Dr. NEUROtic Page 4

  We talked a big game, but our follow-through was subpar at best.

  The next twenty-three questions went the same as the first two, and by the end of the night, when the MC ran through all of the correct answers, we had only managed a whopping two out of twenty-five. Our only right answers revolved around my expertise in Harry Potter and Friends.

  Question #12: “For Harry's birthday, what color did Hermione turn the leaves of the Weasley’s crabapple tree?”

  My correct answer: Gold.

  Question #19: “What does Phoebe legally change her name to?”

  My second correct answer: Princess Consuela Banana Hammock.

  Nick, the fucking brain surgeon, was zero help. And when I say zero help, I literally mean zero help. The man was absolutely terrible at trivia.

  But, despite the fact that he’d given Fleetwood Mac’s Sex Pants a bad name, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun with someone.

  Nick Raines might have sucked at trivia, but he sure as fuck had caught my attention.

  The bar was dark, and the air felt thick as I shook the last of my Jack and Coke and tipped it to my lips.

  Somewhere over the last five hours, Charlotte’s skin had taken on a sheen that I couldn’t stop analyzing. Was there glitter in her moisturizer that came out the longer the day went on, or did she have a natural glow? Did it taste salty like sweat, or would it be as sweet as her smell? I’d become accustomed to the fragrant lavender, sitting in the aura of it as it permeated off of her, and now that it was time to go, I wondered if I’d notice the difference as soon as it was gone.

  “I guess we have to go, huh?” Charlotte mused, jerking her head toward the bartender who looked like he wanted to wait for us assholes to get the fuck out about as much as I wanted an ice pick to the brain.

  I knew from experience, ice picks to the brain weren’t good.

  Brain surgeon, remember?

  “Looks like it. Looks like he might find a gypsy to curse us if we don’t leave soon.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “It’s only eleven p.m. If he’s upset about closing this late, he probably shouldn’t be in bartending.”

  “It is a Wednesday. Maybe he’s got more patience on the weekends,” I excused.

  “Maybe.” She shrugged and smirked as she put the rim of her wine glass to her peach-colored lips.

  I couldn’t even tell you when we’d switched from beer. Frankly, we’d been so busy talking, I didn’t even know how many drinks I’d had. Good thing I wasn’t driving.

  “Maybe he needs to be slapped by a dick.”

  A startled bark of laughter left my lips, and I reached for her glass. “Okay, maybe you’ve had enough of these.”

  “I just miss the pretty blonde,” she muttered dejectedly, and I laughed again. I didn’t know who she was talking about, but the pretty blonde I knew was still sitting in front of me making adorably tipsy threats of genital violence.

  “What pretty blonde?”

  “The one behind the bar. She gave me our first beers and no attitude.” She snapped her fingers and struck an imaginary line in the air. “That’s what I like in a bartender. Fast alcohol and limited lip.”

  “You know he can probably hear you, right?” I tried not to smile, but I couldn’t drum up even an ounce of austerity.

  “Pshh, duh,” she agreed. “What’s the point in insulting someone if they can’t hear you?”

  I’d never thought of it that way, but the more I considered it, the more I reckoned she had a point. “Okay, fair enough. But we should probably go. I’m sure you have work in the morning, and I know I do.”

  “You’re so responsible,” she teased. My chest tightened with the insult, but she turned it around pretty quickly. “That’s good though. I should probably be more like you.”

  “I haven’t always been,” I offered. “I messed up a fuck of a lot when I was younger.”

  Why the hell am I telling her this?

  “Yeah?” She leaned close and put her hand to my arm. “Really?”

  “Really.” A cold chill ran down my spine at how much I hated some of what I’d done. “Jesus, you’d probably lose all respect for me if you knew.”

  She shook her head nearly immediately, her long blond hair swinging at the ends and tickling at the skin just above each breast. “No way. I’m sure I messed up worse.”

