Page 3 of Hogging the Hunk
“Seriously?” Beckett scrunched her nose and her eyes almost disappeared behind a thick fringe of lashes as she squinted at me. Somehow, it was both intimidating and hilarious as she scrutinized me. “There’s not much to it.”
“No, I’m not serious. Well, I am about the diapers. It’s…”
A heavy sigh punctuated my defeat. I needed a sinkhole to appear somewhere close by so I could escape my cringiness by disappearing forever. This was not at all how I’d planned this scenario, and I would have given up all my earthly possessions for a redo of the last five minutes. If I knew there was a chance Beckett would have found me here, I would have rolled in like a secret, undercover agent in black. In and out with a package of heavy flow menstrual pads under my arm before anyone even knew I was in the store.
Sadly, I lived in the real world where do-overs were a luxury not afforded ordinary people. I knew I should have just done my shopping online and hoped they were delivered discreetly and on time.
“It’s a joke. I get it. A bad one, sure, but it’s because of your secret. You’re trying to get me to lay off.” Beckett gracefully fluttered her hand, then pantomimed zipping her lips. My eyes caught on her mouth longer than they should have. I forced my gaze back to her eyes. “Say no more.”
“Thank you.” My gratitude came out in a quiet whoosh.
Flipping her dark hair over her shoulder, a hint of her floral shampoo scent floated my way. “I’ll leave you to your perusing while I look over the generic and very limited selection of hair care products.”
Beckett turned her back to me and focused on the shelf of shampoos and conditioners. I tried to resume my shopping, but it was nearly impossible. Being within proximity to Beckett made me feel like she had eyes on the back of her head. She was smart as a whip and nothing got past her, even when she was pretending to feign obliviousness. That was the mark of a good doctor—one who could discern what a patient wasn’t saying aloud.
Not always an appreciated skill when people didn’t want their minds read.
Perhaps my thoughts about Beckett in lingerie weren’t as safe as I’d assumed.
There was nothing to do about this whole shopping excursion but set my jaw and decide about which feminine product to purchase. In a decade, when I recovered from this day, I bet I’d even be able to laugh about this with Beckett.
With so many variables facing me—heavy flow, scented, wings, material—I figured the most logical decision would be to buy in bulk at the cheapest cost. Doing some quick calculations in my head, I settled on a large plastic bag of menstrual pads, tossing them in my cart. I hadn’t picked up any other groceries, so the single item was painfully conspicuous. Of course, on a quiet afternoon in Button Blossom, there was only one cashier up front. An older woman who kept her salt and pepper hair pulled into a severely tight bun, she would undoubtedly raise her eyebrows at my single purchase. I bet the second I was out the door, she’d get her knitting club on the phone to gossip.
I hoped my daughter, Ellie, would forgive me if word ever got back to her how awkward her dad was. I had tried not to be.
Figuring a farewell to Beckett wasn’t necessary, I did a U-turn with my cart, trying my best not to flinch as the wheel whined. I was going home to deposit my purchase in the bathroom Ellie would use, where I wouldn’t have to think about it until she needed them sometime in the next month.
My gulp was almost painful. Today was the big day. One I’d been anticipating with excitement, though it was always laced with dread. It wasn’t Ellie living under my roof that caused me consternation. My ability as a father not to irrevocably screw her up kept me awake most nights.
Beckett cleared her throat, barely louder than the shrill squeak of my wheel. I stopped. “Um, that’s not the one you’re going to buy, is it?”
“Is there something wrong with them?”
“Well,” Beckett put a bottle of conditioner back on the shelf, she tucked a finger under her chin like she was thinking really hard, “without going into too much gory detail, you should know that brand is like wearing sandpaper between one’s legs.”
Her unsolicited review punted me back to square one. “Is there something else you’d recommend?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Beckett abandoned her mission to find her idea of satisfactory hair care that would keep her hair soft and fragrant, and joined me on my side of the aisle. “Forgive me if I sound nosy. I do want to respect your secret, but I need a little more information to make a sound recommendation. Care to give me a ballpark age?”
Air puffed into my cheeks, making my face rotund as I considered. “She’s… young.”
“And that means she’s new at this?”
“Yup.”
Me, too.
“Ah.” Beckett’s expression softened. “That’s all I need to know. Here.” She reached for a couple of boxes and tossed them in my cart. “Get these for the daytime.” Beckett grabbed another package, and it flew across the aisle, bouncing into the basket. “This brand is best for overnight. And don’t forget a box of pantiliners, for the first day and last couple of days when her cycle tapers off.”
Bulk wasn’t the answer. Running down the aisle, knocking as many items into the cart as I could should have been my tactic. When I didn’t immediately thank Beckett for her assistance, she raised her eyebrows. With her arms folded and her hip cocked, I decided I’d better not crack jokes about her thoughts on doomsday prepping. In all honesty, she had saved me. There were a few other trusted women in Button Blossom I could have asked while also maintaining some privacy. Beckett earned a gold star for her discretion and knowledge.
“Thanks.”
Swiveling her cart around mine, Beckett grinned. “Short and sweet from Dr. Fox, as usual.”
I shrugged. “Don’t see the point in wasting my breath. I truly appreciate you rescuing me.”
“Well, you’re welcome.” Taking a bottle off the top shelf, Beckett unceremoniously dumped the conditioner in her cart. She took a step, stopped, and swiveled toward me. “I know we’ve established it’s none of my business, but if whoever that stuff is for,” she eyed the mound of copious items in my cart, “needs a woman-to-woman talk to help put her at ease, I might gently remind you that I am a woman and a pediatrician. That makes me especially qualified. Bras, periods, big emotions? All in my repertoire.”