“Did you get it?” I finish up and throw away the packaging.
“No.” She shakes her head. “But I did get a friend instead.” She gives me a halfhearted smile. “I mean, I guess I forced myself upon you.”
“You didn’t.” I take her hand and help her off the exam table. “I invited you.”
“Because I begged you.”
“Hey.” I lift her chin, her sad eyes meeting mine. “How about we forget all that crap and enjoy the evening. You have a new cast, you’re no longer Mud Butt, and you finally smell decent.”
“Wow.” She laughs. “What high standards you have for company.”
“I think so.” I lead her out of the doctor’s office and up toward the private residence. “We can make the most of this night, turn that frown upside down.”
“How did I not realize you’re a bit of a goofball?”
“A goofball?” We make it up to the top of the steps, and I open my apartment door. “I’m not a goofball—I’m a strong alpha man that everyone fawns over.”
“Is that where you were coming from when you found me on the side of the road? Nursing a fawning patient?”
“More like a warty patient.”
I shut the door behind her and then make my way to the kitchen. I converted the upstairs to an open-concept floor plan, connecting the living room, kitchen, and dining room into one giant space and leaving the living quarters to the back with the bathroom. It’s small, but it works perfectly for me.
“Wait, what?” she asks. “You did a house call for a wart?”
“It started off with a cough, ended with a wart. I had to come back to the office to get the proper tools to remove the wart, which is why I was driving in the rain.”
She takes a seat at the kitchen island. “So, what you’re telling me is that I owe a debt of gratitude to a wart?”
I chuckle and pull out some eggs and bread from my fridge, along with some milk. “A finger wart, to be exact.”
“Which finger?”
I smirk. “Middle. French toast okay for dinner?”
“That’s perfect. And so, does this mean your patient was flipping you off the entire time while the wart was being removed?”
I crack a few eggs into a bowl and toss the shells in the garbage. “Indeed, the entire time.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
“Honestly . . . used and abused,” I tease.
“Poor Dr. Beau, dragged around Marina Island for wart removals while being flipped the bird.”
With a fork, I whisk the eggs together and add some milk, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a touch of vanilla. “You’d be surprised by the amount of warts on this island.”
“Seriously?”
I nod. “Oh yeah, I’ve made many house calls for warts, which makes me wonder why I don’t keep all the necessary tools in my bag. Maybe someday I’ll learn.”
“What’s been the worst wart removal?”
I walk over to the pantry where I keep my griddle and pull it out. I set it up so it’s facing Palmer and I can talk to her while dunking the bread slices and cooking them. “The worst wart removal? You really want to know?” I bring the egg mixture and bread to the island. Thankfully my griddle heats up fast.
“Oddly, even though this isn’t predinner talk, it’s keeping my mind busy, so yes, tell me your most horrifying wart removal.”
I dip a slice of bread in the egg. “It wasn’t a home visit, thankfully, but I was not expecting to walk into the exam room to an older gentleman with his pants off.”
“Oh my God.” Palmer covers her mouth. “Was it on his penis?” she whispers.
I shake my head and place the bread on the heated griddle. “No, thank God, but it was in the crack of his butt, and it was bothering him, so he had to spread for me, and I had to remove it.”
Palmer cringes. “Oh God, I could not even imagine.”
“Worst part about it? He said I was so gentle that, before he left, he scheduled a prostate exam for the next week.”
Palmer lets out a cackle and covers her mouth. “Dr. Beau, your bedside manner really is impeccable.”
“I enjoy pleasing my patients, in more ways than one.”
“So disturbing.” She shakes her head, grinning.
“You have to have some sort of horror story for traveling.”
“Oh, I do for sure.”
I place another slice of bread on the griddle. “Care to share?”
“I mean, it would only be fair, right? You talked about your butt warts—a wonderful dinner conversation—might as well delight you with something equally fascinating.”
“I’m all ears,” I say with a wink.
“Which means I need a good story.” She sits back in her chair and gives it some thought. I keep my eyes on her and see it the moment she thinks of something that would evenly match a butt wart.
That smile, absolutely stunning. Equally devastating to my will.
“You have a story, don’t you?”
She nods, her cheeks turning pink.
“I do, but oh God, it’s embarrassing. At least your story was about someone else; this is about me.”
“Would it help you if I said while removing the wart, I slipped and accidentally moved my fingers a little too far . . . if you know what I mean? Hence the scheduled prostate exam?”
Her smile lights up the kitchen as she leans forward. “Really . . . you slipped?”
“Unfortunately. Not my finest moment . . . nor was it his. But apparently we bonded, so there you have it. And don’t forget how I passed out on a lady’s butt while giving her a shot. Looks like I have a penchant for fascinating butt stories. I’m sure I have you beat on the embarrassment scale.”
“Okay, that does make me feel better.” She moves her hand through her wet hair, pushing the strands to one side. “I was in Santorini, doing a shoot at this quaint restaurant run by an older couple. It’s been passed down from generation to generation. It overlooked the cliffs and was positively beautiful with the white walls and the blue ocean behind it. Lit only by candles—just so romantic. I dressed up for the occasion, really going for a fancy look in a bright-red silk dress that draped low in the back. I took some stunning photos that are some of my favorites to date.”
“I think I saw those pictures,” I say, glancing up to her surprised face.
“You follow me on Instagram?”
“Yeah.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “Good to keep up on people, you know. Maybe live vicariously through them on occasion.”
“I didn’t know that. I should follow you.”
“Be prepared to be bored. It’s mainly pictures of Marina Island and the hikes I go on. An occasional picture of my food because I heard that’s what you’re supposed to do. I don’t dare use hashtags, though.”
She laughs. “Too scary?”
“Just not clever enough. But I’m Dr. Beau Beau, if you want to follow me.”
“Dr. Beau Beau is your IG name? Oh, that’s great.” She picks up her phone and quickly searches for me. “Found you.” I watch her scroll through my feed. “You’re right, lots of Marina—wait a second.” Her mouth falls open as she looks up at me. “Uh, hello, thirst trap.”