Doctor Next Door: An Enemies-To-Lovers Romance Page 2

  I placed the cup of coffee I’d purchased from the hospital cafeteria down on the little table, sitting down next to my best friend. The plastic chair is uncomfortable and hard, creaking under my weight in protest. Joe’s dressed casually in a pair of dark blue jeans and a burgundy t-shirt that hugs his bulky frame. I was honestly surprised to see that his hands were covered in grease and grime from the garage. In fact, I was surprised to see him away from work at all.

  Joe was a good guy, if a little rough around the edges. He wasn’t the type of person to dance around subjects, no matter how sensitive they were. That’s what I liked about him. He was straightforward, shot from the hip. I could always rely on Joe to be honest with me, even if I didn’t like what he had to say. He had a sat little fruit cup in front of him, though he didn’t seem to be too hungry. As a matter of fact, he looked rather tired, so I didn’t know where he got off telling me I was the one who looked like crap.

  “The hell are you doing here?” I chuckled. “Your business finally get shut down for safety violations?”

  “Don’t even joke about that,” he grumbled, but there wasn’t any heat behind his words. “I live and breathe the garage.”

  “I know. It’s gross. And really unhealthy. You here to get all that tar out of your lungs?”

  “I wish. Aunt May took a little tumble getting out of the tub,” he explained.

  “Oh, shit. Sorry. Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, she’ll be fine. Uncle Tom found her pretty quickly and called for help right away. I think the husband-of-the-year award goes to him by default.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “The doctor says she bumped her head on the base of the tub, so they’re keeping her overnight for observation. I had the day off, so I wanted to stop by to check on her.”

  I took a sip of my coffee and nodded. “That’s good.”

  “What’s up with you? Any new developments since the last time we hung out?”

  I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly. “We saw each other a week ago. Not much happens to me.”

  “What ever happened to that girl who gave you her number?” questioned Joe with a raised eyebrow. “The one that was coming on to you at the bar. Did you call her like I asked?”

  A snort escaped my nose before I even had a chance to think. “I’d really rather not get into this here.”

  There was a table of nurses sitting just beside us, whispering away. One of the younger interns –I could tell she was green by the way she sat prim and proper at the lunch table– kept eying me up and down. I happened to glance her way, our eyes locking for a moment before she sheepishly dropped her gaze. Her cheeks turned bright red, and the other nurses sitting with her giggled at the display.

  “Why? You afraid a nosy nurse will pick up the hot gossip?”

  “Yes, actually,” I said, keeping my voice low. “They’re a chatty bunch.”

  “You seriously didn’t call her?”

  “I don’t have time,” I sighed. “Works been crazy. And I quite frankly don’t think I have the energy to date anybody.” Joe raised his brows at me, a smug grin twisting at his lips. I frowned, immediately defensive. “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he dismissed.

  I shook my head. I knew my best friend like the back of my hand. It wasn’t difficult to determine what he was thinking about. “No,” I growled. “The last time you set me up on a blind date was an utter disaster.”

  “Karen wasn’t that bad. I thought you two would have a lot in common.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “She deliberately ordered the most expensive bottle of wine at the restaurant I took her to and got shit-faced drunk. It was a nightmare. I had to tip the waiter one hundred percent because the woman wouldn’t stop making rude comments.”

  Joe grimaced at the details. “Yeah, okay. Maybe it was that bad. But what about Alexandra?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Alexandra. I still have nightmares about all the shoes she secretly charged to my credit card.”

  Joe winced. “Yeah, okay. Sorry I brought her up. But seriously. Man to man. When was the last time you got laid?”

  I coughed, coffee trickling down my windpipe instead of my esophagus. “Jesus,” I grumbled. “Not here, please.”

  “Seriously, dude. You look seriously pent up.”

  “I’m fine,” I insisted. “I’ve been stressed about work. You remember that Chief of Surgery position I was talking about?”

  Joe clicked his tongue. “Vaguely.”

  “Well, I want it more than anything.”

  “And that means your love life has to take a backseat?”

