantly, at least a half-dozen ducks, which had been paying me absolutely no attention as they swam in the pond a few yards away, descended on me, eyeing my muffin as if it were the last morsel of food on earth.
“Get back,” I warned them.
They only grew more aggressive, snapping at the muffin. Scenes from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds flashed in my mind as I stood, clutching onto it. I refused to reward the ducks’ encroaching behavior. There were very few things I held dear enough to sacrifice my own life for. Food just so happened to be on the top of that list, especially anything with chocolate. It was my weakness.
One of the larger ducks, I’d mentally named him “El Jefe”, flapped his wings, the sound ominous. I never understood a phobia of birds until that moment. Trapped against the tree, I attempted to kick away the ducks at my feet, but the bastards were relentless. Driven by the prospect of indulging in a muffin that could only be described as pure heaven, they remained steadfast in their assault, quacking and pecking at me in the hopes I’d surrender.
Just as I considered how to work this random bird attack, which was completely unbelievable and would only happen to me, into one of my books, the ducks scattered. A tall figure clad in a pair of gym shorts and a sweat-stained gray t-shirt ran toward me, flailing his arms as he chased away my attackers that were clearly seconds away from killing me. In my book, I decided the ducks would be gang members and my damsel in distress would be saved by a mobster who was feared by everyone in the criminal underworld. It would probably play better than ducks. Anything would play better than ducks.
Smoothing the lines of my t-shirt and jacket, I met the eyes of my supposed knight in shining armor. My breath hitched, taken aback by the familiar eyes. The blue was so clear, I could almost see the reflection of flying ducks in them.
“Ms. Brinks,” he said, a smile on his face. “This is quite a surprise.”
“Dr. McAllister.” My face flushing, I avoided his intrigued stare and gathered my notebook, shoving it into my bag.
I’d always been paranoid about anyone catching a glimpse of what that notebook contained. Even Drew and Brooklyn weren’t allowed to read it. It was something I did just for me. The idea of anyone reading so much as a sentence made my stomach churn. My innermost thoughts sometimes found their way to the pages. This journal contained my true feelings…feelings I often masked with my cynicism and sarcasm.
“I promise I’m not the ‘Feed the Birds’ lady from Mary Poppins,” I joked.
“Tuppence a bag,” he shot back in a horrific British accent. I couldn’t help but laugh at how awful it was, yet he appeared so confident and unfazed by it.
My nervous laughter fading, we stared at each other awkwardly under the shade of the giant tree. It was odd to see him dressed in something other than a suit and lab coat. He looked…athletic. Strong.
Handsome.
People ran past, others flying by on those death traps on wheels, otherwise known as rollerblades. Drew made rollerblading…and ice skating, for that matter…look so easy. I, on the other hand, had no coordination. As soon as I was up, gravity would kick in and my ass would meet the ground in a most unattractive manner. It was a wonder I’d never suffered a broken bone.
“What brings you here today?” Dr. McAllister broke through the heavy silence, widening his stance. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his gym shorts.
I surveyed his flushed appearance. His lips were parted slightly, his eyes trained on me in a way that made me feel…I didn’t know…desired?
Or maybe I was so desperate to find a muse, I was drawn to anyone who even paid me a modicum of attention.
“Just trying to get a bit of work done,” I answered quickly, flinging my bag onto my shoulder. I needed to find a safer, duck-free perch to people-watch and write. “Before I was unceremoniously attacked by bottom-dwelling vermin, that is.”
“Did you know ducks are generally monogamous creatures?” he asked as I was about to walk away, speaking at a fast pace. “Although that typically only lasts a year.” He offered me a breathtaking smile, running his hand through his dark, windswept hair. “But during that year, the male duck, known as a drake, and the female duck, which is called a hen or just a duck, are monogamous.”
“Interesting,” I replied in a drawn-out voice, feigning interest. I had absolutely no desire to hear about the relationship status of humans, let alone ducks.
“I have a brain full of useless information.” He crossed his arms, his biceps stretching the fabric of his shirt.
My breath caught unexpectedly. A warming sensation rolled over me. I never would have imagined Dr. Noah McAllister had a decent body hidden beneath the suit and white lab coat he wore whenever I saw him. Granted, I’d always thought he was a good-looking guy, but in a “boy next door” kind of way, not in a “tie me up and spank me” kind of way. Now my imagination was on overdrive. I contemplated writing a sinful story between a patient and her doctor, who certainly knew how to steam things up in the bedroom…or exam room. I didn’t care whether it was ethical or not. I usually didn’t let technicalities such as that get in my way. Readers loved a forbidden romance, and I loved to write them.
“You should go on Jeopardy!,” I told him, antsy to be on my way.
“I get that a lot.” He beamed a wide smile at me before his jovial expression turned more serious, more sympathetic. I had a sneaky suspicion he was about to bring up our conversation from yesterday. Before he could pick up where we left things, I proceeded past him.
