The jake ryan complex, p.7
The Jake Ryan Complex, page 7
He takes one last drink of coffee and then offers me an awkward smile before he makes a quick beeline for the door. I’m not surprised to see that Rerun is hot on his heels.
“Okay if my partner tags along?”
I nod absently, too confused by what’s just happened to give his question much thought.
We had a moment, right?
That wasn’t just me . . . Something happened there . . .
Like they’ve been friends for years, the two disappear out the door and head across the backyard toward Gia’s place, while I’m left to try to reconcile what just happened.
I’m quite certain that I just had a moment with the hot contractor. And I’m 100 percent certain that I liked it. I really, really liked it.
But the hot contractor is married, which is really, really bad.
Not just because that ring means he’s officially off-limits, but because he had a moment with me even though he’s got a hot supermodel wife at home. And being attracted to a guy like that is even worse than not being attracted to a man who cries at the drop of a hat.
Dammit, Jake Ryan. Where are you when I need you?
It’s Claire’s volunteer day at the boys’ school, so I’m surprised to see her van in the parking lot when I arrive at the clinic. I’m even more surprised when I find her walking down the hallway wearing a business suit and nylons. Nylons!
“What’s wrong? Who died?” I ask, eyeing her with caution.
“No one. I’ve got that woman coming in to interview today.”
“Oh right.” I’ve been so caught up in all the J.T.—er, Michael—drama that I forgot we were looking for Claire’s replacement as office manager.
“So, I heard you had a date last night with one of Caroline’s friends.” She waggles her eyebrows. “How’d it go?”
Even though I know Claire would have been as turned off by Daniel as I was, I decide to keep the details of my time with Mr. Sensitive to myself. I’ll fill her in once I’ve nailed things down with Skip.
“So . . . ,” she prods, her blue eyes growing wide with curiosity.
“It was . . . fine.”
She makes a sour face. “Fine doesn’t sound like wedding-date material.”
I shrug. “It just wasn’t a good fit.”
“Why? What was wrong with him?”
The fact that she just assumes I would find something wrong with Daniel is annoying. Not because she’s proving her ridiculous Jake Ryan theory to be true, but because she’s implying that I didn’t give him a chance before I decided it wasn’t going to work, and that’s simply not the case, as evidenced by the heap of cat cards sitting in my garbage.
“Nothing was wrong with him.”
“Oh come on.” She levels me with a hard look. “What was it? Does he wear his pants too tight? Does he drink beer from a straw?”
I scowl.
Who would ever drink beer from a straw?
“I’m just wondering what the deal breaker was, because you’re going to have to start looking past the shortcomings, or you’re not going to have a Michael in time for the wedding.”
“Yes, I’m very aware that I don’t have a lot of time,” I counter. And crying over the negative portrayal of snakes in the media is not a shortcoming. It’s a flipping freak show! “But I’m not worried. I already have plans with someone else Friday night, and I know this guy’s going to be a better fit.”
“Really?”
I nod.
“Who is it?”
I’d like to tell her that his name is J.T., the lip-biting, dog-loving contractor who thinks I’m charming, but I can’t. So instead I respond with the real answer: “His name’s Skip Overstreet.”
“Skip Overstreet . . .” Her lips twist in thought. “Why does that sound familiar? Have I met him?”
“I don’t think so. He’s an OB over at General, or he was until he opened up a private practice last year.” Of course, Andy and Tracy know Skip because our paths all crossed at the hospital, but I can’t imagine a situation where Claire ever would have met him.
She considers him for a moment longer before she lets her thought go with an easy shrug. “Okay, well . . . I hope it goes as well as you expect it to.”
“Oh, it will.” I nod confidently. “Skip’s a really good guy. He’ll make a perfect wedding date.”
Chapter 6
Friday: date night with Skip
Five short weeks until the freaking wedding
I take the Red Line from downtown out to Addison station, then make the short walk to Wrigley Field. Parking at the commuter lot and catching the train was a bit of a challenge, given my busy day, but it’s worth the hassle not to deal with game-night traffic. And, obviously, landing myself a worthwhile wedding date is worth any amount of extra effort.