  “It doesn’t have to,” I answered. “But it’s admittedly easier. Fewer things to juggle. Like I said, I don’t have the energy to date. And even if I wanted to, it’s too damn hard trying to find the right girl. I somehow always end up going out with girls who are just interested in my money.”

  Joe crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I guess girls who’re genuinely sweet and caring are a rarity these days.”

  “Exactly.”

  My friend rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Dude, I’m kidding. It’s not that hard to meet a nice girl.”

  “Says the guy who’s perpetually single.”

  “I’m not the one who’s lonely.”

  “I never said I was lonely, Joe.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Do I look desperate?”

  Joe shook his head and chuckled. “No, not desperate. You just have this wide-eyed puppy look that makes the ladies swoon.” He tossed his head in the direction of the neighboring table of nurses, forcing my attention over. The interning nurse was beet red, eyes shooting straight down to her lap when our eyes met briefly.

  “I’m a grown ass man,” I defended. “I don’t have puppy eyes.”

  Joe sighed, slumping in his seat a bit. “You totally do. And the fact that you don’t use them to your advantage makes me jealous. If you’re not going to ask the hot nurse out, I will.”

  “Be my guest,” I snorted.

  “Ah, you’re no fun anymore,” he sighed. “Lighten up a little. You’re way too serious for your own good.”

  “I’m a surgeon. I kind of have to be serious.”

  Joe shrugged his bulky shoulders, tossing a flirtatious wink in the direction of the nurses. Their table erupted into a fit of light giggles. “Who knows, Edgar?” he chuckled. “Maybe the right girl is waiting for you right around the corner. You just have to keep any open mind.”

  At that comment, my mind drifted off to the young woman down the hall from me –the one with an exceptionally horrid taste in music. I was too upset at the time to really give her a second thought. But in hindsight, and for pure entertainment, I wondered what it would be like to get involved with someone like her. She didn’t exactly strike me as someone responsible or orderly. Her wild red hair had been worn in a messy bun. I snorted quietly to myself, the mental image of birds nesting in her hair suddenly popping into my mind. The woman definitely gave off a free-spirit, hippie kind of vibe, which wasn’t my type in the slightest.

  But she did have insanely gorgeous eyes. They were a rich green, deep like the tops of a boreal forest in the springtime. When she talked back to me, refused to give in, I’d been too thrown off to realize she also had a set of beautifully plump lips. What if Joe was right? What if the right girl really was right around the corner? Or in this case, just down the hall. But I shook my head at the possibility. Sure, she was a pretty little thing. She’d piqued my interested. But that was about it.

  “You know me,” I sighed. “Work is the only love I need.”

  “That’s sad, dude.”

  “You’re one to talk. You live in your garage.”

  “Not by choice. My apartments literally above it.”

  “You’re just proving my point.”

  Joe rolled his eyes, but dropped the subject altogether.

  4


  Daliah

  Procrastination and I had a very love-hate relationship. Today was such a beautiful day that all I wanted to do was go outside to the local park and explore. Maybe I could find a nice quiet corner by the man-made lake, surrounded on all sides by tall trees and warm sunlight, and spend the day sketching away as I watched people pass me by. But I unfortunately knew better than to put off unpacking any longer. The mess of boxes I’d left to litter the apartment was starting to affect how I moved around. When I stubbed my big toe on the heavy box in the living room for the umpteenth time that morning, I knew I had to admit defeat and get to work putting everything away.

  I’d left in such a rush that there really hadn’t been any time to properly label anything –a small fact that was now proving to be an entirely awful inconvenience. I opened box after box, starting in the bedroom. As far as organizational skills went, I had none, and opted for dumping several boxes and suitcases worth of clothes onto the unmade bed. I convinced myself that if my mattress was absolutely covered in clothing, I’d be left with no choice but to fold everything to tuck away before the end of the night. It was a trick that I picked up from some self-proclaimed lifestyle guru on YouTube with a couple thousand subscribers.

  “Take that, procrastination!” I cheered aloud to myself, even though the pile of untidy fabrics was nothing but daunting.