“Thanks for the help with the ducks. Have a good weekend.” I headed down the slightly crested hill and toward the paved path, the sun hitting my face.
Just as I was about to round the corner skirting the pond, his deep voice called out again. “Molly! Wait up!”
Slowing my steps, I let out an exasperated sigh and turned around. A shiver ran down my spine when I was treated to the sight of Dr. Noah McAllister running toward me. His strides were long, bringing attention to his toned legs.
“Yes?” I tilted my head up at him as he slowed to a stop, his smile wide and eyes bright. I could feel the heat flowing off his body. A breeze blew, picking up an aroma that was a mixture of sweat, peppermint, and fresh-cut grass. It wasn’t this overpowering scent so many other men I’d been close to gave off — an artificial stench after bathing in a horrendous body spray the advertising geniuses convinced them would help them get a date or, even better, laid. Noah’s scent was natural…a welcome aphrodisiac.
Hesitating, he chewed on his bottom lip. Much to my surprise, a part of me wanted to chew on it, too. “Want to grab a coffee or something?”
I opened my mouth, caught off guard by his invitation. Was that even allowed? I had no idea, but I knew one thing for certain. I had no desire to spend any more time with Dr. Noah McAllister than was necessary. I couldn’t help but think he would analyze everything I said and did, simply waiting for me to snap under the weight of my father’s disease. I didn’t need his soothing voice telling me it was okay to show my feelings.
“I don’t want to interrupt your run.” I spun back around and continued toward the subway. “Nice seeing you again.”
“You’re not interrupting it,” he called after me, catching up with ease. He came to a stop directly in front of me and widened his stance. As he crossed his arms, those toned biceps were on display once more. They weren’t huge, like Kevin’s, but they did tug on the fabric of his gym shirt. “I came out here to clear my head.” He narrowed his gaze at me. “I’m assuming you did, too.”
I shot him a sideways glance.
He shrugged. “I may have overheard you talking to your dad once or twice about coming here.”
I blinked repeatedly, surprised by his admission. I’d never noticed him hanging around my father’s room or the common areas of the nursing home before. In fact, I couldn’t remember ever seeing him outside an exam room…until yesterday.
“That’s true, but I really am on a tight deadline. Plus, I’ve already had three cups of coffee today. If I have any more, I won’t be able to hold my pen steady.” I gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Have a good weekend, Dr. McAllister.” I pushed past him again, conscious of a set of vivid blue eyes following my every move.
Just when I thought I was in the clear and able to continue with my hermit-like existence, he called out yet again. He certainly was persistent. “How about some ice cream then?”
Stopping, I gradually faced him. A brilliant and somewhat cocky smirk was drawn on his face. The bastard knew my weakness. “Ice cream?”
Nodding, he approached slowly, running his tongue over his lips. He probably had no idea he was even doing it, but it made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “Some of the best damn ice cream you’ll ever have.” His tone bordered on seductive. Or maybe I simply imagined it. I did have a tendency to get lost in the world and characters I’d created, often having difficulty separating fact from fiction. If this was fiction, I didn’t want to stop reading.
“I love ice cream,” I breathed.
“Who doesn’t?” He winked, his body just a whisper away from mine. My skin prickled with goosebumps, despite the sun warming me.
“Okay,” I agreed, although one could probably argue I did so under undue influence. “But no talking about my father,” I added, snapping out of my daze, my voice firm.
“I hadn’t planned on it.” With a smile, he headed down another path, leading the way.
“Then why did you want to have coffee with me?” I asked.
“I figured it would be a better way to spend my afternoon than looking over my students’ research papers.”
“Students?” I cocked a brow, studying him as we walked through Boston Common. It was one of the first spring-like days we had and it seemed half the city was out enjoying the weather.
“I teach a class on degenerative brain disorders at Tufts a few nights a week.”
“Of course you do, Doogie Howser.”
“Doogie Howser?” He laughed, the sound beautiful, perfect. His smile reached his eyes. I tried to remember the last time anyone looked at me the way he was, as if he were genuinely interested in what I had to say, not just watching my lips move and wondering when I’d be using them on his lower extremities.
“You don’t remember that show?”
“No, I remember it. But he was sixteen or something, wasn’t he? I have twenty-two years on him.”
“Hmm,” I mused. He was older than I had originally thought. I knew he had to be in his thirties, considering he’d have to go through undergrad, then medical school, before completing some sort of residency program.
“Hmm, what?” he asked.
“Nothing. You just look young for being twenty-nine-plus-nine.”
He furrowed his brow before another laugh fell from his mouth, the sound making the butterflies in my stomach, which had been dormant for years before yesterday, flutter their wings. “Twenty-nine-plus-nine?”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you?” I looked at him, my eyes wide. “The ‘t’ word is a bad, bad word. We don’t say it around these parts.”
“‘T’ word? You mean thirty?”
