She stripped naked and looked at herself in the mirror.
Perfect. She worked at it, for one, and for two, the good Lord had blessed her with this bone structure, these green eyes, this blond hair (enhanced at a salon every four months), these perfect breasts, these long legs. Time to put those blessings to work, and do a little research.
For the next few weeks, she was glued to her computer, researching the most common orthopedic problems, the most challenging surgical techniques, the latest developments in artificial joints. She would not come across as a girl on the hunt for a sugar daddy, no way.
She ordered high-heeled beige shoes with bright red soles (Christian Louboutin knockoffs from China, but would a man be able to tell?). On her day off, she drove 170 miles to the nearest Nordstrom. Sitting down at the Dior makeup counter, she asked the young man to make her look “more sophisticated and a little older.” He got to work, telling her about using contour, eye shadow, finding a signature red lipstick. She bought every product the clerk used, and then found four body-hugging dresses, two that were work chic and two that were evening fabulous, all of which would show off her figure without making her look trashy. A brown leather pencil skirt and a sleeveless ivory mock turtleneck sweater in the finest cashmere. She’d never had anything cashmere in her life, and she loved how it felt against her skin. A tight pair of on-trend jeans and a classic white button-down shirt. Last, Melissa splurged on a pair of simple, dead-sexy Manolo Blahnik black suede pumps for the day. They felt like heaven, and the price tag didn’t even bother her. She deserved these shoes.
In the figure-hugging red dress and fabulous shoes, with the Dior makeup enhancing her beauty just enough, the girl in the mirror looked like the woman Melissa wanted to be. She wasn’t book smart, she acknowledged that. She was people smart, though.
And she knew that for this venture—to bag a doctor as a husband—she had to look rich and classy, not just pretty. Surgeons didn’t marry underemployed personal trainers.
On the appointed day, she made the fourteen-hour drive down to New Orleans, parked in the cheapest lot she could find, then summoned a luxury car from Lyft to take her to the Roosevelt.
Oh, gosh. The hotel was dazzling—the columns, the potted palm trees, the intricate tile floor and the gentle, plentiful light that washed everything in gold. It was all so beautiful that champagne seemed to bubble through her entire body. She belonged in places like this.
She checked in at reception, asked if there was a shuttle to the convention center, learned that there was and went to her room. The most beautiful room she had ever seen. A king-sized bed! A minibar! Oh, my gosh, look at this bathroom. Free shampoo and body wash and lotion, oh, my goodness gracious!
She ordered room service (expensive!) and stayed in, strategizing, reading up on orthopedic surgeries, hospitals throughout America, things a medical student would know about.
At eight the following morning, she walked confidently through the lobby in her tight black dress, sexy as hell but conservative, too, in that it wasn’t too short and the neckline was modest. Gold hoop earrings, a knockoff Cartier watch, the Manolos, and a pre-owned Prada bag she had gotten off eBay. A woman needed an impressive handbag. She wore her hair in a neat bun with a few wisps left out.
“Good morning,” she said as she got onto the bus. “Who’s excited for today?” It broke the ice. Five men, two women. “Since we’re all staying at the same hotel, let’s introduce ourselves,” she said. “I take it everyone’s a doctor?”
There was one drug rep. She crossed him off her mental list. There was an APRN (off the list as well). The two women would be of no use, which left three men, one who looked to be about seventy, the other who had a wedding ring on his left hand. Still, he was a contender, and quite handsome to boot. But the last man, though not as good-looking, had salt-and-pepper hair and a gleam of interest in his eye. “Dennis Finch,” he said, shaking her hand. His grip was firm; his hands were soft.
“Melissa Spencer,” she said. “I hope everyone is planning to enjoy the city while we’re here. We can’t just sit in seminars all day, not in New Orleans, right?” Thus followed restaurant recommendations, the best place for beignets (some kind of donut) and nonmedical chatter that Melissa could handle and guide with ease.
When they got to the convention center, the driver opened the bus door. Dennis lingered, offering his hand to Melissa as she got out. “I can’t believe you’re wearing those shoes for a conference,” he said, gazing at her legs. “The orthopedic surgeon in me says not to.”
“What does the man in you say?” she said, lifting an eyebrow.
“He says thanks,” Dennis answered with a chuckle.
They went to the entrance, where someone was scanning badges. “Shoot,” she said, pretending to look through her purse. “I can’t believe it, but I left mine at the Roosevelt.”
The guy let her through.
“You don’t look old enough to be a doctor,” Dennis said.
“I actually just passed the MCATs, Dennis,” she said, having done her research, “and I gave myself a couple years off before starting med school. I did a little physical therapy before this.” She didn’t want him to think she was too young, after all. “I know I want to be an orthopedic surgeon, though. I thought it might be wise to get the lay of the land from this perspective, rather than when I’m an exhausted and overcaffeinated resident.”
“Smart woman. How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight,” she lied, adding five years to her age. Young enough but old enough. “Where do you live and practice, Dennis?”
“New York. I’m at NYU Langone, but I’m also a partner in a private surgical center.”
“I’ve been reading about those. Cutting through the red tape and all that.”
“Exactly. Where did you go to undergrad, Melissa?”
“Wesleyan,” she said. She’d learned to drop Kansas from the name.
“Ah, Connecticut. The gentlest state.”
“It is, isn’t it?” she said, though she wasn’t exactly sure where Connecticut was. Up north somewhere. New England? She did know, however, that Wesleyan was almost an Ivy League school, so all the better. “Tell me about your experience, Dennis. Are you where you hoped you’d be professionally? Has NYU been good to you?”
“Absolutely, but I’ll give you some advice. Invent something if you’re an orthopedic surgeon. Get a patent on a new device. That’s where the real money is.”
“Really? Well, for now, I just want to help people get out of pain. Oh, gosh, that sounds so smarmy! Forgive me!” She gave a self-deprecating laugh, brought her well-manicured hand to her lips.
“Not at all! Shall we walk around together?” Dennis offered.
She accepted. He asked if she was free for dinner that night. She was. Eight o’clock? Perfect. She parted ways with him midday when he was about to go into a conference about the latest developments in hip replacements.
“There’s a seminar I’m dying to see,” she said. “But I’ll meet you in the lobby at quarter till?”
“Sounds perfect.”
She leaned in and pressed her cheek against his, hoping he’d smell her Chanel perfume—she’d talked the lady at Nordstrom into giving her a tiny sample. “I’m looking forward to it.” Then she pulled back. “Oh, gosh. You’re not married, are you?”
He held up his empty left hand. “Divorced this past year.”