Perfectly Adequate(21)

What is it with women desperately trying to run away from me?

“The previous homeowner had the emus. I was actually there looking at the property the day they hatched. I mentioned how much I like emus … you know, since they’re basically little dinosaurs. So he let me name them. And the next thing I knew, papers were signed, and he moved out. My parents and I arrived with a moving truck, and the two emus were still there. A gift from the previous owner. When I tried to contact him to say I couldn’t accept the gift—for obvious reasons—he never returned my calls.”

“Wow. And I thought I scored when Julie and I rented an apartment just after we graduated from med school and the previous owner left an expensive leather sofa.”

“I bet the sofa cost less money to maintain than Orville and Wilbur.”

“Probably.” I laugh.

“Welp, now you know.” She opens the front door.

“Dorothy?”

“Yeah?”

I push off the banister and erase half the distance between us. Not enough to invade her space, but enough to grab her if she tries to leave. Yes, I realize how creepy that sounds. But it’s exactly what I think. She makes me feel like a child really wanting something, torn up with anxiety at the thought of not getting it … of leaving the store without it.

“I really enjoyed you being here for dinner.”

“Oh …” She nods a half dozen times. “Yeah, Roman is great. I think we got along perfectly. I’d be happy to babysit him anytime it works into my schedule.”

“Yes. Or maybe you could just come over again and have dinner with us? Or we could grab ice cream some evening. Take a hike. Go to a park.” Ask my mom to watch Roman. Make out on my sofa.

Sex deprived pervert!

“Um …” She scrapes her teeth along her lower lip and nods slowly. “Sure. You can never be too safe. I get it. You’d like me to spend a bit more time with him while you supervise.”

Breaking news … Elijah Hawkins scores an F in asking a woman out on a proper date. Why am I using Roman as a crutch? He should be my wingman. I should have him say something to Dorothy that is super sweet and impossible to resist. Like … “Dorfee, my dad is awesome. You should go to dinner with him.”

Too pathetic?

“Welp, goodnight!”

I don’t even get “goodnight” out before she makes it halfway to her car.

“Smooth … real smooth.” I close the door and thump my forehead against it several times.

*

Over the next few weeks, I manage to demonstrate how not to date Dorothy Mayhem.

Step one: Lie to her and say you need a babysitter when you don’t need one.

Step two: When she continues to turn your date invitations into playdates with your son, don’t correct her.

Step three: There is no step three.

Yeah, not dating Dorothy Mayhem is pretty much an easy two-step process. And I’m good at it, maybe the best at it.

I ask her to have coffee one morning, and she suggests a cafe that has great chocolate milk and donuts for Roman.

I ask her to have lunch with me in the cafeteria at the hospital, and she brings lunch for Roman in a brand-new lunch box that matches hers. Only it’s blue and has superhero stickers on it. So … I smile and go get him out of daycare to have lunch with us.

It’s been three weeks, and I have no idea how to end this playdate streak—honesty seems too obvious.

My final attempt is another dinner date (playdate) at my house. It goes well. I put Roman to bed. And as usual, Dorothy tries to escape. But I manage to catch her at the door, determined to make it clear that I don’t need a babysitter.

“Dorothy?” I lower my voice and take a step closer, breaching the safe zone, the one I’d normally keep with a potential babysitter for my son. But she’s not my son’s babysitter. She’s the young woman I’ve obsessed over for weeks. She’s the smile I catch on occasion in the hallway. She’s the “Hey, Dr. Hawkins!” that makes my dick stir when she says it while applying lip balm in the elevator.

Dorothy stares at my chest. Looking at me would require her to tilt her head up. Her eyes double their blinking rate and her cheeks turn red. Dorothy looks stunning with pink cheeks. She releases the door handle and retrieves a tube of lip balm from the pocket of her skirt. Still focusing on my chest, she applies it then rubs her lips together while returning it to her pocket. Coconut scent invades my nose… everything Dorothy Mayhem is coconut.

“Dr. Hawkins?” Her curious eyes glance up at me, wide and expectant.

I want to kiss those glossed lips. Of course it’s impulsive, a product of emotional displacement and abandonment. The stupidity of it all flashes blinding neon in my head. Still … I really want to know if Dorothy Mayhem tastes like coconuts. I want to silence all my scattered emotions, desires, pain, and need with one kiss. My need to feel something new, something promising, nearly kills me.

“You can call me Eli.”

She swallows hard. “I don’t actually think I can.”

“Why not?” I force my gaze away from her mouth.

The second our eyes meet, she averts her attention to her feet. “Because you’re half of the Hathaway-Hawkins duo.”

This is a new one to me. “I’m divorced.”