  “Definitely not,” I challenged. I’d left Winnie alone to raise our daughter despite knowing how much it’d affect her. I’d known. I’d watched her cry and listened as she’d told me what she needed, and still, I hadn’t given it to her.

  I couldn’t find a way not to hate myself for that.

  But at the same time, I’d thought I was doing what was best. I was making something of myself, giving them financial support. I’d never have been able to even imagine what would have happened if I’d stayed here and given up the job opportunity in California.

  The problem was with how late I was to realize that money wasn’t everything—seven very important years.

  Determination lined the entirety of Charlotte’s body as she closed her eyes briefly, blew out a breath, and opened them again. “I left my fiancé the night before our wedding.”

  Her one imperfect tooth carved a worried pit into the flesh of her lip as she waited for me to respond. She expected rejection, but I felt no condemnation. Instead, I felt shame in the fact that I really was, as I suspected all along, the biggest asshole.

  My stomach churned as I considered what to say. Whether I should tell her what I’d done—perhaps driving her away for good—or if letting her flounder out there all alone was something I could live with.

  Nervousness hummed through the surface of my skin as the words crawled up my throat and prepared for admission.

  But when they hit the tip of my tongue, the rolling note of the first letter already a signal in my brain, fear and “rational” cowardice changed my mind. I didn’t really know this woman.

  Was I inexplicably drawn to her? Yes. I was.

  But she was a headhunter and I was a doctor, and that was about all that I knew for sure. I couldn’t share something so vulnerable about my past—about my daughter’s past—without knowing her better.

  “I…well, that’s not so bad,” I comforted lamely.

  She took it well, thank God. Laughing loud and wild like a hyena before shoving my shoulder playfully. “Oh yeah. It makes me a real peach.”

  “I’m assuming you were young. People make mistakes when they’re young.”

  She pushed the glass forward before taking the stem between her fingers and twisting it back and forth thoughtfully. The following shake of her head was self-deprecating. “Yeah. And leaving wasn’t wrong. We weren’t right for each other. But the way I did it was.” She shrugged helplessly. “Enough about my failures, though. The only ones that matter now are your absolutely terrible attempt at trivia and refusal to take a perfectly good job.”

  “I told you, I have a daughter here.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right, right. So noble.”

  I nearly fucking scoffed. Fuck, if she only knew. You could have told her, my subconscious poked. But I hadn’t. I guess I’m still a real asshole.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let me get you a cab.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and the tip of her tongue peeked out just enough to wet the seam of her lips. “Okay. But at least give me your direct number. Trivia partners don’t have to go through the main line at the hospital, right?”

  I smiled and pulled my phone from my pocket. As she spotted it, she dug hers out from her briefcase.

  We exchanged quickly and typed our numbers in each other’s phones as the bartender started turning out lights behind us. Literally. It was like an approaching total solar eclipse as the darkness made a run toward us.

  Charlotte scoffed. “Totally needs to get slapped by a dick.”

  I couldn’t say I disagreed.

  But then again, so did I.

  The metal su
bway car I was aboard screeched to a stop at Union Station. Several riders climbed to their feet, including me, and shuffled out of the doors like a herd of sheep until the light of day peeked down the stairs to the outside world. I pushed past the unhurried walkers, the pedestrian version of slow assholes daydreaming through their drive in the left-hand lane, and climbed up from the abyss. Droplets of rain painted the material of my khaki trench coat as soon as I left the tunnel’s cover.

  Rainy. Cloudy. Surly, thick air that clung to your lungs as you tried to breathe.

  Mother Nature might have been depressed, but the otherworld that was NYC bloomed and flourished anyway.

  Prepared for perhaps the first time in my life, I pulled the polka dot umbrella from my purse and popped it open toward the sky a moment later.

  I was generally a chronic forgetter of all things that kept my life from devolving into some kind of rain-soaked hell, but every once in a while, I managed to act like a real adult. It probably had more to do with my extreme excitement over visiting Strand Bookstore, one of my favorite bookstores in the entire world, than anything else, though. The life of a book was important. I’d survive being waterlogged—a vintage copy of Pride and Prejudice would not.

