The Best Medicine

Chapter 4



“MY HUSBAND ALWAYS DID SAY I have an impressive rack.”

In a long line of interesting patients I’d seen this week, Dody Baker was my most colorful. In the five minutes she’d been in my office, I’d learned more about her than I’d personally discussed with a priest, a bartender, a psychiatrist, or my own gynecologist. She was as unfiltered as river water but refreshing in a clumsy, unguarded way.

“Of course, they’re not as buoyant as they used to be,” she said, arching her back to lift her front. “But my nephew-in-law recommended you very highly. He says you’re probably the best plastic surgeon in Bell Harbor. And he’d know because he’s a doctor too. Dr. Desmond McKnight? You must know him.”

I nodded. “Yes, of course, from the emergency department.”

Everyone knew Des. The nurses practically swooned every time his name was mentioned. Not only was he attractive, smart, and nice, he was also madly in love with his wife. The ultimate Prince Charming. Now if I could find a man like him, this whole dating thing might be more appealing.

“Des says you can hoist my girls back up where they should be and even things out a bit. I had that lumperodectomy two years ago and I’ve been a little lopsided since then. See?”

She whipped open her hospital gown to expose her bare breasts, and I just barely contained my gasp of surprise. I wasn’t prepared for that spontaneous visual, but damn, she was right. She did have an impressive rack, especially for a woman of nearly seventy years old and with part of one breast missing.

Still, I took the edges of her gown and tugged the sides back together. “Let’s go through a little of your medical history before I do the exam, shall we?” I looked down at her chart to get my bearings on her case and began reading the notes from her primary care doctor. She had a history of ductal carcinoma but otherwise appeared to be in excellent health.

“They’re expecting any day now, you know. With twins, no less. Although it’s no wonder, the way they go at it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Des and my niece, Sadie. They’re like bunnies, those two. Although my husband, Walter, and I were the same way.” She squeezed her hands together, setting her dozen colorful bracelets to jangling. “Do you have children, Dr. Rhoades?”

There was the children question again. This seemed to be a theme among the Bell Harborites. It must have something to do with the small-town mentality. As if there wasn’t much else to do around here but find your mate, copulate, and procreate.

I shook my head but didn’t look up from the paperwork in my lap. The trick to dealing with overly social patients was to avoid eye contact.

“No, no children,” I said.

“Why? What’s the matter with you?”

Now I looked up. Even for a forthright old lady, that was a ballsy, brazen question.

“What’s the matter with me? There’s nothing the matter with me.”

“Are you married? A pretty thing like you must be married.”

I didn’t bother answering that. “Do you take any medications, Mrs. Baker?” I asked instead.

“A few. Here’s a list.” She fished around in her blue flowered purse before producing a laminated index card and handing it to me. “My niece made me that. She’s a professional organizer. Very fussy. So, are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you married?”

“No.” I looked at the handy little card, which appeared to be color coded by frequency of dose. Nice. I wished all my patients had organized nieces. I jotted some notes on Mrs. Baker’s chart.

She crossed her legs, nearly kicking me with her foot. She wore flip-flop sandals with big pink flowers on them. “Well, in that case, let me tell you, I’ve discovered the most wonderful website, don’t you know? Bell Harbor singles dot com. Computerized matchmaking. Can you imagine? In my day we had to look for hanky-panky the old-fashioned way, at church socials. But now everything is arranged online. I met a simply delightful man on my computer. His name is Brock Lee, but he looks just like Wolf Blitzer. Do you suppose that’s his real name? Wolf?” She paused to examine her fingernail. “Who would name a child Wolf?” she said a moment later. “Unless . . . oh my. You don’t suppose he was raised by wolves, do you? Then it would make complete sense.”

“Mrs. Baker.” I tried to sound respectful but authoritative. “Could we focus on your medical history and talk about what I can do for you cosmetically?”

“What? Oh, yes. Of course. I was just thinking you might want to check that site out, if you’re unattached. But a pretty little thing like you must not have any trouble finding men. Now, about my boobies . . .”

The appointment continued on about as I expected, with several more verbal detours and anecdotes about her children. It was nearly five o’clock by the time I was finished with her. I’d just sunk into my office chair to face the stack of paperwork before me when Delle tapped on my office door.

“You’ve got one more patient waiting, Dr. Rhoades, and you might want to put on some lipstick. As Gabby would say, he’s adorável.”

