Author: Kristan Higgins

“Hi, Mr. Demers!” I called, waving.

“Good mawnin’, Millie Baahnes!” he bleated, his accent thick even by Massachusetts standards. He stood up from his planting. “Goin’ to be a beautiful day!”

“Yes, sir!” I answered. Happy with the world, I checked my watch. Any second now.

It was at this moment that Digger decided his bowels couldn’t wait. Right at the mouth of Mr. Demers’s pristine oyster-shell driveway, he entered into the telltale squat.

“No, Digger!” I snapped. “Heel!”

Digger didn’t heel. I was absolutely not going to have him poop on Mr. Demers’s driveway, especially with the homeowner watching with a frown. I dragged my still-crouching dog along until we were off Mr. Demers’s property. Then I relented, glancing anxiously down the road for a maroon truck, and let Digger have his way. When he was done, on we went.

It was now 6:36, and I was starting to breathe more heavily. That was okay. I was running, after all, I rationalized. It had been seventeen minutes, and only very athletic people can maintain this level of exercise. But I did slow down. I was a little sweaty, and I didn’t want to overdo the glowing thing.

No Joe. Where was he? I kept running. The senior center was about a mile up the road, which gave me a comfortable cushion of time. I could make a mile last a good ten minutes. Twelve, even.

Oooh! I heard a truck. Don’t turn around, Millie. I opened up my stride again, delighting my dog. Here came the truck…it had to be him. Stride, stride, stride. Truck passed. Not Joe.

Damn! Where was he? It was now 6:42. He was downright late. Maybe he’d stopped for coffee, I reasoned. That was possible, though not what my research showed. Still, it could certainly happen.

Things were getting pathetic. I was out of breath but had to keep running because this part of road was straight, and I would see a car or truck before I could hear it. Thus, I would be unable to break into a run before the driver spotted me, and hence, I would look stupid. I slowed down again. Again my dog stopped, this time to pee.

“Hurry up, Digger,” I instructed. He looked at me, wagged and continued peeing. And now that he was doing that, I realized I had to pee, too. Damn that coffee!

At 6:50, we started running again. And there was the senior center! Shit! I couldn’t go past it, or I’d miss Joe! I’d have to turn around and pretend to be coming from the other direction. And I’d have to do it fast, or I’d be caught. The thought came to me that Stephanie, Evil Patient Care Technician, might be getting to work about now. Didn’t the shift start at 7:00? Another thing to worry about.

I passed the senior center and, looking both right and left and listening carefully, ran to the other side of the road. Done. No one saw me. I was now in Joe range again. God, I felt stupid! It was really getting late. I forced a cheerful expression on my face and reached up to wipe my sweaty forehead with my arm. Not wanting to resort to my trudge, I kept bounding along. My Achilles tendons were starting to ache. I wanted to stop and stretch them and hence prevent tendonitis, but that wouldn’t do. Where was Joe? Where was Joe? It became the rhythm my feet pounded to. Where. Was. Joe. Where. Was. Joe. There. Was. Mister. Demers.

Oh, great. There he was, still gardening. He looked at me curiously.

“Everything all right, there, Millie?” he asked.

“Oh, sure,” I gasped. “Just, you know, going for a run. Bye!” I trotted past him again.

My bladder reminded me of its fullness. It was 7:00. I had been running for forty minutes! This was surely a world’s record! My tendons sang. A sharp pain pierced my left kneecap, and I pictured the meniscus shredding. Keep going, I told myself grimly. He had to be coming. My breath rasped in my ears, and I slowed down a little. Digger, the faithless cur, now walked beside me, so sluggish was my stride. But I was still running. I could pick up the pace when I saw Joe’s truck.

By now I was back at Doane Road. Which meant I had to turn around again. There was nothing to do but do it, so I loped in a tight circle to change directions once more.

Is this really necessary? I asked myself. Do we really have to keep doing this? Alas, the answer was yes. As I approached Mr. Demers’s house, I could see the consternation on his face. My own face felt hotter as I blushed. My T-shirt was wet under my arms and sweat-darkened on the chest. Cringing inwardly, I ignored Mr. Demers. Pretended to be interested in a mockingbird instead.

Digger stopped again, crouching in the unmistakable pose of a dog pooping, and I staggered to a stop. Gasping, I looked at my watch. 7:10. I couldn’t go on anymore. My legs shook, my bladder ached, my foot had a cramp in it.

As I used the hem of my now soaked T-shirt to wipe my face, exposing my shockingly white belly, and as Digger crapped in the poison ivy, Joe drove by. He didn’t slow down. Perhaps he didn’t recognize me (please, God). But no, Joe’s golden arm popped out of the truck, and he waved as he turned into the senior center.

I limped back to my car, my Achilles tendons squealing in pain, my face, no doubt, that attractive shade of brick. At the white-shell driveway, Digger sniffed at the site of his earlier attempted defecation.

“Have a great day!” I called to Mr. Demers, who stood watching me with his arms folded in front of him.

“You too, Millie.”

Not likely.

CHAPTER NINE

AS SO OFTEN HAPPENS IN LIFE, love came knocking when I least expected it.

Later that day, I was at work, staring at the anatomy poster in the small office, still smarting—no, cringing—from the earlier debacle. My ever-optimistic mind tried to put a good spin on things, but my black soul refused to forsake the throne.

“Hey, you ran farther than you ever have before!” my mind cheeped.

“Digger was crapping when he drove by,” the soul replied.