  As a long-term bibliophile, I found nothing excited me more than rows and rows of book-filled shelves and the oh so perfect vanilla musk of the ones that had lived a good, long life.

  That made Strand Bookstore’s Rare Books Room my favorite place. A little gem with plush seats and the most eclectic and wonderful collection of all things vintage books, when I’d last visited, twelve long years ago, I’d managed to find an old cassette tape of Ernest Hemingway reading an excerpt from For Whom the Bell Tolls.

  Tell me you didn’t just get chills.

  Mystery, romance, women’s fiction, autobiographies, paperbacks, e-books, audio, I was a reader through and through. And anytime I could get my hands on something rare and vintage, one page of my book heart grew its wings.

  My heels smacked against the pavement as I crossed the street, and a taxi turning right impatiently honked his horn. Pedestrian crosswalks be damned, apparently, this taxi driver was way more important than anyone else in the world.

  I laughed to myself and ignored his frustration. Some people just weren’t worth the time or energy it took to get angry over something so small. Now, if he’d have run over me with this cab, I would have risen from the grave to stab the motherfucker. But sitting there, honking his horn, and most likely shouting profanities at me from the inside of his cab, wasn’t worth my ire.

  My phone began to ring inside my purse, thankfully after I’d safely stepped onto the concrete and month-old gum of the sidewalk, and I bobbled my umbrella into my left hand as I snagged my cell with my right. After a quick glance at the screen, I answered by the third ring.

  “Hello, Conrad,” I greeted the CEO of Kennedy Medical Center. “I was hoping to hear from you today.”

  “Hey, Charlotte,” he responded. “Sorry it took me a bit to get back to you. I had to attend a last-minute conference in Denver.”

  The smartass in me yelled, and they don’t have phones in Denver? But the woman who wanted to keep working and paying her bills and stuff kept her mouth shut and excused the inconvenience as if it were nothing. Plus, realistically, it’d only been about a day. As much as I wanted people to, they didn’t live on Charlotte Hollis time.

  “No worries. I figured you were busy. Did you happen to read my email?”

  He sighed. “Unfortunately, I did.”

  I’d been expecting this phone call, and this very reaction, since the second I’d clicked send on my carefully crafted email explaining that Dr. Raines had declined the position. Kennedy Medical Center really wanted Nick Raines. And fucking hell, how could I blame them?

  I wanted the good-looking bastard too.

  But I’d eventually make them realize Dr. Sylvia Morris would also be a perfect fit. Sure, she was a woman—something that factored into company decisions enough to make me want to gag—and she didn’t have Nick’s chocolate-brown eyes, but she wanted to relocate.

  “I understand your preference was Dr. Raines, but I can assure you that I have an exceptional candidate that will meet and exceed your expectations,” I explained. “Dr. Sylvia Morris is a more than viable option for your hospital. She is a pioneer in her field and has over ten years of experience as the Chief of Neurosurgery at Cedars Ridge.”

  “Hmm…Dr. Sylvia Morris…” He paused to clear his throat into the receiver. “She has over ten years’ experience?”

  “Yes. She’s also done several viable trials of a tumor regeneration tieback that had a seventy-percent success rate in preventing reoccurrence. She is more than qualified for the position,” I stressed as I finished the short walk to Strand Bookstore. The mecca in sight, I found a clear spot and turned to rest my back against the building as I finished my phone conversation.

  “Can you send her dossier over, and I’ll look through it?”

  “Already done,” I answered. “I spoke with your assistant Patty this morning, and she has the files on her desk.”

  “Fantastic,” Conrad responded. “Can we schedule a video conference with Dr. Morris later this week?”

  Ah, he’s dropped the Sylvia. He’s seeing her as a candidate instead of a woman.

