The Wedding Date: A Christmas Novella (2 page)

What the fuck?

“Murph’s a friend of mine,” she said, her voice cool and flat. “I’m sure he can help you.” She snapped her briefcase shut.

Cody couldn’t believe it. The doctor thing
always
made women go crazy. So crazy that they stopped seeing Cody Brown the man and saw only Cody Brown, MD, their ticket to a McMansion in the burbs and vacations in Cabo.

But this chick was the opposite of attracted. She’d gone downright frosty.

He was in uncharted territory.

Desperate, he went into full seduction mode, hit her with the eye-lock, sexy-smile combo, playing it out in super slow-mo.

First he caught her eyes. Held them. Let a long, silent moment slide by like a river of molasses.

Then slowly, leisurely, as if he had all night to get it done, he curved his lips. First one side. Then the other.

She paused.

He deepened his drawl. “I want
you
, Julie.”

She clicked her pen.

“Give me one day,” he crooned. “Just tomorrow, that’s all.”

Click click. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather rent first? Check out the neighborhoods?”

He shook his head. “I’m not picky. Someplace close to Mass General will do me fine, where I can take Betsy for a run.”

She hesitated, obviously wrestling with some inner demon.

He put his money on the horny Realtor.

“Beacon Hill could work,” she said at last.

Not a smidgen of smugness seeped into his voice. “That where the Old North Church is? One if by land, two if by sea?”

She smiled, finally, a pretty sight. “No, that’s in the North End. You could look there too, especially if you’re a fan of Italian food. The restaurants are amazing.”

He stood up. So did she. She was taller than he expected, which meant she had long legs.

He liked long legs.

“Let’s go try one out,” he said like it was only natural. “I’m sick of room service.”

She looked startled. “Oh. Um. Thanks, but I have a date.” She gave a nervous laugh. “A blind date, actually. And a closing in the morning.”

“Seriously?” he blurted.

Her eyebrows shot up.

He did damage control. “A closing in the morning? I shouldn’t be surprised. You must have lots of those.” He nodded, sagely. Wondered why in the hell a looker like her had a
blind date
.

One of her brows came down, but she arched the other like she was assessing his intellect, wondering if he was actually smart enough to be a doctor. Then she lifted her briefcase and came around the desk, herding him through the door. “I can give you tomorrow afternoon. I’ll line up a few places, and we’ll get started around one.”

“Sure. Let me give you my number.” Maybe she’d get lonely, give him a booty call.

“Give it to Jan,” she said, sticking a fork in his fantasy.

In the outer office, Jan looked like a Munchkin behind her oversized desk. “Take Dr. Brown’s number,” said Julie, on a march to the door. “Then go home. I’ll check in after the closing.” And she was gone.

“Well hell,” Cody muttered. She’d blown him off. What about the eye-lock, sexy-smile combo? He was
sure
that’d put her in heat.

Huh.

He turned to Jan. A new sparkle lit her eyes.

“You’re a
doctor
?” she said.

He let out a sigh.

Chapter Two

J
ULIE SHOULD HAVE
been feeling the warm glow of a job well done. The million-dollar fixer-upper in Newton, Boston’s priciest suburb, was the Andersons’ dream house. And she’d made it happen for them.

That was what she did, matched happy couples with the homes of their dreams. It wasn’t just her livelihood, it was her calling. It kept her busy, fulfilled. And ever since David died and she’d had to let go of their dream house, it had kept her sane.

But at the moment, the warm glow she was feeling had nothing to do with tomorrow’s Westin/Anderson closing, and everything to do with Cody Brown.

In fact, it was more of a slow burn than a warm glow. Julie scowled at her subway-window reflection. In under twenty minutes Dr. Sex-Me-Up had exploded three of her hard-and-fast rules: Couples only, dream houses only, and no doctors in her life in any way, shape, or form.

To top it off, thanks to him she’d run out of time to go home and change clothes. She’d have to sit through dinner with Leo Payne in a perfectly tailored suit that she knew from experience would shrink two sizes at the first bite of pasta.

Damn Cody Brown and his stupid dimple.

Still grinding that axe as she trudged down Hanover Street, she blamed Cody for her three-inch ankle breakers as well. Then she spotted a red scarf at the corner of Hanover and Prince. And instantly regretted her heels all the more.