It’s no surprise to find the iconic red-bricked courtyard outside the ballpark littered with people. Like me, most are sporting their Cubbies ball caps or white-and-blue pinstriped jerseys, but there are a handful of brave purple-wearing Rockies fans mixed in too.
The spring air is cool and breathes thick with the promise of rain, but there’s been no production from the low-hanging clouds yet. Not that a little rain could detour the die-hard Cubs fans like me from cheering on our boys.
Eager to get this evening underway and secure myself an acceptable wedding date, I raise the zipper on my jacket and head toward the Marquee Gate.
As promised, Skip is there waiting for me.
My mouth pulls up into a pleased smile.
He’s just as I remembered: exactly my height with a stocky, athletic build, a news anchor smile, and a right-cheek dimple so deep you could get lost in it.
He’s going to look great in a tux.
With the first pitch just minutes away, we’re forced to limit our greetings.
“Hey, stranger,” I say, and we exchange a friendly hug. His plaid shirt feels warm and comfy against my hands. Not as soft as J.T.’s shirt but still . . . snuggly. “It’s so good to see you!”
“Yeah, you too.” He steps back from me, his blue eyes sparkling beneath his blond brow. Oh yeah, really good in a tux. “I’m so glad you emailed. How’s everything?”
“Great. Busy but . . . you know, good—”
A woman suddenly crashes into my shoulder. “Sorry,” she mutters, then disappears into the moving crowd.
I motion toward the turnstiles. “Should we . . .”
“For our own safety I think we better.”
The seductive smell of concession food steals my attention as soon as we enter the ballpark, reminding me that the last thing I ate was the doughnut I shared with Rerun this morning. Today was volunteer day at the free clinic, which always means back-to-back appointments. There’s never time to eat.
“Okay if we grab something before we sit down?” I motion to the concession booth.
“Absolutely. Eating’s one of my favorite hobbies.”
Because Skip took care of the tickets, I insist on paying for dinner: two ballpark dogs with sides of onion rings and beers. We stop at the condiment bar to load up our dogs, extra mustard and relish for him, and then head to our seats. The announcer has just invited a local Girl Scout troop to the mound to perform the national anthem when we finally sit down: fifth row, field level, just behind the third-base line.
“Very impressive, Dr. Overstreet,” I say, nodding to the coveted view in front of us. I pop an onion ring into my mouth and then stash the rest of my food under my seat until we’re done with the anthem.
“Yeah, unfortunately I can’t take credit for them. One of my patients works in the Cubs’ front office, so she hooks me up with seats whenever I want.”
I scowl. Skip’s patients land him prime seating, while mine set me up with emotionally unstable men. Something’s very wrong with the world.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthem.”
We stand, ball caps pressed over our hearts, and direct our attention to the pitcher’s mound, where the scouts are lined up like fidgety little soldiers in their matching knee socks and green hair bows.
“Poor kid.” Over a stifled laugh, Skip nods toward the smallest of the troop. She’s been bestowed the honor of holding the flag, but with the way the pole is bobbing, she won’t be holding it much longer; it’s way too heavy for her. I grin. Not at her obvious discomfort but at Skip’s teasing response to it. Daniel would be halfway through a box of Kleenex by now.
By some miracle, the little scout manages to keep the flag from hitting the ground through the entire out-of-tune performance, but the moment her troop leader emerges from the dugout, she throws it to the ground and runs off the field, screaming.
Skip raises his beer and says, “Here’s to that kid for holding out as long as she did.”
I raise my beer. “To that kid.”
I keep a cautious eye on him as he presses the plastic cup against his lips. There you go, big boy. Two long drinks, no straws. Suck it, Claire!
The players take the field, and we settle into our seats.
“So, how’s private practice treating you?” I ask while strategically arranging my dinner on my lap. “I mean, aside from the great seats you can have anytime you want.”
He grins. “That’s a hard one for you, isn’t it?”
