Page 1 of Doctor Daddy Dilemma
1
CHARLIE
It was hot. I’m talking skin-blistering sun beating down on us. So I have no clue why my work bestie and cohort on this adventure to Miami decided to choose an outdoor patio for lunch. I was already flustered at the idea of meeting the famous Dr. Alexander Hartman, which was causing a bit of anxiety sweats already. The added warmth had me overheating and feeling like a baked clam.
“I don’t even know why you’re so worked up anyway.” Amy waved her fork around in the air with a hunk of shrimp on the tines as she spoke. A breeze picked up and dusted our dinner plates but with how hot it was, there was no cooling the still-steaming dishes. “Hartman is just a human being like you and me.”
Alexander Hartman was not only the most attractive man I’d ever seen, but he was also a brilliant plastic surgeon, one my boss had deemed newsworthy enough for a weekend trip to Miami for what would hopefully turn into an interview.
“Well first of all, I don’t like that I had to make an appointment to see him under the guise of breast reduction.” I rolled my eyes as I lifted an oyster to my mouth and let it slide off the shell and down my throat. “Mmm so good.” I licked my fingers after setting the empty shell down. The oyster liquor was salty and savory, exactly the way it should be.
“Yeah, that was a jerk move by Mr. James. He could have said a nose job.” Amy chuckled as her snarky reply brought a scowl to my face.
When Mr. James had asked me to sneak into the interview-resistant doctor’s offices and butter him up for an in-depth exposé I thought it would be an adventure. Then I saw how famous he really was and how ridiculously gorgeous—and might I add very available—and I got cold feet. Now I had to go through with this ridiculous ruse. The appointment was booked, only an hour from now, and he was expecting “Charlie Martinez, breast reduction patient” to show up ready to be fondled, or whatever happened at those appointments.
“I’m just saying, if he didn’t want the interview, then we should have respected that.” My last bite of Peruvian rice went down easily followed by the final sip of my wine and I was finished with lunch, left to watch Amy scarf down the rest of her shrimp ceviche. I didn’t know how I let myself get caught up in all of this business of scheming. It wasn’t like we worked for a tabloid. The Register was a legitimate newspaper in Tampa, but our boss wanted what he called “hard-hitting exposés” to get subscriptions up.
“If you don’t want to do it, I can pose as you. I have no problem showing a hot guy my tits.” Amy snickered again but I knew she was only kidding. There was no way Mr. James would sign off on that. Besides, if this story actually did bring readers to the paper or sold more copies, then I wanted my name on it.
My strong disdain for anything “Jamesworthy” was well-known to Amy and a few other friends at the paper. The man was misogynist through and through, and he treated all the women who worked at the paper with disdain and contempt. His idea of a woman in news reporting amounted to narrow-minded stereotypes and women who slept their way to the top. I was thankful he hadn’t asked that from me, though I expected he would ask eventually. He knew I wanted my career to go someplace.
“I can do it. I just wish I didn’t have to be unethical to get a face-to-face with him.” I sighed and pushed the empty plate away, draping my soiled napkin over it. The waiter came and Amy used the paper’s petty cash fund to pay for our lunch. We waited for the receipt and hopped in the first cab that drove past.
My plan was simple. I had to get into the room and secure Dr. Hartman’s attention first and foremost. When he was listening to me, I would just tell him I was there on behalf of the Register and hope he liked the idea of someone bringing him more publicity and fame. Any doctor with a name like his would certainly not mind free publicity, right? So I just had to play it cool and not get too anxious. After all, he was so attractive—based on every photo or video interview I’d seen of him—that he made me drool, and I hadn’t ever been in the same room with him.
Setting aside my affinity for older, devilishly handsome men, I had a job to do. If I didn’t nail this James would just fire me. He looked down on me and told me a number of times he didn’t see my career going anywhere. This was my chance to build a bit of notoriety. I’d taken the job at the Register right out of college before James became editor-in-chief. Now I had no choice but to stick it out. I had to get at least one story to my name that made waves. Then I’d have a shot at a job somewhere else, somewhere I was respected.