Amelia had warned her that Leo wasn’t tall. But she hadn’t mentioned that he was actually
short
. Julie would have an inch on him barefoot. In her heels, she towered over him.

Leo, at least, didn’t seem to mind. He gave her an appreciative once-over. “Hi, Julie. It’s great to meet you.”

“You too,” she said. He seemed genuinely nice. She made up her mind to give him a chance.

Then he went up on his toes to buss her cheek, and her determination flagged.

Shallow
, she told herself.
Shallow, superficial, primitive female, secretly hungering for a caveman.

Not coincidentally, an image of Cody flashed through her mind. She shut it down hard. Let Leo take her arm as they crossed Prince Street.

He ushered her into the dimly lit foyer of a slightly upscale but otherwise typical North End restaurant, the kind of place where she was used to getting a great meal served by heavily accented waiters who knew how to wink at a woman without her date catching on.

Leo stage-whispered to her, “I get treated good here. The maître d’ had a slip and fall at the Stop & Shop. A runaway cherry tomato.” He arched a meaningful brow. “They’re the most dangerous vegetable, you know.”

She grinned, grateful that he had a sense of humor . . . until his serious expression told her he wasn’t joking.

Oh boy.

Leo’s erstwhile client showed them to a cozy booth, all red leather and candlelight. Sinatra crooned in the background. As they slid into their seats, Julie made herself ignore Leo’s pudge—anyone would look pudgy compared to Cody—and fanned the embers of optimism, struggling to keep it alive.

But as the waiter uncorked an expensive red and Leo started to download, the last spark fizzled out.

First he took her through the divorce, subtitled “Who Cheated on Who First.” Then the property distribution, down to the last Enya CD. And finally the custody battle, best described as bludgeoning each other with the children.

Then the salads arrived.

It was too cliché to be true. But when nobody sprang out to shout “Candid Camera,” Julie dug in with a fervor, willing her entrée to follow apace. Why, oh why, had she ordered the wild mushroom risotto when the menu specifically warned that it was made to order?

Wine helped. So did bread, warm and slathered with butter. She hit it hard, felt her waistband tighten. Promised herself she’d run it off in the morning.

Her thoughts strayed to the marathon. For three years, she’d thought about running it but never seemed to have the time—or, let’s face it, the discipline—to train. This year, she’d printed a training schedule off the Web, and with four months to go she was on track and feeling physically better than she had since David’s death.

Leo touched her arm. She did a mental head shake. “Sorry. Did you ask me something?”

“I was saying that I get carried away when I get going on my ex.”

Ah, a glimmer of self-awareness. Julie cut him some slack. “It’s obviously still raw.”

“I guess it is.” He smiled, ruefully, and Julie softened some more. He had a nice smile. Strong jaw, white teeth, full lips.

She smiled back.

“So you’ve never been married?” he asked.

“I was engaged, but my fiancé passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice went a little further toward rehabilitating him. “Was it an accident?”

“An illness. He had brain cancer.”

“That sounds awful.” He touched her arm again, a comforting pat that actually had that effect on her.

It occurred to her that he probably had lots of practice comforting trauma victims as he solicited their business, but she dismissed that thought as uncharitable even for her. “Yes, it was awful. Cancer’s awful.”

“I lost my mom to cancer.” He sketched an air circle in his chest area.

She cut him more slack. He wasn’t really
that
short.

The risotto arrived, and it was creamy deliciousness. Leo ordered another bottle of wine, turned the topic to Christmas shopping, and they spent some time bemoaning the traffic at the malls, then moved on to the Pats and their chances of making the Super Bowl.

And then, just as Julie was starting to relax, a stray leaf of lettuce slithered off a passing tray.

Onto the Tuscan tile it plopped, an oily menace three steps from their table. Instantly alert to the personal injury potential, Leo gasped and rose to avert disaster.

Too late. A middle-aged woman in heels higher than Julie’s stepped on it and sailed through the air. It happened in a blink; her feet left the ground, her arms flew to the sides. She landed on her ass, taking out a waiter with a tray full of pasta, who sideswiped a busboy and his pan of dirty dishes.

Crockery shattered stupendously, silencing the place. For five seconds, at least, nobody moved.