Ever since my birthday party a week and a half ago, Portuguese had spread through this office like a sexually transmitted disease, but I ignored it, just as I ignored her comment about the patient. I was done, D—O—N—E, talking about men, and babies, and marriage, and dating. Done.

“Thanks, Delle. I’ll be right there.” I pushed aside the stack of papers and rose from my chair.

She looked me up and down. “You should take off your lab coat. You have lovely arms.”

“What?”

“You have lovely arms. And if you don’t mind me saying so, quite a shapely backside, but it’s all covered up by that awful lab coat. Let the man see your tushy.”

All right. This needed to stop. The biddies and the bachelorettes in this town were ganging up on me, and it was starting to piss me off. Even if I wanted to find a man, I wasn’t going to do it on a computer website, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to date one of my patients. Honestly, what was the matter with these people?

“Delle, those kinds of statements are completely inappropriate. I’m here to do my job, not attract some man. Now, please, no more remarks about my appearance, or finding me a husband, OK?” I was tired and cranky, and that made my tone far more harsh than I’d intended. But still, it needed to be said.

Delle’s eyes widened behind her red-framed glasses. Her lips quivered.

Oh, dear heavens. She was puddling up.

Life would be hell for me in this office if I made our beloved Delle cry. I stepped closer and rested my hand on her shoulder as she blinked rapidly.

“I know you have the best of intentions, and I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but I would never date one of my patients.”

She pulled a tissue from the sleeve of her white blouse and dabbed frantically at her nose.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Rhoades. I don’t mean to get all up in your affairs. I mean, your lack of affairs. It’s just that my Ronald and I are so happy together. We’ve been married nineteen years come this August, and every year it just gets better and better. There is nothing quite as wonderful as having the right man by your side. I just want you to experience that special bliss.”


Ah. Yes.

That special bliss.

I’d overheard Delle telling Gabby this morning about her latest interlude with special bliss. It involved something called a Vagazzler.

I patted Delle’s shoulder. “Thank you, Delle. You’re sweet to worry about me, but really, I’m very happy with my life the way it is. Even without a man in it.”

She peeked at me over the rims of her glasses, her eyes bright with moisture. She leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. “I understand. If you like the ladies, I’m OK with that too. I just want you to be fulfilled.”

A gasp of laughter escaped before I could swallow it down. No matter how hard I tried to establish myself as an authority figure in this office, my staff continued to mother me like speckled hens. It made it very hard to tell where genuine concern ended and plain old nosiness began. But in this instance, I believed Delle just wanted me to be happy. And that was sweet.

“I’m not a lesbian, Delle. But once again, thanks for your concern.” I turned her around with my hands on her shoulders and gave a gentle little push. “Now let me go see my patient.”

“Put some lipstick on,” she said without turning around.

I caught my reflection in the tiny magnetized mirror stuck to the side of my filing cabinet. Damn it. She was right. I needed lipstick. I put it on hastily and made my way to exam room number seven, plucking the thin manila folder from the rack outside the room.

I tapped a knuckle against the door in a quick knock, then stepped into the room.

There, sitting on the paper-covered exam table with his long legs dangling over the side, was my felon.

Well, he wasn’t my felon. Just a felon.

Tyler Connelly wore faded jeans and an aquamarine T-shirt that made those eyes of his a neon glow-stick shade of blue.

I stopped short when I saw him, nearly tripping myself in the process. Not because of his symmetrical perfection, but just because I was surprised to see him. Regardless, my entrance was not smooth. “Oh, hello.”

I thought his cheeks flushed a little, but he was so tan it was hard to tell. He stood up and offered half a smile, as if not certain how I’d receive him.

“Hi.” His voice still had that gravelly purr, and he’d gotten his hair cut very short. It made him look older. Not older than me. Just older than he’d looked before.

I glanced down at his chart, which was nothing more than a few sheets of paper. The one from the emergency department had obviously not made its way here. But at least this one confirmed his name was definitely Tyler Connelly.

As if I’d forget.

I took a little breath and held out my hand to shake his. “Mr. Connelly, correct?”

He nodded. “Yes. Tyler.”

His palm was warm against mine, and it seemed as if he held the clasp a little longer than necessary. Maybe he was noticing my fresh lipstick.

