Satisfaction Guaranteed(2)

“Of course, Doctor Goodman,” he says, hamming it up as if it’s his utter delight to deliver the device.

Meeting Lydia’s gaze, I brandish the thermometer with a grin. “Sabrina might not be so keen on me after this.”

This is the moment when Lydia will back down, I’m sure. They nearly all do when the mercury comes out.

Instead, Lydia emits a sort of coo, like a songbird. “Oh, I bet she’d love that. I’m up for . . . I mean, she’s up for anything.”

Jonathan snickers, and I sigh. I focus solely on the cat, rather than on this cat-and-mouse game of cat-and-woman sublimation. Fortunately, Sabrina’s just fine, and I tell Lydia so when I’m through with the exam. I snap off my gloves, wash my hands, and tell her to keep an eye on her feline. “If anything changes, let us know.”

She smiles seductively at me. “Oh, I will. My pussycat’s health is quite important to me.”

Stay stoic, Malone. You can do it. You’ve done it before. “Yes, I can see that.”

She waggles her fingers. “And if anything changes for you, Doctor Goodman, let me know too.”

Blank face. I give her the 100 percent tabula rasa. “Thanks for coming in today.”

“I’m glad I did.” She rakes her gaze over me. “You’re a regular Doctor Doolittle.”

I’ve only been called that, oh, twelve times a day. But it’s a compliment of the highest order, so I treat it as such. “Thank you.”

She takes a step closer, her stare dropping down, down, down. “Or should I call you Doctor Doolarge?”

I stifle a strangled chuckle—I don’t want to give her any encouragement, especially since I do like her cat, as in the actual feline. “Let’s stick to Doctor Goodman.”

After I say goodbye to Lydia, Jonathan clears his throat, adopting a high-pitched feminine voice. “Tell me, Doctor Doolarge, is it hard being so good-looking?”

I laugh. “It’s the family curse.”

“And such a cross to bear. However do you manage?”

“It’s not easy. Someday, I’ll teach you.”

“Yes, please. I want to know all your secrets.” He shifts to all-business mode. “You have a few clients who requested phone calls.”

I glance at the clock. It’s almost closing time, and I have a show tonight. “No problem. I have time.”

He hands me the call sheet, and I head to my office and pick up the phone. When I’m done, I swing by the front desk where Jonathan and our office manager, Sam, are debating the best spots for craft beer in the West Village.

“Hey, Doctor Doolarge,” Jonathan says, leaning back in his chair, stroking a hand over his bearded jaw. “Got a hot date tonight?”

With her pink hair tied in a huge bun on top of her head, Sam shoots him a skeptical stare. “Don’t ask him that. It’s personal. You shouldn’t pry.” She turns to me, adopts a cheeky smile, then whispers, “But tell me. Are you meeting a secret lady at Gin Joint tonight?”

Laughing, I roll my eyes. “Just my sister and the mic.”

“But it would make such a yummy story. Vet moonlights as lounge singer and meets the love of his life at underground speakeasy. I can see it now.” She spreads her arms wide, making a marquee sign. “They’d want me to play her in the Broadway version of your life story.”

Jonathan scoffs. “You can’t even sing.”

She shoots him a withering glare. “Please don’t ruin my daydreams.”

I rap my knuckles on the counter. “Speaking of dreams, I have a set tonight then a hot date with some paperwork. In fact, it’s the sexiest, steamiest paperwork I’ve ever seen.”

“Just a couple more days, right?” Sam crosses her fingers.

“Here’s hoping,” I add.

“Me too,” Jonathan says.

I head for the door, grabbing the handle.

Jonathan calls out, “Have fun with your paperwork, Dr. Doolarge.” Every syllable drips with mockery.

I will never live down this new nickname with my staff.

But if the deal goes through, I can live with it.

What’s a nickname when you’re about to make your dreams come true?





2





That night at Gin Joint, I sing a Dean Martin tune then slide into conversational mode, tapping a few notes on the piano as I chat with the audience between numbers. “Ever want something so badly you can taste it? Like, on the tip of your tongue?”

A handful of patrons nod, murmuring yes.

“And it tastes so good, so tantalizing, it’s all you can think about?”

A brunette at a table near the front kicks her high-heeled foot back and forth, mouthing yes.

“When I get like that, that’s when I need to lose myself in one particular song.” I dive into Louis Armstrong’s “What A Wonderful World.”

As I play, I’m not only focused on the tune, but on life, and my life is good. In forty-eight hours, my business partner, Doug, will return to town. He’s told me he wants to have dinner to discuss a business proposition, and that’s why I’ve been dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s, prepping the paperwork so I can finalize the deal to buy out his half of the practice.