  “Definitely. I’ll work with Patty and Dr. Morris and find a good time for all of us, and I’ll get it scheduled by the end of this week.”

  “Thank you, Charlotte,” he responded. “Oh, and just to let you know, I’ve already contacted CMI, and we would like you to help us with filling another position.”

  I smiled. “I look forward to it.”

  “Good to hear,” he responded, and a few moments later, he ended the call with a brief yet friendly goodbye.

  Another headhunting assignment equaled job security. Not to mention, it was pretty damn fantastic when the CEO of a major LA hospital was so happy with the work you’d done for his organization that he requested you for future assignments.

  Good job, Charlotte. I smiled to myself as I pushed through the doors of the bookstore, and took off my jacket to shake the rain out of it right in the entry—and far away from the pretties. My senses went into overdrive as I took in the gorgeous view—people browsing books, people reading books, people buying books. Just, books. A million different worlds resting between millions of pages and waiting to be explored.

  I'd never been to heaven, but if I had to take a guess, this was what it looked like.

  After a quick perusal of the first floor, I headed upstairs to my sanctuary—The Rare Book Room. All wood floors and a quiet space, the room squeezed on my chest and hugged me right in the heart. The sights and smells of well-used books sitting prettily on the shelves and that undeniable beautiful scent of vanilla and almond—it was just as I remembered.

  I found an open, plush velvet seat nestled between two giant shelves in the corner of the room and happily plopped my ass down.

  Pulling my laptop out of my soft-leather briefcase and resting it in my lap, I took a short detour to my favorite real estate site, but after I came up empty-handed on my ongoing house hunt, I scrolled through work emails and focused on my priority tasks of the day.

  CMI had a home base in Midtown, and since I’d relocated to New York, I’d even obtained my very own office space. But some days, I just needed a place where my coworkers weren’t milling about and interrupting my flow.

  My calendar for today was stacked with five prospects to follow up on, and when I saw the name Nick Raines listed, I smiled like a loon.

  It'd been two days since our trivia night, and if I was being honest with myself, this sighting of his name wasn’t the first time I’d encountered it. Dr. Nick Raines had filtered into my brain a lot over the past forty-eight hours.

  I was fascinated by pretty much everything about him. His insanely intelligent mind. His career. His dry humor. His sexy smile.

  I pulled my cell out of my briefcase and
tapped on my text inbox. Sure, I knew he didn't want to relocate to LA, but let's be real, my "following up" was just an excuse to message him.

  Me: What did Phoebe change her name to?

  His response came a minute later.

  Nick: Princess Consuela Banana Hammock.

  I grinned. So he could at least retain information. Trainable. That was good.

  But my smug high didn’t last for long. My phone pinged with another message.

  Nick: What is the biggest part of the brain?

  I had no idea, and I’d just bet the smartass knew it.

  With a few quick taps to my laptop, I pulled up Google and typed in the question. Instantly, the first few sentences of the top search result caught my eyes. I clicked the link and quickly scanned the first few paragraphs for an answer.

  The biggest part of the brain is the cerebrum which makes up 85% of the brain's weight. The cerebrum is the thinking part of the brain, and it controls your voluntary muscles.

  Aha! I smiled and typed out my researched answer.

  Me: The cerebrum.

  Nick: Google?

  Me: Obviously. Google knows everything.

  Nick: Fleetwood Mac's Sex Pants would be disappointed, you little cheater.

  Me: Haha. It's a damn shame trivia night doesn't use questions from the MCAT, huh?

  Nick: Pffft. The MCAT? That's mere child's play, sweetheart. You don’t really start learning until your hands are in a brain.

  Sweetheart. I grinned. But deep down, I wasn’t so sure he even realized he’d used that sentiment. Surely, he probably called everyone, including his daughter, sweetheart.

  Instead of analyzing, I redirected the conversation toward business.

  Which, I realized was total bullshit. I knew the answer to my question before I even asked it.