I covered my mouth with my hand, feigning horror, lowering my voice. “Watch your language.” I glanced around, gesturing with my head toward a group of guys wearing their stupid winter caps and playing Frisbee. “There are twenty-something-year-old hipsters around.”
He shook his head, still laughing. “No wonder the nurses love your column. If this is just a taste of what’s in there, I can’t wait to read what you have planned next.” He placed his hand on the small of my back, leading me away from the bandstand and up a path toward Tremont Street and the Financial District.
After a few steps, he removed his hand, a chill running down my back from the lack of contact. It was something I’d written about in my books, even though I’d always been convinced such things didn’t actually happen in the real world. I told myself the chill had to be due to a slight breeze, not from the absence of a relative stranger’s touch on my lower back.
I refused to believe my body could have this sort of reaction to him. It wasn’t real. There was no such thing as an instant attraction to a person. It had to develop over time. No one looked at someone and immediately knew they were “the one”. No one felt sparks and butterflies from the innocent placement of a hand on the back…not unless they already had a few drinks in their system. Then it would be the alcohol causing that reaction, not something else, something far more petrifying.
I hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol all day, yet here I was, walking next to a man I never thought of as anything but my father’s doctor before. I was conscious of everything, right down to my pattern of breathing. In the last few seconds, it had increased as I imagined how Dr. McAllister looked without a shirt on.
“Chocolate or vanilla?” I asked, breaking the silence before I began imagining other parts of him without clothes. That would have made for some rather interesting appointments with my father going forward.
“What was that?” He looked at me. I wondered what thoughts I’d snapped him out of, whether he was thinking the same things about me as I was him.
“I was wondering if you preferred chocolate or vanilla ice cream.” I shrugged. “Just trying to make conversation, I suppose.”
“You don’t like quiet, do you?” He pinched his lips together, a playful kind of arrogance on his face.
“I spend most of my days alone.”
“That’s not the same thing. When you’re writing your columns, do you have to have it quiet or is there background noise?”
“Background noise. Always,” I answered quickly. It wasn’t just when I wrote my columns, either. I had a different playlist for each of my books. Mostly really intense songs my characters could get down and dirty to. I had a phenomenal repertoire of great sex music. The silence unnerved me. I’d get sucked into my own thoughts. Nothing good ever came of that.
“You should try unplugging,” he suggested. “It might help with that deadline of yours.” He narrowed his gaze, giving me a knowing look.
I opened my mouth to respond that he didn’t know what he was talking about, but quickly closed it. Maybe I struggled with putting words onto the proverbial digital paper because I was too distracted with everything else. Maybe I needed to unplug to get reacquainted with my characters and let them tell their story, not the other way around.
“Just a suggestion. And to answer your question, I prefer something a little more…exotic than just plain ol’ chocolate or vanilla.” His mouth turned into a salacious smile, bringing forward too many doctor-patient fantasies. If nothing else, spending time with Dr. McAllister certainly got my juices flowing. All I could think of at this precise moment was a forbidden affair based solely on physical attraction.
“Variety can be the spice of life,” I countered, “but it’s sometimes nice to stick with the safe bet. With chocolate or vanilla, you know what you’re getting. There’s no risk involved. It’s a known quantity.”
We approached a crosswalk and waited for the WALK signal. He turned to me, studying me as a duck boat rolled by, giving out-of-towners a tour of the city at the heart of the American Revolution. “You don’t strike me as the cautious type. If I were a betting man, I’d wager you’re the type of woman who loves adventure, who couldn’t possibly be satisfied with the ordinary and commonplace.”
I avoided his eyes. Why did I feel like we were no longer talking about ice cream? “Taking risks never pays off. You take a risk, thinking it could be worth it, only to be left completely unsatisfied. I avoid the unknown.”
“So you never try anything new?” He raised his eyebrows, glancing down at me as the light changed. We stepped off the curb, following a mass of people across the street.
“I didn’t say that. I try new things. I just don’t get too attached to them,” I answered, now certain we were no longer talking about ice cream. I had no idea how this guy was able to turn a seemingly innocuous question, such as one’s favorite kind of ice cream, into something more, something deeper.
“When’s the last time you tried something new?” He opened the glass door of a quaint store, allowing me to enter in front of him. I tried to hide my surprise. I couldn’t remember the last time a man held the door for me.
“Just last night,” I answered. The aroma of sugar, chocolate, and a dozen other scents hit me. I licked my lips, my mouth watering.
“And what was that?”
“I went to a speed dating thing with my brother and best friend.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And how did that go?”
I shrugged. “It went.” I offered a wide smile.
“New material for a column?”
“That’s about all I got out of it.”
Keeping his eyes trained unnervingly on me, he led me to an empty table. He pulled out the chair for me, then headed toward a long counter, dozens of different flavors of ice cream on display.
“You didn’t ask me what kind I wanted,” I called after him.
He didn’t even turn around. “I know.”