This is my worst nightmare. This, right here. Sitting next to my mom, freshly showered and scrubbed—thanks to her assistance—getting questioned about my pierced nipples. I knew coming back to Marina Island would be difficult, but I didn’t think it was going to start like this.
“It wasn’t in Prague.”
“Greece?”
“No.”
“Australia? Those Aussies have a way of convincing people.”
“What? Where did you get that idea from?”
“Their accents. They’re so alluring.”
“You need help.” Desperate for a distraction, I glance around the old converted Victorian home. “When did the doctor’s office switch to this? Who feels comfortable getting checked out in an old mansion? Kind of freaky, don’t you think?” The living room is filled with seats and couches that are far from modern or stylish. And, according to the sign, the “exam room” looks to be in the dining room, shut off by a pocket door. Call me skeptical, but this doesn’t read “doctor’s office.” And yet, no one seems to care.
“Do you seriously not remember anything from last night?” Mom asks.
“No. Why? Did I ask the same question then?”
Before she can respond, the door opens to another room, and a nurse comes out, holding a tablet.
“Palmer Chance, we can bring you back now.”
“Bring me back”? That’s a term nurses use when they’re weaving with a patient through a hallway, not through a doorway.
As I stand, Mom joins me, and I shoot her a look. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Going back with you.”
“Mom, I’m twenty-seven. Pretty sure I can handle a follow-up appointment.”
“Is that so?” she asks with a raise of her brow. “What exactly happened to you, again?”
“You know . . . the whole wrist thing and then, uh . . .” I pause and think about it, but nothing comes to mind. “Ugh, fine. Come on.”
With a smirk, she places her hand on my back, and we walk into the exam room together. I take a seat on the table while Mom takes a seat in a chair. The room is a light-teal color with dark-stained wood, a combination I don’t care for too much. But the curtains are a nice soft touch to the sterile space.
“How are you feeling this morning?” the nurse asks.
Other than trying to scrub the thought of my mom bathing me out of my memory, completely fine.
“Little confused about how this all happened, slightly in pain, partially embarrassed—do you have any medications for that?” I joke.
The nurse smiles. “I’ll ask Dr. Beau.”
Dr. Beau . . . Beau . . . my stomach drops for a brief second before I shake off that feeling. No, it’s just a coincidence. Dr. Beau—he must be new.
The nurse takes my vitals and asks me a few questions, and then she enters some notes into her tablet. “Dr. Beau will be right with you.” She closes the pocket door, and I can hear her still tapping away on her tablet on the other side.
Not wanting to talk about my health, or the bomb that was dropped last night, I revert to an easy topic—the party. “So, Cooper ordered a cake?”
“He did. I believe it’s some sort of butterscotch thing.” Mom folds her hands on her lap as she takes in the exam room. “Those curtains are quite lovely.”
“Butterscotch?” I grimace. “Why would he choose that? God, first an email for invites, now a butterscotch cake? What is going on with him?”
“I think he’s stressed. We’ve been asking a lot of him lately. I believe he’s overwhelmed. And butterscotch is a nice flavor.”
“Well, then he needs to speak up.” I brush a piece of lint off my leggings. “If he’s overwhelmed, then I can take over. Butterscotch cake . . . honestly. You two are old, but you’re not unsophisticated.”
Just then the door slides open, and in walks a tall man in a pair of navy-blue chinos, a white polo shirt, and a matching white lab coat. His short brown hair is styled to the side, typical brown boots finish off his casual outfit, and when he looks up with a smile, his hazel eyes meet mine.
Well, hello, Dr. Beau.
“Palmer, how are you feeling?”
Oh, look at him coming in with a deep, masculine voice—a voice that oddly feels familiar . . .
Do I know this guy?
*Mentally taps chin*
“Uh, Palmer, Dr. Beau asked you a question.” When I don’t answer, as I’m too busy trying to place him, Mom adds, “You’ll have to excuse her; she’s failing to act normal this morning.”
Dr. Beau laughs, and I am not kidding you: the sound of his laugh actually hardens my nipples. Just like that.
Laugh.
Nipples hard.
I’m pretty sure that’s the first time this has ever happened to me. I need to text Laramie. Hell, at this point, I need to call him, because I’ve been on Marina Island for less than twenty-four hours and I’ve already broken my wrist, cut my head open, and experienced hard nipples from a man’s laugh. This is easily best friend material that needs to be dissected and discussed.
Dr. Beau sets down his tablet and approaches. My eyes land on his chest, and I know my eyes aren’t deceiving me when I notice the outline of his pecs under his white lab coat.
Oh, Dr. Beau . . . you naughty man, getting your workout on and then wearing shirts that show off the time you spend clanking metal around in the gym. Bravo.
As I’m mentally applauding the man for his obvious workout routine—I bet his abs are better than Cooper’s—Dr. Beau reaches up and grips my head, sending a waft of his cologne in my direction.
“Tom Ford,” I say, taking a deep sniff. “Oh yeah, that’s Tom Ford.”
“Oh dear. No, honey, this is Dr. Beau,” Mom says, stepping up to me and pressing her hand to my shoulder. “I truly think she has lost her senses. Could she have suffered a concussion last night?”
“Possibly, but she checked out fine last night,” Dr. Beau says, his aura doing all kinds of different things for me.
“No, he’s wearing Tom Ford, Noir Extreme,” I say and, for some reason, take Dr. Beau’s arm and sniff the length like it’s a line of coke—something I’ve only seen done in movies but imagine this is what it feels like nonetheless.
Also . . . maybe I have lost it a little. I don’t sniff strange men’s arms.
Where’s the class, Palmer?
Dr. Beau chuckles. “She’s correct on my cologne, so maybe she hasn’t lost all of her senses.”
“See?” I look at my mom and tap my nose. “Schnoz is still working.”
“And your memory?” Mom asks, hand to her hip.
“My memory is fine—I was just drunk. Sometimes when you drink, you forget things.” And sometimes the next morning, it takes longer to process things.
“Uh-huh.” Mom’s eyes light up. “Is that why you’ve failed to acknowledge Dr. Beau?”
“Failed to what?” I glance over at the doctor. “I said hi.”
“Technically you didn’t, but that’s okay,” Dr. Beau says, now leaning against the cabinets in the exam room, arms crossed over his chest.
“Okay . . . fine . . . hi, Dr. Beau. You’re wearing Tom Ford Noir Extreme, and it smells nice. Thank you for wrapping up my arm last night, which forced my mom to bathe me this morning. That was not at all humiliating or scarring.”