“The only gift a patient’s ever given me was some chocolate at her six-week postdelivery appointment once—”
“Chocolate’s always good—”
“Not when it’s regifted from Christmas, and it’s July. There was a reindeer gift tag on the bottom of the box addressed to someone named Phyllis.”
He barks out a laugh while giving my arm a flirtatious nudge. “You didn’t even make the chocolate list.”
“Right?” Laughing myself, I tuck a small piece of onion ring into my mouth while shaking my head. “And that was a breech delivery too. I earned my own box of chocolate, dammit.”
“So, what did you do with them?”
“Oh, I still ate them.”
“There ya go! You always eat the chocolate.” This time he raises his beer in my honor.
Good at toasts. That’ll come in handy.
“Seriously, though, private practice is a lot more difficult than I thought it would be,” he goes on, an earnest expression settling in. “I mean, I love setting my own hours and having more face time with my patients, but the business side of things is really tough. What the hell do I know about hiring receptionists?”
“I hear ya.” I take another pull off my beer. “We’re looking for a new office manager right now, and it’s proving to be really difficult.”
“I thought Andy’s wife . . .”
“Claire?”
“Yeah, Claire. I thought she was your office manager.”
“She is, but their kids are keeping her too busy, so she’s having to step back. How do you know her?”
“We sat at the same table at a fundraising event a while ago.” So Claire was right. They have met before. “The Humane Society, I think. Or was it the Rotary . . .”
Skip’s lost in thought, his lips slowly starting to twist over to one side of his mouth. It’s obviously an involuntary act on his part, but it’s sort of sexy. Not lip-bite sexy, but kind of hot nonetheless.
“I don’t remember where—” he goes on, clearing his thoughts with a little shake of his head. “But I do know with all certainty that Andy was wearing a tiara and a pink boa.”
I laugh. “That was the Rotary event. He and Tracy had a bet about one of our patients’ due dates, and he lost. That was the payoff.”
“Ah . . . yeah, okay. I vaguely remember hearing something about that.” He takes another drink. “But, yeah, going back to the Claire thing. I totally feel you. It’s hard to find good, reliable staff. Would you believe in the six months since I’ve taken over the practice, I’ve gone through three different receptionists? How hard is it to answer the phone and schedule appointments?”
An image of Daisy suddenly flashes through my mind. I roll my eyes. Very hard, apparently.
“I guess it just takes a lot of trial and error, huh?”
“Yep,” I say. “And a lot of patience. But you’ll be fine. A year from now you’ll be an old pro.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I appreciate your optimism.” He nudges my arm again. “Attaboys sound a lot better coming from you than my mom.”
An excited grin stretches across my face as I pop the rest of the onion ring into my mouth. I knew this was going to be a good night, but I never expected it to be this good. Skip is great! He’s smart and funny and easy to talk to. I don’t feel quite as relaxed around him as I do around J.T. . . . but it’s still going really well. He’s everything I could possibly want in a wedding date. Or, dare I think it, maybe even a boyfrie—
A revolting sloshing sound suddenly steals my hopeful train of thought. I look to Skip and—
Eeewwww.
Bun bits—
Slosh. Slosh. Slosh.
Stringy onion parts—
Slosh. Slosh. Slosh.
Fleshy chunks of ballpark dog—
Slosh. Slosh. Slosssshhhhh.
I shake my head, willing myself to turn away, but I can’t.
I can’t!
Why can’t I turn away—
Deep-fried batter balls lumping and clumping in the corners of his mouth—
My gag reflex kicks in. I raise my hand over my mouth.
No.
NO!
This is not happening.
Perfect-wedding-date Skip does not chew with his mouth open—
Slosh. Slosh.
GOD!
I pinch my eyes shut, willing the vile sound to go away, but it’s too loud. It’s like he’s inside my head—
Slosh. Slosh. Slosh.
“Hey!” He suddenly nudges my arm, prompting me to pry my eyes open to look at him. My gaze immediately zeroes in on a little pool of brown liquid that’s gathering in the corner of his mouth. A disgusted shudder rattles through my body. How are you a doctor? How do you even function in society?
