Page 5 of Doctor Daddy Dilemma
I heard her.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked as I headed into the living room. A decanter of whiskey sat on the end table next to the white leather sofa facing the view, left there after my visit with Helen.
“Uh, sure?” she said, but she didn’t sound sure. She followed me deeper into my home, but her starry-eyed expression never shifted. It was all normal to me, maybe a little overdone. But what else was I supposed to do with bucketloads of money? Even giving 50 percent of my profits away to charities left me with more than I could spend.
I took Helen’s used glass and walked toward the liquor cabinet to exchange it for a clean one and Charlotte asked, “That belonged to your lady friend?” I glanced at her and thought I noticed some disappointment in her eyes, but her friendly smile discouraged me from commenting on it.
“Helen, yes…” I set the glass down and filled two tumblers with a few fingers each, then turned and handed her one. I’d gotten in the bad habit of taking patient appointments at my home in the interest of helping them maintain their privacy. What I was certain Charlotte assumed was a booty call was nothing more than Helen stopping in for her follow-up and me changing out of my work clothes into something more comfortable for this evening. But I never corrected or confirmed that suspicion.
“This is incredible. Your home is…lovely.” She seemed awestruck, and had I been as egotistical as the tabloids said I was, I’d have gloated a little. Charlotte sipped her drink and I nodded at the couches, gesturing with my glass of alcohol.
“We should sit.” I moved that direction and again she followed, though instead of joining me on the couch she sat in the white leather wingback chair and cradled her tumbler in both hands. Her purse awkwardly dangled from her shoulder, hanging on the arm of the chair.
“I must say, I was impressed.” I took a sip while her eyebrows rose and her lips pressed against her glass. “You have to be a tough weed to keep your place in the garden.” My backward compliment gave her pause for a second and a hint of animosity flashed in her eyes before she smiled.
“Thank you. I don’t like to be pushy, but I do believe this interview will be a great thing.” Everything about her was attractive, from her perfect full figure to her pouty lips—always in a pleasant smile—and even the way her short dark bob framed her round dimpled cheeks. Women like Helen, of whom Charlotte seemed to be jealous, had nothing on her. They weren’t my type. But this woman seated on my chair, staring at my body as I walked down those steps only moments ago, she was ticking every box on my list.
“So what on earth could you want with me? Honestly, I’ve looked you up and you don’t even seem to have a name yet, but your articles are well written.”
Her cheeks flushed, the way they had in my exam room. It was arousing. It made me wonder if any of her other body parts flushed like that too.
“Honestly, I think the tabloids paint you in a negative light, and I think the legitimate press misses the importance of who you are as a person by focusing on only your work. I think the world should see the real you. The man behind the surgical mask.” Her drink was almost gone, but I didn’t want to interrupt this dialogue to get up and refill it.
“The man behind the mask?” I wasn’t sure if she wanted to know that man. The man I showed other people wasn’t really me. Inside I was nothing but a bitter, cranky old man who’d grown up with a rotten family and no ability to give or receive real affection. I wore “professionalism” like a mask the way my patients faked their real appearances.
“Yeah, you know, the type of guy you are when you’re at home.” She gestured around my living room, but her eyes focused on my face. “Everyone gets to see the famous, wealthy doctor. No one gets to see Alexander.”
“It’s Lex,” I told her, and then I set my glass down on the table between us and leaned forward. “And there’s a reason no one gets to see that. With the amount of press I receive, I like to keep my personal life on the down-low.”
Charlotte finished her whiskey in one gulp and set the glass down, then reached into her purse and produced a notepad and pen. Poised to write, she asked me, “Are you interested in sharing about your childhood? Or your love life? A lot of times people really enjoy stories like that.”
She seemed anxious, hand shaking, eyes blinking rapidly. I got the feeling there was more depth to the question about my love life than she let on. Was she asking because she was interested in finding out if I was single? Or just for the story. She was a hard read.
“Not particularly.” My love life was not a topic to discuss—at least not for the paper. Women came and left, mostly just left. I’d tried relationships but they never worked out. At times, I blamed my focus on my career, my patient load, those sorts of things. But even in times when business was slow, whoever I happened to date never stuck around more than a few dates. It made my confidence low in that area, and my sex life very much non-existent. Like I said, a grumpy old man with a rotten upbringing.
“Okay,” she said, regrouping and coming at me with a new angle. Her smile still dazzled me, but I found my sullen expression in the reflection of us in my back window. “How about we talk about your college years, how you chose plastic surgery.”
My college years were even worse. It wasn’t a good time for me at all. I wrestled with a drinking problem, yet aced my classes, and I’d been a womanizer—maybe to the point that it was the root of all those rumors the gossip-mill tabloids pushed so often.
“How about we talk about you…” I leaned forward, planting my elbows on my knees and lacing my fingers together. Charlotte stiffened and straightened a little. She shrugged and furrowed her forehead briefly then chuckled nervously.
“I’m here to interview you though.”
“Tell me where you’re from.” Her warm complexion hinted that she wasn’t of European descent like myself, but I couldn’t quite place it. And while it was probably inappropriate for me to put her on the spot, I enjoyed watching her squirm.
“I…uh… My parents immigrated to the United States when my mother was pregnant. I am a first-generation American but my cultural heritage is Guatemalan.” She flicked her tongue over her lip and smiled again; those dimples popped out and made me want to touch them.
“Ah, I see…a dreamer.”
“Yes,” she continued, still seeming on edge. It was very abnormal for me to be so forward with a reporter, but this wasn’t just any reporter. She’d manipulated her way into my office for an appointment to get this scoop, and what she’d done to my dick the other day had piqued my interest in furthering this strange rapport we’d developed.
“I want to speak for marginalized groups in our society like my parents who are trying to finish their naturalization process.”
I chuckled and sat back, stretching my arms along the back of the sofa. The buttons on my shirt strained, the shirt separating slightly, and her eyes went straight to the slight peek of chest hair popping out near my collarbone.
“So why me? I’m not marginalized. I’m probably the farthest thing from that.”
Her flustered expression told me she was just as attracted to me as I was to her, which made for a bit of interesting chemistry building in the air.