I pulled my hand away and looked back down at his paperwork. “Tyler. Yes. Of course. It says here you need some stitches removed. I’m assuming those are the ones I did in the emergency department?”

“Yes.” His cheeks definitely flushed that time.

“Excellent. That shouldn’t take long at all. Please sit down.” I gestured to the exam table and heard the crinkle of the paper as he slid back into his spot. I turned to find the suture removal kit already waiting on the counter behind me. I peeled it open, then pulled out some latex gloves from the box attached to the wall. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long. My receptionist could have had the nurse practitioner remove those stitches.”

“I know. She told me that. But I wanted to wait for you.”

One rubber glove snapped against my wrist. “The nurse practitioner is entirely qualified.”

“I’m sure she is, but I wanted to see you.” I heard him stand back up.

I snapped the other glove against my wrist. A little self-administered aversion therapy to remind myself that attractive men, especially charming ones with criminal records, usually equated with some level of pain. Even in my limited experience, I knew that. I turned around to face him and took note for the first time of how tall he really was. Six two, at least.

“You wanted to see me? Why?”

He leaned back against the edge of the exam table and hooked his thumbs along the edges of his pockets. His head dropped a little as he peered upward.

A friend of mine had a big sloppy dog that used to look at her in much the same way when he was trying to sneak onto the sofa. As if she wouldn’t notice a 160-pound Labrador inching his way onto her lap.

“I wanted to explain about the other day,” Tyler said.

And I wanted to hear his explanation purely for the sake of my own curious nature, but I couldn’t let this patient get under my skin. For that reason, it was imperative I keep this appointment well within the bounds of professional propriety.

“You don’t owe me any explanation. My job is to take care of my patients, regardless of what laws they may have broken.”

He moved one hand from his pocket to rub the back of his neck. “Yes, I’m familiar with that policy, but can I trust you with a secret? Rely on doctor-patient confidentiality?” he asked.

I crossed my arms and stood a little taller to illustrate my personal strength and moral fortitude. “If it’s pertaining to any kind of criminal activity, I’d feel obligated to report it.”

“It’s not . . . exactly.” His shoulders lifted and fell with his fast sigh, then he stared at me boldly. “I didn’t steal that Jet Ski.”

I’m not sure what I was expecting him to say, but that still surprised me. And confused me too. “You might have mentioned that to the police before they arrested you, then.”

“I know, but it’s more complicated than that.”

Of course it was. Jail was full of innocent men caught in complicated situations, but the less I knew about this, the less I knew about him, the better off I’d be. Regardless of how he felt, or what his motivations were for seeing me, I didn’t know him. And no matter how incredibly fine he looked in those jeans, which was very fine, by the way, I wasn’t gullible enough to be swept away by anything he might say.

“Mr. Connelly, I’m very glad to hear you didn’t steal the Jet Ski, for your sake. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

His nod was almost imperceptible.

“All right. You’ve told me. Now let’s get those stitches out, shall we?” I flicked my gloved fingers at him, indicating he should get back up on the table and let me do my job.

He didn’t, though. He crossed his arms instead and stared at me with those irritatingly luminescent eyes. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

I didn’t. And even if I’d wanted to, charm was Tyler Connelly’s superpower. In any other circumstances, I bet he was pretty effective with it. But I was immune. It didn’t matter that my nerves were doing a two-step throughout my body or that my blood fizzed in my veins when his eyes met mine. It didn’t matter that he made me acutely aware of being a woman. A woman alone with a man.

No, none of that was relevant, because this man was my patient. He was eight years younger than me.

Oh, and a thief.

There was that too.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” I said. I crossed my own arms. A standoff.

“It does to me.” His tone was impatient, as if my dismissal was personal. But it wasn’t personal. It was self-defense.

“Why?”

He stared at me a moment, unsmiling. “Because you’re really beautiful, and I don’t want you thinking I steal things. I don’t.” His voice had dropped, nearly to a whisper. It was rich and deep and warm and sent shivers up my spine and down my legs.


This was a problem. Men had flirted with me before, but few had the physical goods to back it up. This one did. And it rattled me to the core, but I couldn’t let him know that. It wouldn’t be professionally ethical. And it wasn’t logical. There was no reason for me to feel so fidgety and fluttery just because some man called me beautiful.

