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“Well,” I say firmly. “It’s good he’s here then.”
Leonie nods sympathetically.
“Good luck,” she says. “You wanna grab lunch once it’s over?”
I nod, swiveling on my little stool.
“Sure, sounds good. Westville, over on Fourth?” I ask, referring to our local healthy eats joint.
She winks.
“Sure thing, girl. After all, we’re doctors so we gotta eat right by example.”
And I sigh although I shouldn’t. Because Leonie has a point. We are physicians, committed to human health and advancement. But despite knowing loads about nutrition, calories, and exercise, I’ve never been able to get my weight down. I admit it. I’m a big girl, despite my best efforts. And sometimes I wonder if it’s had an impact on me professionally because most people would like to see a doctor who looks like an Ironman competitor. Those folks are the pinnacle of health and endurance, right? So wouldn’t you rather be getting medical advice from someone who’s a role model, rather than a curvy BBW?
But I can’t help it. I’m a big girl and always will be. My hips are wide. My butt is big. And my breasts are ginormous Double Ds that thankfully, are shielded by the loose white lab coat. So yeah, no Ironman for me. In fact, despite swearing up and down that I’m gonna lose weight every New Year, I still haven’t lost my craving for chocolate cake, chocolate donuts, and frankly, anything chocolate. It’s in my blood and I live and breathe chocolate during my time off. What can a girl do? I’ve tried but it’s impossible to resist.
So yeah, Leonie’s offer to go to Westville was kind because she knows about my resolution to lose thirty pounds this year. But I know it’s going to be futile. I’ll eat my salad like a good girl, chewing the carrots and lettuce with a grimace. But afterwards, there’ll be dessert and I just can’t say no. They have the most awesome molten chocolate bombe at Westville and I never leave that place without at least a small taste.
At that moment, our receptionist Brenda interrupts.
“Dr. Parker,” she says, voice trembling with excitement. “Your next patient is here.”
Leonie and I share a puzzled look. Brenda’s sixty with four grown children. She’s seen everything and anything, and is usually as steady as a rock. So it’s unlike her to be nervous about anything. So hearing her voice at an unnaturally high pitch was strange. Leonie hands me the patient’s chart before disappearing into her office down the hall, and I return to the exam room.
“Ready,” I call, poking my head out. “Send Mr. Jackson in please.”
Busily, I bend over as if studying his chart once more. Hmm, there’s not much more than a name and an age, plus a note from the receptionist that there’s a history of prostate cancer in his family. That’s not good, but we’ll address it.
A knock interrupts me.
“Come,” I call in a business-like voice. I’m expecting to see a middle-aged man, maybe someone with a paunch and a receding hairline. A guy with a dad bod, comfortable and flabby after years of marriage and not enough time at the gym. But when the door swings open, a huge, massive male steps in and the breath flies out of my lungs. Because Mace Jackson is built like a giant tank with broad shoulders, a deep, wide chest, and long, powerful arms. But what takes my breath away are his eyes. That cobalt blue gaze seizes mine, and I melt into a puddle right there … although I’m supposed to be in charge.
Chapter 2
Mace
Shit, I don’t want to be here. Pulling up outside of Sunset Medical isn’t exactly any man’s dream because who really wants to go through this ritual? Who wants to go in for a digital exam of your most private part, especially when your family’s got a history of disease?
Fuck this shit. I let the radio blast a little longer, trying to summon my courage. Get with it, the voice in my head scolded. You’re here for medical necessity so quit acting like a pussy and man up.
Gritting my teeth, I open the door and get out, rising to my full height. Fuck. New York is a gritty place and Midtown Manhattan isn’t exactly known for its cleanliness. But whatever. I drove in here from suburban New Jersey because the doctors at Sunset Medical are allegedly the best, and I only use the best. Be it large or small, Mace Jackson gets top of the line treatment all the way from shoeshining to medicine.
Shaking my head with disgust, I stride into the office building, pushing open the heavy glass door. Man, this thing must be bulletproof because it’s so heavy. An elderly woman greets me, her hair in a cap of tight gray curls.
“Mr. Jackson,” she sings. “Welcome to Sunset Medical. I’m Brenda.”