Nobody except Leo, her hero, who was already in motion. He reached the woman first, untangling her from the heap, swiping spaghetti from her cheek. Asking if she’d hit her head, hurt her back, bruised her hip.

Too dazed to answer, she watched dumbly as he whipped out his phone and hit 911.

Then others mobilized. A patron helped the waiter to his feet. The maître d’ helped the busboy, then handed him a mop.

Only the woman remained on the floor, guarded by Leo, attentive and in charge. Julie could only admire his Good Samaritan spirit.

Until, that is, the EMTs came in and crowded him out.

Then, as he gave the woman’s hand a last encouraging squeeze, he slipped a business card into her palm.

C
ODY TAPPED A
finger on the bar, and the pretty bartender set another cold one in front of him. Sam Adams, Boston’s finest.

Ignoring the glass, he tipped the bottle, glanced up at the game. The Celtics, what else? Boston fans were rabid. Red Sox, Bruins. The Patriots, for Christ’s sake.

He could get on board with the beer, but the Pats? Forget about it.

His veggie burger appeared, half buried under fries. He poked it with his finger. Overdone, of course. No surprise. He’d long ago accepted that bar menus weren’t designed with vegetarians in mind. He drowned it in ketchup and hot sauce. He could eat an old boot like that.

Taylor Swift whispered through the sound system. A couple canoodling over their wine kept drawing his eye. He had to laugh at himself. For his first thirty-three years, he wouldn’t have given them a glance. Now envy gnawed him. Hit-and-run relationships had lost their thrill. He wanted what those two had—eyes only for each other.

For a couple of months there, he thought he might have found that with Bethany. But all it took was proposing to her to find out she was as bad as the rest of them, just looking for a doctor who could give her a country club lifestyle.

Hell, maybe he should’ve stayed on the family ranch with his brother Tyrell. That way, if a woman came after him, he’d know she was interested in him, not just his earning potential. The irony was, Ty made shitloads more money running the ranch than Cody’d ever make as a doctor. But women didn’t get it, and he was sick of fighting the stereotype. For now, he’d rather be lonely—and damn it, he
was
lonely—than give his heart to another social-climbing beauty queen, no matter how nice her rack.

He was getting set to head back to the Plaza for a pre-shift nap when the blonde who’d been eyeing him from the end of the bar broke away from her gaggle of girlfriends and shimmied her fine ass onto the stool beside him.

“Hey, cowboy.” Her smile was friendly. “What brings you to Beantown?”

He looked down at himself, then back at her. “Is it the boots?”

“Nope,” she said. “I couldn’t even see them from where I was standing.” She cocked her head, assessing. “I think it’s the vibe. You’re too laid back for Boston.”

“Folks do seem in a helluva hurry here.” He signaled the bartender to bring her the drink Texas courtesy required.

She smiled her thanks, then flipped her hair over one slender shoulder. “You’ve got all of us speculating. The smart money’s on undercover federal marshal hunting down a fugitive”—she waggled her fingers to show that was her bet—“but there’s also a vote for billionaire oilman slash venture capitalist, and one holdout for ex-ballplayer turned scout.”

“And you got elected to unlock my secrets?”

“Not exactly.” Her hazel eyes twinkled. “We sort of auctioned you off, and I won.”

That pulled a laugh out of him. “Well, honey, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m just a doctor.”

Her shoulders slumped. Her eyes fell. “Is that all? Just a doctor?”

For a moment he thought she really was disappointed, and his spirits rose. Julie Marone hadn’t been impressed either. Maybe Boston women were different. Maybe doctors weren’t considered a catch in this town.

Then the blonde lifted her head and there it was, the avaricious gleam in her eye. His own shoulders drooped. He could really like this girl. She was smart and pretty and funny, and he could use a friend in this town.

Now all he wanted was to get away from her.

Peeling a few bills from the roll in his pocket, he dropped them on the bar and stood up. The girl’s eyes widened. “Wait. You’re leaving? You didn’t say what kind of medicine you practice. Or where you live. Or if you’ve got a girlfriend.”

“I’m an ER doc,” he said, “which means shitty hours and not-great money. I live in a hotel. And my girl Betsy’s moving in with me next week.”