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My eyes widen. “New celebrity client?”
I’m not the only one whose reputation precedes her. Dr. Waldron’s name has been a synonym for successful surgeries that give her clients natural-looking faces, breasts, asses, and tummies for over a decade in Hollywood, in particular.
I’m supposed to be unflapped by the famous people who surrender themselves to her skillful hands. Then again, I don’t take anything for granted.
“No. Something better.” Gold sparks of mischief light behind her blue eyes. “A new neighbor moved into our office building. To our floor. He’s been in there with the contractors for the past three days or so, but I saw him one morning when I walked in.”
“Oh.” Working alongside one of the busiest plastic surgeons in the country, combined with my introverted personality, leaves me little to no time for gossip.
Come to think of it, Michelle doesn’t have a spare moment either.
Now, my interest is piqued. “Okay, and that’s great…why?”
“I gather you don’t even know he exists.” She quirks an eyebrow, her smirk growing.
What’s up with her today? “Should I?”
“The way this gynecologist looks? It’s a sin not to.” Michelle lets out a low whistle that’s totally unlike her. Now that I get it, we both laugh. “I mean, I love my husband, I do. Some men, though…you have to stop and stare.”
“A gynecologist? On our floor?” I ask after our short laughter dies out.
Yes, I inquire about the doctor rather than the man because…priorities.
Matter of fact, I’d rather he wasn’t hot. My yearly checkup is due in three weeks, along with my birth control prescription renewal to regulate my period.
Since my gynecologist’s clinic is located an hour away on the other side of the city, and the traffic over there is the worst, I’ve considered not scheduling a visit. I’m not about to have sex anytime soon, and I prefer using the spare time I have on jogging or catching up on sleep.
But now that we have a gynecologist so close by, I really have no excuse.
I should go see him.
“Yes. Dr. Wentworth.”
Michelle fishes the notebook she carries with her at all times out of her purse. With way too much enthusiasm, she tears a piece of paper out of it and slides it over to me across her desk.
The doctor’s last name and number are scribbled on it in her handwriting.
I should’ve noticed something, I guess. It’s not a shocker that I haven’t, though. I tend to punch in at around seven a.m. to filter the messages Franny, our receptionist, leaves for us.
Some I’m qualified to answer, the rest I save for Michelle when she comes in at nine. I don’t notice much else. Most days I eat in, too, so missing out on the commotion across the hallway is understandable.
I get why I haven’t seen him or the workers around here.
What I don’t get is…
My eyebrows knead together, and I eye Michelle suspiciously. “Why would you write it down?”
“As I mentioned, I’m a married woman.” From the drawer to her right, she retrieves the engagement and wedding rings she takes off before every surgery. She spins them on her finger, smiling at the flashy diamond. “Dr. Wentworth’s left hand, though, was bare. Last time I checked, you, Prue Bishop, are single too.”
“Happily.” Not really, but that’s my business.
Her meddling doesn’t offend me. She fits into the motherly spot that’s been vacant for years, and her doting over me warms my heart. I just wish my looks didn’t screamdesperate to belong to someone.
“I won’t say another word.” Michelle’s facial expression reverts to strict and professional as I unfold myself from the chair. “The magic will happen on its own once you two lock gazes. Or once his gaze locks on…” She signals to my body.
“Michelle!” My reproach is void of any vehemence and is laden with humor.
She shrugs, twisting to answer late-night emails on her computer. “You’ll thank me later.”