“Look!” Nodding excitedly, he points toward the outfield. “Issh ussh!”
It’s us?
Cringing, I slowly turn my attention to center field—
Oh. No.
It is us—on the freaking jumbotron—our pixelated faces framed inside a pink heart with the words Kiss Cam dancing across the screen.
“Thish isshh sho cool!”
His words come out smothered beneath his half-chewed, spit-soaked bites, but I’m still able to make out what he’s saying. And contrary to what he thinks, this is definitely not so cool. It’s horrifying! I cower back against my seat, shaking my head, while our neighbors on all sides chant, “Kiss, kiss, kiss . . .”
No. No. No!
“We gotta do it!” Motivated by the crowd, Skip places one hand on the armrest between our seats and starts leaning in closer. Thankfully he’s swallowed most of his food, but the little brown mouth puddle is quickly evolving into a stream that’s now trickling down his chin.
My stomach wrenches, and I turn away from him just as his greasy lips press against my cheek.
The crowd whistles and hoots. The man beside me grouses, “Robbed! He was robbed!” while Skip pulls away from me, grinning with delight.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” he crows. “I’ve never been on the jumbotron before. Have you?”
I raise my hand to my cheek, feeling dirty and violated. No, Skip, I have never been on the damn jumbotron before.
I excuse myself to the bathroom, returning only after I’ve scrubbed my cheek raw and I’m sure that Skip has had ample time to finish his meal. My stomach is still growling for food, but I leave mine sitting under the seat. My brain has eliminated the possibility of eating anytime soon. Probably ever.
Because it’s a tight game, I’m able to keep my attention focused on the field without appearing obvious about my inability to look at him—I can never look at him again—and our conversation is limited to play-related mumbles, which is good, because every time he opens his mouth, all I hear is that revolting sound: Slosh. Slosh. Slosh. I seriously don’t know how he’s managed to survive this long, unless I’m the only person he’s ever encountered who isn’t deaf and blind.
We’re just heading into the bottom of the fifth, and I’m thinking I might be able to survive this night without crawling out of my skin, when Skip spots a food vendor climbing the stairs in the next section over. My lungs vise around my breath, fearful for what’s about to happen.
No. No, no, no . . .
“Nachos sound good, don’t they?”
I whimper.
Nope.
No way.
Without a better plan, I grab my phone from my bag. “Sorry,” I say, staring down at the blank screen. “Patient emergency. Gotta go. But thanks for the game, it was . . . fun.” I bolt out of my seat and make a beeline for the aisle, stumbling and tripping on my neighbors’ legs along the way.
“We don’t have to get nachos!” a confused Skip calls out after me. “We can get something else. Do you want something else?”
I toss a quick glance over my shoulder and nod. Yes, Skip, I definitely want something else.
I’ve never been big on pity parties, but after the week I’ve had, I’m throwing myself one.
I swing by Chicago Joe’s—a family-owned deli / bar / liquor store not too far from my house—and head toward the aisle where he keeps the jugs of premade margaritas. Obviously drowning my frustrations in booze isn’t going to solve my wedding-date dilemma, but at least it will dull them for a while.
It’s no surprise that the deli area is buzzing with activity. Besides Joe’s to-die-for Italian beef sandwiches, there’s always a game airing on the big flat screen that’s mounted to the wall, and tonight’s no different. It’s the Cubs game I just escaped.
I set the bottle down on the counter by the register, my attention focused on the TV in the dining area to my left. It’s the bottom of the eighth now, and the score is tied. Holy crap! We might actually win . . .
“Anything else for you, Doc?” Manny, Joe’s nephew who basically runs the place, asks me.
Despite the savory smell of the sandwiches, I still can’t stomach the thought of eating. But watching the rest of the game with some other fans—fans who aren’t massacring their food and then slobbering the remnants all over my face—sounds kind of nice. Like a little reward for the hell I just endured.
