Perfectly Adequate - Page 10
“Oh. It doesn’t matter. Whenever.”
She shrugs and rips it open, making my stomach twist with regret. The phone number was a terrible idea. (Really … thanks, Mom.)
I can’t stand here like an idiot waiting for her to react. “Thanks again. I’d better get to my office. I have rounds soon.” Slipping past her, I breeze through the automatic doors.
“Is this your phone number?”
I stop. Closing my eyes, I curse my mom and her terrible idea … that I didn’t have to take, but she’s smart and usually right, so … “Uh, yeah.” I cringe, unable to turn around like a grown man and face her.
“I’m in school during the week, and I work twelve-hour shifts over the weekend, but—”
“No.” I turn, feigning confidence mixed with indifference. “It was stupid and impulsive of me. I’m not really sure why I felt compelled to do it. Just—”
“No. I mean … as long as it’s after lecture and clinical during the week. Or I guess if you’re thinking late on the weekends. I can totally babysit Roman for you.”
Oh, for the love of …
I’m just that oblivious to reality. I have been since the day my wife left me. How can I be just that stupid? Dorothy is younger than me. Of course she thinks I’m looking for a babysitter, not a date. Dr. Warren is closer to her age. And what a dick move of me to even leave my number after Dr. Even Bigger Dick asked her out.
“You uh … have a lot on your plate. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to babysit my son.”
“Well …” She waves the thank-you card. “Clearly, you thought of it at some point.”
Nope. Just thought we’d grab a drink this week while Julie has Roman.
“My intern said he asked you out.” If in doubt, throw your intern under the bus. When you fail at properly asking a woman out on a date, you move to plan B—discuss other men who are waiting for her to answer their date invitation.
I’m clueless. Maybe I should stick to looking for a cure for cancer. I honestly think it might be easier than asking Dorothy out on a date.
“Dr. Warren.” Her face scrunches. “Yeah, I’m not sure about him. I’ve thought about it, and I don’t know what we might discuss. And there are rumors that he’s the hospital’s man-whore, which makes his invitation to take me out on a date that doesn’t involve the on-call room feel a little suspicious.”
Her lips twist. “On the other hand, I’ve heard he’s good at what he does.”
“Mmm … yes. Dr. Warren is an excellent doctor.”
“Oh.” She grins. “I meant what he does in the on-call room.”
Rubbing the back of my neck, my gaze drops to my feet. “Well, I can’t vouch for that. You’ll have to get other references for that.”
“Did the underwear fit?”
I need to get out of here. The conversation has taken way too many sharp turns. My brain hurts from the whiplash. Why didn’t I stick with a simple, verbal “thank-you?”
Babysitting.
Dr. Warren’s inappropriate behavior in the on-call rooms.
The gifted underwear from a stranger I’ve known for all of two seconds.
Really—no words.
Yet, I gave her my phone number. And at the time, my only explanation was impulse … and my mom. I’m not ready to date. But I need to date. The commiserative looks from everyone around me chips away at my sense of self-worth. Yes, my wife left me. But those looks stopped months after it happened and have evolved into “poor thing can’t get over her” looks.
No thank you.
“Yes. They fit just fine.”
“Good.” She nods, a pleasant smile stealing her face for several seconds before it simmers into cork screwed lips. “You need my phone number. I mean. If you want me to babysit, you need my phone number. It’s not like I’m going to call you and tell you when you need a babysitter. Right?”
Why? Why the phone number? Do I really expect her to call me and ask me out? I would have paid top dollar for a shot of clarity and common sense while writing that damn thank-you.
She slips her phone out of her pocket and moves her thumbs along the screen. A second later, my phone vibrates. I glance at the text.
Hi, Dr. Hawkins. It’s me, Dorothy Mayhem. Now you have my number.
My grin grows exponentially. It feels good. Better than good … it feels pretty damn amazing as I glance up at her. “Thanks. I’ll add you to my contacts.”
“Cool. I’ll see you around.”
“Oh … Dorothy?”
She turns. “Yeah?”
“Is Dorothy your grandmother’s name?”
She wets her lips and rubs them together a few times while her brows pull toward her nose. Then her face relaxes, welcoming back that contagious smile. “No, silly. It’s my name.” And just like that, she heads up the stairs as I replay the train wreck in my head.
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