Tall, athletic build.
Bright eyes that shine with more green than brown in the sunlight.
A flosser’s smile.
And large hands—the strong, capable kind that can break something, not just the kind with freakishly long fingers dangling like jellyfish tentacles from bony appendages. Dr. Hawkins has hands that don’t just hold shit. They command everything they touch.
Or so I imagine.
“Yes.” I spoon another bite of my chicken-less soup.
“You’re eating that cold out of the can?”
I shake my head. “Room temperature.”
He chuckles. “There are microwaves in the break rooms.”
“Yes. But have you seen them? Disgusting.”
Rubbing his lips together, he nods slowly. I try to focus on the bridge of his nose, the safest place to look at people to give them the impression you’re looking them in the eye even when you’re not. However, Dr. Hawkins has no safe zones on his body. I can’t look at him anywhere without physically reacting with a flushed face and racing heart because, if my intuition is right (50/50 chance), I think he enjoys looking at me too. So I keep my focus on my soup, tonguing my teeth to make sure I don’t have parsley stuck between them.
My luck involves miscommunication catastrophes. I think he likes looking at me, but really I just have shit between my teeth—these kinds of miscues.
“Did you eat lunch already?” I ask between sips of soup.
“Yes. I have lunch with my mom on Fridays.” He nods across the street. “She works in that building. I get her favorite salad and take it to her.”
I squint at the building—another medical building. “What does she do?”
“She’s a psychiatrist.”
I nod and swallow. “Talk doctor.”
He grins before bringing his red mug to his lips, still balancing in his squatted position. “Yes, she’s a talk doctor.” Dr. Hawkins clears his throat. “Listen. I just wanted to set something straight. The phone number in the card wasn’t for a babysitter.” He shakes his head, glancing down at the grass between us. “It was because I thought it might be a good idea if I bought you dinner. And I should have just came out and asked if I could buy you dinner, but instead, I put the number in the card and found myself fumbling for the right words … like I am now.” He rubs a hand down his face and whispers to himself, “Jeez, Eli …”
“No!” I set the rest of my soup in my lunchbox because there’s no way I’ll finish it before I need to get back to work. It’s laughable that Dr. Warren thought we could have sex and have time for me to eat my lunch in thirty minutes. “I know you think I shouldn’t have bought you those things … that I shouldn’t have spent the money on you, but I’m financially okay. Really. So please don’t think you need to buy me food. I just went to the store last night. Fridge is fully stocked. Definitely no need to buy me dinner. But thanks anyway.”
Dr. Hawkins drops his head, giving it a slight shake while running his hands through his messy, dirty blond hair. It’s not a new gesture. I seem to bring out that reaction in a lot of people.
Missed cues.
Misunderstandings.
What did I miss?
“I’m terrible at this.” He sighs.
“I don’t know what this is, but I think it’s probably me. If you need to buy me dinner, that’s fine. Just don’t get all … stressed.” My nose wrinkles. “And if you need a babysitter … I can do that too.”
He stands, turning his back to me, scratching his head while surveying the area.
I so desperately want to read his body language, the unspoken words between the lines that I can’t see. Is he mad at me? He looks frustrated.
“Dorothy … Roman likes the cape. I like your shoes and your smile. Both feel like something I need …”
“I got the shoes online. Amazon.”
Dr. Hawkins turns. “Amazon,” he whispers before chuckling an odd chuckle like a crazy man on the verge of losing his mind.
I stand, brushing off the grass from my butt and the back of my legs. “Yes. And my smile is from Dr. Crowe. He’s an excellent orthodontist. I still wear my retainers three nights a week. But you have nice teeth, so I don’t think you need Dr. Crowe.”
He digs his nice teeth into his lower lip, eyes narrowed a bit. “I think you should spend some supervised time with Roman before you babysit him for me. He’s with his mom this week. Would you like to have dinner with us when I have him again?”
“Sure.” Okay. Thank god. It’s not me. It’s him and his concern about a stranger watching his son. That’s cool. Too many parents blindly leave their kids with complete strangers from babysitting services. I respect his approach. If I planned on having kids, it would be my approach as well.