Fools Rush in(23)

Oh, great. There he was, still gardening. He looked at me curiously.

“Everything all right, there, Millie?” he asked.

“Oh, sure,” I gasped. “Just, you know, going for a run. Bye!” I trotted past him again.

My bladder reminded me of its fullness. It was 7:00. I had been running for forty minutes! This was surely a world’s record! My tendons sang. A sharp pain pierced my left kneecap, and I pictured the meniscus shredding. Keep going, I told myself grimly. He had to be coming. My breath rasped in my ears, and I slowed down a little. Digger, the faithless cur, now walked beside me, so sluggish was my stride. But I was still running. I could pick up the pace when I saw Joe’s truck.

By now I was back at Doane Road. Which meant I had to turn around again. There was nothing to do but do it, so I loped in a tight circle to change directions once more.

Is this really necessary? I asked myself. Do we really have to keep doing this? Alas, the answer was yes. As I approached Mr. Demers’s house, I could see the consternation on his face. My own face felt hotter as I blushed. My T-shirt was wet under my arms and sweat-darkened on the chest. Cringing inwardly, I ignored Mr. Demers. Pretended to be interested in a mockingbird instead.

Digger stopped again, crouching in the unmistakable pose of a dog pooping, and I staggered to a stop. Gasping, I looked at my watch. 7:10. I couldn’t go on anymore. My legs shook, my bladder ached, my foot had a cramp in it.

As I used the hem of my now soaked T-shirt to wipe my face, exposing my shockingly white belly, and as Digger crapped in the poison ivy, Joe drove by. He didn’t slow down. Perhaps he didn’t recognize me (please, God). But no, Joe’s golden arm popped out of the truck, and he waved as he turned into the senior center.

I limped back to my car, my Achilles tendons squealing in pain, my face, no doubt, that attractive shade of brick. At the white-shell driveway, Digger sniffed at the site of his earlier attempted defecation.

“Have a great day!” I called to Mr. Demers, who stood watching me with his arms folded in front of him.

“You too, Millie.”

Not likely.

CHAPTER NINE

AS SO OFTEN HAPPENS IN LIFE, love came knocking when I least expected it.

Later that day, I was at work, staring at the anatomy poster in the small office, still smarting—no, cringing—from the earlier debacle. My ever-optimistic mind tried to put a good spin on things, but my black soul refused to forsake the throne.

“Hey, you ran farther than you ever have before!” my mind cheeped.

“Digger was crapping when he drove by,” the soul replied.

“Still, you probably lost a pound,” the mind continued.

“Digger was crapping when he drove by,” the soul repeated. “And he saw your stomach.”

“Dr. Barnes?” Nurse Jill called from the hallway, interrupting the mind/soul argument. I dragged myself into the present. When Jill called me Dr. Barnes, it meant a patient had come in. Otherwise, I was known as honey or sweetie.

“Yes, Mrs. Doyle?” I answered, grateful for the distraction.

“There’s a patient in Room One,” she said, sticking her head into the office with a file and a big grin.

I entered Room One, and there on the exam table sat an extremely good-looking man. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Swarthy skin. Heavy eyebrows, giving him an exotic, Mediterranean look. He held a gauze bandage on his right hand, and there was blood on his denim shirt.

“Hi, I’m Millie Barnes,” I said, extending my hand. As he looked at it pointedly, I realized he couldn’t shake at just that moment. “Sorry,” I murmured with a grin.

“Lorenzo Bellefiore,” he said with a smile.

I managed not to sigh. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, my insides quivering. “What happened here?”

Lorenzo (oh, Mommy!) glanced down at his hand. “I got cut on a horseshoe crab,” he answered, frowning. “I think I might need stitches.”

“All right, let’s have a look,” I murmured, quite, quite glad that Curtis and Mitch had taken me shopping the week before.

In my best doctor mode, trying to focus on the injury and not on the intense lust that was melting my insides, I washed my hands and pulled on latex gloves. Gently peeling away the bloody gauze from the god’s hand, I looked at the wound. Focus, Millie, focus. He was wearing a spicy cologne, and I could just barely catch a whiff of it. Again, I suppressed a lustful sigh, instead giving him a quick and reassuring (I hoped) smile. His eyelashes were sinfully long.

“Yes, indeed, you will need stitches,” I pronounced cheerfully. Suture repairs were tons of fun for me. I loved suture repairs, especially on gorgeous men with delicious names.

“Promise not to hurt me,” he said, cocking an eyebrow.

“I promise,” I purred.

Flirting! We were flirting! With each other!

I called the charming Nurse Doyle and she, with only minimal facial contortions meant to convey her own giddy joy, got the necessary elements for a basic suture repair.

As I went to work on Lorenzo, I asked him a few questions, designed only, I assure you, to put him at ease and not to pry into his personal life. Well, maybe just a little.

“So, Mr. Bellefiore—”

“Call me Lorenzo,” he said, watching me swab his skin with Betadine.

“Okay, Lorenzo, do you live here on the Cape?”