The cab bumped and rolled over potholes and Amy jabbered about the follow-up interviews she had with a few congressmen who were summering in Miami. I was surprised Mr. James let her fly with me, but she made an argument that the trip to Miami was cheaper than the trip to D.C., so he let her come along. We were flying back separately though, and I was glad. I didn’t want to have to answer a million questions following the appointment.
When the cab stopped, I barely said goodbye to her. She was preoccupied with her phone as I climbed out and clutched my purse to my chest, letting my eyes draw upward to take in the sight of Dr. Hartman’s office building. Thirteen stories high and covered in mirror glass, it was a sight to behold. He made people’s bodies beautiful, and whoever designed this building for him had an eye for art too. It was a thing of beauty—maybe indulgent and a bit pretentious, but I would have expected nothing less from a billionaire.
The air conditioning chilled my sun-kissed skin causing goosebumps to rise on my arms as I approached the check-in desk. It looked more like a fancy art museum in the lobby with massive sculptures and expensive-looking paintings as the décor. The large, open waiting room was framed by mirroring staircases that curved along the round walls toward the second floor, and behind the central reception desk was a column through the center of the building housing the elevators.
“Can I help you?” The petite blonde seated behind the desk smiled politely and waited for me to speak. I was speechless for a moment, unsure what I even expected this place to look like.
“I, uh…” My eyes were still locked on the chandelier overhead, dripping crystals or diamonds. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they were really diamonds. “Charlie Martinez. I have a two o’clock with Dr. Hartman.” I blinked my eyes back into focus as I lowered my gaze to her soft expression.
Her fingers clicked away at the keyboard and her smile persisted. “Of course, Ms. Martinez, we have you down for a consultation. Dr. Hartman is quite busy, but he is always prompt. You’ll have exactly fifteen minutes with him, during which he will decide if you’re a good candidate for the practice. If so, he will give you directions to make a follow-up appointment with me when you’re finished. If not he will provide a referral. Do you understand?” The entire time she spoke she typed and I was amazed at how she could multitask.
All of this felt surreal, like I was in the wrong place or another dimension. I came from a very modest upbringing, so being in a building that probably cost more than my entire hometown felt overwhelming.
“I understand.”
“Good. Have you had a chance to fill out the online forms?” She stopped typing and reached for the phone, pressing a button and putting the receiver to her ear.
“Uh, yes.” I felt awkward. These people were all business. There wasn’t even a hint that they knew I was a reporter here to get a scoop. “I got it all filled out.”
“Tammy, I’m sending Ms. Martinez up for her consult. Prep room 304.” She ended the call before saying goodbye and her smile returned like magic. “Fantastic. Now, please keep in mind that your time is limited. Feel free to ask any questions you want, but also keep in mind you may have to schedule a follow-up to have them all answered. We also have an FAQ section on our website.” Her hands folded in front of herself politely, she tilted her head. “Third floor, turn left. Fourth room on your right.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, feeling my nerves building again.
I glanced around the waiting area and saw half a dozen people seated there, though none of them were the celebrities I thought I might see. Then I made my way to the elevator on shaking legs. On the third floor, I was escorted by a brunette with curly hair and a quick gait to the room the receptionist indicated. She said very little, but she, too, was polite, and she left me to wait, instructing me to sit on the exam table.
The room was less extravagant than the lobby. It felt more like a traditional doctor’s office—exam table, rolling stool, counter with a sink, a few storage cabinets, and a window that overlooked Biscayne Bay. I focused on the boats floating in the bay as I tried to keep my sweaty palms from getting worse. It was one thing to meet an influential person for an interview. It was another entirely to fake needing their services to gain said interview.
When Dr. Hartman walked in, I expected him to have a nurse or assistant, but it was just him. Just gorgeous, tall, blond, impeccably-styled-hair and chiseled-jawline him. Take my panties; you can have them, Dr. Hartman.
“Ms. Martinez, it’s nice to meet you.” He strutted right in and laid a tablet on the counter by the sink as he washed his hands. “I’ve looked over your file and I admit for a woman your age I’m surprised you want breast reduction.”