“You bumped your head pretty hard when you hit that boat dock, Mr. Connelly. I think you may have knocked something loose. Now sit down on that table and let me take these stitches out.” I used my bossy attending physician voice, and it seemed to do the trick.

I saw the trace of his smile as he braced his palms against the exam table and slid backward, that dangerous tattoo swaying along with the muscles of his arms.

I took the forceps and the surgical scissors from the suture removal kit and stepped closer. My hip bumped against his knee, but he didn’t move it out of the way. He just looked at me. All smoldery-like.

What a tease. There must be a pile of devirginated, brokenhearted girls in his past. Thank goodness I was beyond all that. I ignored the distracting heat flickering south of my navel. But biology was a funny thing. Apparently my body didn’t care that he was too young, too duplicitous, too unreliable. A broken heart in the making.

“Turn your head toward the side, please. This won’t hurt.”

“I know.” He stared out the window, silent, while I captured the loop of the first suture and snipped it, pulling the end free. Then the next, and the next. He had faint residual bruising, but I’d seen much worse, and his laceration was definitely on the mend. I did good work. His scar would barely be noticeable, especially considering it ran along the edge of his jaw. If he were any other patient, I might have mentioned that, but something told me he’d take it as some kind of invitation.

He started to say something and I shushed him. “You can’t talk while I do this.”

He folded his arms across his middle and slumped down a bit. He let out a sigh, and I could see the muscles in his jaw clench for a second before he relaxed again.

I had the home field advantage here. First of all, I was the one holding the very sharp scissors pointed at his face. And second, I had every reason to be staring at that face. And leaning toward him. It crossed my mind to oh-so-accidentally brush a breast across his bicep just to see what might happen next, but besides being coy, and foolish, and not at all my style, it would also be the most unprofessional thing imaginable. I could lose my license.

Still, the idea was silly enough to make me smile. I pressed my lips together to keep my amusement hidden.

“You’re laughing at me,” he said with no heat or embarrassment in his voice.

“No, I’m not.”

“I think you are.”

“Now who is disbelieving?” I snipped and pulled the last suture and stepped back. “There. All finished.”

“That’s it? You’re done?”

“I’m fast.”

“I wish.”

He smiled at me, so bright I was nearly toppled by the brilliance of it.

Really, I’d like to do a graph of his face. There are quantifiable measurements of facial features that all human beings find universally pleasing. And Tyler Connelly’s proportions were damn near perfection.

I found myself smiling in return.

“Have dinner with me,” he said, leaning forward.

I took a step back, bumping against the counter behind me. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

Why not? There were a dozen reasons. Right?

“Because I don’t date my patients.” That was harder to come up with than it should have been.

“Aren’t you finished with my stitches?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need to see me in this office again?”

“No.”

“Good. Then I’m not your patient anymore. Problem solved.” He moved off the exam table and stood again. He seemed taller than before. Maybe because his ego had inflated.

“Mr. Connelly, I—”

“Tyler.”

I harrumphed. “Fine. Tyler. You’re still my patient. And there are several other reasons I cannot have dinner with you, none of which I need to share.” He didn’t need to know that the lower half of my body was saying, “Yes, yes, yes.” Thank God genitals can’t talk—for oh, so many reasons.

He frowned down at me. “Coffee, then. Let me explain what happened with the police.”

I felt my defenses weakening, but that just wouldn’t do.

“Coffee isn’t necessary. You said you didn’t steal the Jet Ski, and I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” I set down the instruments behind me.

“Fine,” he said. “But don’t tell anyone I didn’t steal it.”

Maybe he needed a CT scan. He wasn’t making any sense. “Why on earth would you not want people to know that you didn’t steal it? That’s ridiculous.”

“I have my reasons. Have dinner with me and I’ll explain.” His smile was coy, seductive. Oh, he was clever. Dangerously, tantalizingly clever. I was the mouse and he was the trap. I did want to know this story, if for no other reason than to understand why he would keep his proclaimed innocence unproclaimed. But being alone with him, even at a restaurant or surrounded by other people, had bad idea embroidered all over it. My curiosity about his situation, not to mention my curiosity about how he looked without that shirt on, must go unsatisfied.

“Do you know what I think, Mr. Connelly?”

His brows pinched together at my refusal to call him Tyler, but I needed to return this discussion to more impersonal and professional grounds. I moved toward the door, pushing down on the handle. “I think we’re finished here.”