Page 55 of The Love Dose
“Not funny.”
“Fine, I’ll make some quiet inquiries,” I say, more to get her off my back than anything else. “I don’t need his life story just that he’s not moonlighting as an axe murderer. Good?”
“How will you do it?”
The answer is obvious. “Paul.” He’s no longer on the payroll but he’s the perfect man for the job.
“What about him?”
In jest, I say, “I’ll have him tail Calvin the minute he gets back to New York.”
“Better than nothing,” Sam says, begrudgingly, taking me seriously.
I hear someone in the background shout, “Mooooom!”
Sam says, “Gotta run.”
Before I can say goodbye, she adds, “Text me the Vermont address. If I don’t hear from you every day, I’m calling the cops.”
My reaction is less appalled than grateful. Who else besides the Fab Fifty Club has my back like this?
Only one person. The suspect himself.
Satisfied that I’ve managed things, I head downstairs, this time dressed in designer sportswear that fits me like a glove, accentuating my curves and hiding my bulges.
Calvin is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Rezy. Then I hear a loud scraping and peer out the front window.
Calvin is there, shoveling a path from the front door all the way to the street. Rezy is frolicking close by, sticking to the shoveled walkway. The pup survived the Blizzard of the Century, PTSD-free.
I watch Calvin fill the scoop, tossing the payload aside. It’s an intensely masculine exercise and I find myself wishing I could see the flex of his muscles. The attraction is visceral.
The first time I met Calvin at the hospital, I was fully aware of his good looks. I even flirted with him, shamelessly. But we quickly fell into a budding friendship, speaking on the phone, meeting for the occasional drink or film. It never crossed my mind that things would morph once more, this time into a potential romance.
For a guy in his late fifties, he’s what some would call strapping. He must be building up a sweat because like magic, he unzips his jacket.
I break away from my voyeuristic activity and enter the kitchen. The wood cabinetry has seen better days, the appliances are at least a decade old. But it’s a homey kitchen and surprisingly appealing to me. Like if I concentrate hard enough, I'd see my Nana cooking up pancakes on the griddle, her green and pink apron around her ample waist.
That memory hasn't surfaced in years.
In the pantry, I find cocoa powder, sugar, mini marshmallows and by some Aunt Pearl psychic ability, there’s spray whipped cream in the fridge. I heat up a pot of milk and make two steaming cups of hot chocolate. I can’t recall the last time I turned on a stove. I had people for that.
Calvin may be right about walking away from the litigation for the sake of my health but I can’t simply forfeit millions at the drop of a hat. What of all the things I’ve become accustomed to? The home in the Hamptons, my trips abroad, nightly dinners at the best restaurants. Paul.
Remarkably, the thought doesn’t scare me anymore. I’ll be okay.
I’m about to beckon Calvin for hot cocoa and to share my epiphany when I hear the front door open followed by the banging of boots on the doormat. My heart flutters. It’s so . . . domestic. It feels wonderful.
“Hey,” he says, an already-dried Rezy close on his heels. Calvin’s cheeks are red from cold, his hair sticking straight up after removing his wool cap.
I’m setting a bowl of water on the floor for the pup when right before my eyes, Calvin slips out of his plaid button-down, revealing a white tank top that’s clinging to him, damp with sweat. I now know the true meaning of eye candy.
The muscles I’ve been fantasizing about for days are now on full display and . . . oh boy.
He’s cut. By that I mean, a six pack. I’ve never seen Calvin without his shirt on. Now I never want to see himwithit on.
When did bench pressing become a requirement for practicing medicine? I can practically see him on a calendar—each month showcasing a different version of Calvin. Lumberjack Calvin. Firefighter Calvin. I'm fairly certain it would be a best seller, sparking a drooling epidemic.
He seems oblivious to my brazen staring and eyes the mugs. “What have we got here?”