“Still, you probably lost a pound,” the mind continued.

“Digger was crapping when he drove by,” the soul repeated. “And he saw your stomach.”

“Dr. Barnes?” Nurse Jill called from the hallway, interrupting the mind/soul argument. I dragged myself into the present. When Jill called me Dr. Barnes, it meant a patient had come in. Otherwise, I was known as honey or sweetie.

“Yes, Mrs. Doyle?” I answered, grateful for the distraction.

“There’s a patient in Room One,” she said, sticking her head into the office with a file and a big grin.

I entered Room One, and there on the exam table sat an extremely good-looking man. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Swarthy skin. Heavy eyebrows, giving him an exotic, Mediterranean look. He held a gauze bandage on his right hand, and there was blood on his denim shirt.

“Hi, I’m Millie Barnes,” I said, extending my hand. As he looked at it pointedly, I realized he couldn’t shake at just that moment. “Sorry,” I murmured with a grin.

“Lorenzo Bellefiore,” he said with a smile.

I managed not to sigh. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, my insides quivering. “What happened here?”

Lorenzo (oh, Mommy!) glanced down at his hand. “I got cut on a horseshoe crab,” he answered, frowning. “I think I might need stitches.”

“All right, let’s have a look,” I murmured, quite, quite glad that Curtis and Mitch had taken me shopping the week before.

In my best doctor mode, trying to focus on the injury and not on the intense lust that was melting my insides, I washed my hands and pulled on latex gloves. Gently peeling away the bloody gauze from the god’s hand, I looked at the wound. Focus, Millie, focus. He was wearing a spicy cologne, and I could just barely catch a whiff of it. Again, I suppressed a lustful sigh, instead giving him a quick and reassuring (I hoped) smile. His eyelashes were sinfully long.

“Yes, indeed, you will need stitches,” I pronounced cheerfully. Suture repairs were tons of fun for me. I loved suture repairs, especially on gorgeous men with delicious names.

“Promise not to hurt me,” he said, cocking an eyebrow.

“I promise,” I purred.

Flirting! We were flirting! With each other!

I called the charming Nurse Doyle and she, with only minimal facial contortions meant to convey her own giddy joy, got the necessary elements for a basic suture repair.

As I went to work on Lorenzo, I asked him a few questions, designed only, I assure you, to put him at ease and not to pry into his personal life. Well, maybe just a little.

“So, Mr. Bellefiore—”

“Call me Lorenzo,” he said, watching me swab his skin with Betadine.

“Okay, Lorenzo, do you live here on the Cape?”

“No, I don’t.” (I already knew this. If someone this magnificent lived within a fifty-mile radius, I would have known about him.) He went on. “I was born in Brooklyn, actually, but I’ve been away at school so long, that doesn’t seem like home anymore.”

“Where did you go to school?” I asked, sneaking another look at him. Mmm.

“I finished my Ph.D. in marine biology last year,” he answered, smiling gleamingly again. “In Miami. But I got a grant to do some research up here, and I just moved about a month ago.”

“Marine biology. That’s interesting,” I said. “If you don’t like needles, you should look away now.” I was about to inject his hand with local anesthesia, and he did indeed look away.

“Youch!” he yelped, jumping. “That stings!”

“I know, I’m sorry. But it won’t hurt in a minute. Cruel to be kind. So what are you doing up here on the Cape?”

“I’m studying the mating habits of horseshoe crabs,” he answered.

“Really!” I said, squelching a giggle.

“Yes, it’s fascinating,” he went on, and proceeded to tell me about the sexual patterns of the strange and prehistoric horseshoe crab. I made the appropriate murmurs of interest as he went on, carefully stitching up his rather elegant hand. Before he even knew it, I was done.

“Ta-da!” I announced, cutting the last tie. “What do you think?”

He examined the stitches carefully before turning his soulful Mediterranean eyes on me.

“You did a great job, Doctor,” he said, and my pulse jumped.

“All in a day’s work, Doctor,” I replied. I put a sterile gauze bandage over the wound and taped it into place, instructing him on keeping the cut clean and coming back for suture removal.

“Is your tetanus shot up to date?” I asked, rakishly snapping off my latex gloves and tossing them in the hazardous-waste bin.

“Just last year,” he answered. He scootched off the exam table. Alas, he was kind of short, maybe only five foot seven or so, but hey! Those eyelashes made up for a lot.

“Dr. Barnes, can I ask you something?” he said.

Anything and yes yes yes. “Sure, and call me Millie,” I said.

“I know we just met, but do you think you’d like to have dinner with me some night? I hardly know anyone up here, and I’d love to get to know you better.”

Oh my GOD! “I think that might be possible,” I answered calmly. “I’m working days all this week, so my nights are free.” Whoops! Too available. “If you give me a call here, maybe we can set something up.”

“That would be great.” He smiled again and again, my insides clenched with heat. Lorenzo sidled past me and went to settle up with Sienna. Jill came down the hall to pump me for details, but I headed her off at the pass.

“Mrs. Doyle, that humerus fracture needs a follow-up X-ray, so if you don’t mind, could you schedule that?” We had no humerus fracture. Jill jumped right in.

“Of course, Dr. Barnes. Anything else?”

“Yes. Mrs. Donahue needs a refill on her Coumadin, so if you could call that into the pharmacy, that would be great. And please make sure we’re restocked on suture kits in Room One, and don’t forget that we…should…should…okay, he’s gone!”