Page 3 of Brain Damage

“I’m not much for modesty,” he says with a wink.

I’ll bet. He knows how hot he is. That rat bastard.

The mole in question is on Mr. Douglas’s back. It’s about three millimeters in diameter, light brown, and a perfect regular circle. It’s perhaps the least concerning mole I’ve ever seen in my career. If I were to write a journal article about moles that are completely benign, I might consider including Mr. Douglas’s in the article. Not that I would ever write such a frivolous article, although it would actually be an excuse to get in touch with him. Not that I would ever do anything like that.

This guy is really scrambling my brain. Jesus.

“I think you’re in the clear,” I tell him.

He raises his eyebrows at me. “You don’t even want to biopsy it?”

“There’s no need,” I assure him. “It’s completely benign.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Mr. Douglas says. I notice he doesn’t make any movement to put his shirt back on.

“Do you have any other questions or concerns?”

“Yes,” he says. “Just one. Are you allowed to date patients?”

Ha ha, very funny.

He’s making a joke, obviously. Men who look like him don’t actually want to date women who look like me. Not that there’s anything wrong with me exactly, but I’m just in a different league than Clark Douglas. He’s gorgeous, and I’m just average. Maybe if my blond hair were thick and wavy and luxurious instead of short, practical, fine, and really closer to dirty blond. Maybe if I were six inches taller with long, shapely legs. Maybe if I got extensive plastic surgery.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s just a fact of life. Like that the sky is blue and groin fungus is disgusting.

“No, I don’t date patients,” I coolly inform Clark Douglas.

“No exceptions?” he asks, turning the full effect of his Pacific Ocean blue eyes on me. And how does a man end up with such beautiful eyelashes? I would have to empty half a bottle of mascara onto my pale lashes to have that effect.

“No,” I say, hoping to put an end to this ridiculous line of conversation.

I open up his chart to make a note in it. I happen to notice his occupation: attorney. He’s a gorgeous attorney. He probably thinks he’s God’s gift to women, that he’s doing me a huge favor by flirting with me. That I’ll run home and tell all my girlfriends about it. Gee, what a thrill.

He hops off the examining table. He thankfully grabs his shirt and swings it over his head. Unfortunately, he’s even more attractive dressed. Well, no. That would be impossible. But he’s equally attractive dressed.

“What if I stopped being your patient?” he offers. “I can find another dermatologist.”

“I’m afraid not.”

He raises his eyebrows at me. “So you would never go out with anyone who was ever a patient of yours? Even if it was ten years ago?”

I sigh. “Fine. Maybe if it were ten years ago.”

“How about five years ago?”

I shake my head again, but I can’t help crack a smile. I know he’s still just flirting harmlessly, but he’s so freaking charming. It’s hard not to fall under his spell, just a little bit. “Maybe.”

“Now we’re talking…” He nods thoughtfully. “What would you say to… three months ago? What if I ask you out again in three months?”

“Fine,” I say, just to put an end to the whole thing. “You can ask me out in three months.”

Mr. Douglas pumps his fist. “Alright!” He winks at me again. “I’ll see you in three months, Dr. Charlotte McKenna.”

I will never see this man ever again. I’m willing to bet the farm on that.

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