  Somehow, the apartment started to feel more like home. Moving from room to room, emptying box after box, things took shape. I decorated the plain white walls with family photographs and various art pieces I’d collected over time. The bookshelf I put together the night before in the living room was now full of beautiful, colorful books of a variety of genres. The heavier texts –mostly coffee table reads– sat on the bottom shelf to keep the rickety structure as steady as possible. My small collection of well-read fiction sat on the top, and the middle shelf was almost completely occupied with sketchbooks I’d kept over the years arranged in chronological order. For the fun of it, I picked up the left-most book and flipped through its contents.

  I liked to keep my old sketchbooks. It was always nice to look back and see how much I’d improved. The very first in my massive collection had been gifted to me on my twelfth birthday by my middle school art teacher. Judging by the colorful cartoon characters I’d scribbled on the ink-stained pages, I was really into Japanese anime back then. My earlier drawing exercises were hesitant, careful. Lines were shaky, and there was evidence of excessive erasing. Characters that I recreated always stood in a pose that hid their hands behind their backs simply because I didn’t know how to draw proper anatomy at the time. Even to this day, hands were a part of the human body that were weirdly difficult to capture.

  But as I continued to browse through the book, a clear change in artistic style started to take place. The more I practiced, the bolder my art became. Thicker lines and finer details became more apparent. Pages became unapologetically messy, experimental. My taste in art started to shift away from duplication and became more stylized, a purer reflection of my inner thoughts and feelings in bold colors and harsh shapes. I chuckled quietly to myself, proud of how far I’d come.

  Let’s face it, Daliah. A monkey could do what you do and make millions.

  I frowned at Todd’s harsh comment, the memory popping up from out of nowhere. I shook my head, as though the action would clear my mind. Today was a good day. Todd was the last thing I wanted to think about. I replaced the sketchbook back on the shelf and got back to work, ignoring the bitterness the memory of our fight left on my tongue.

  Eventually, I made my way to the kitchen, stacking plates and bowls and placing them in the cupboards above the sink. One of the boxes had been wound several times over with thick packing tape, too tangled and sticky to undo by hand. With a nearby boxcutter, I attempted to cut across the tape, tugging hard when the blade was met with great resistance. But in doing so, my hand accidently slipped, the sharp boxcutter slicing right across the length of my left index finger. I hissed and recoiled, my eyes already welling up because of the sting.

  “Shit,” I whined. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  Red dripped onto the cardboard box, soaking into the material. I swallowed hard, immediately squeamish. I’d never been particularly good around blood. A terrible, heavy queasiness settled into my gut and stomach, threatening to make me lose my lunch. My head was light, air suddenly too thin and difficult to breathe. My heart started railing against the inside of my ribcage at a frantic pace, leaving me a shaking mess when I realized I couldn’t remember which box I’d packed my emergency first aid kit in. This was bad. This was really bad. I clutched my hand close to my chest and draped a clean dishtowel over my finger in an attempt to stop the bleeding. I needed to get help and fast. If I didn’t do something soon, I was definitely going to faint.

  I managed to make it out into the hall, stumbling over my own two feet. The floor beneath me felt warped, every step that took me forward a struggle. I dragged myself to the nearest door and knocked, alarmed out how badly my fingers were tingling. A cold sweat had broken out over my brow, and the mere act of breathing was laborious. I leaned against the doorframe and prayed someone would answer. This was one hell of a way to meet my new neighbors.

  The door opened rapidly –much to my relief– just in time for the man on the other side to catch me. The edges of my vision were blurred, as every muscle in my body simultaneously tensed and then relaxed.

  “What the–” gasped my neighbor. To my utter surprise, it was the same man from yesterday evening, the one who demanded I turn down my music. “Hey!” he shouted at me as he carefully supported my weight in his arms. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  “Had a little accident,” I managed, lifting my wounded hand up a little. “Could you… Can I borrow a band aid?”

  “It looks like you’re going to need more than a band aid,” he huffed.

  By the sound of his tone, I thought he was about to turn me away. He didn’t seem any more amicable than he did last night. But to my surprise, the man gently carried me into his apartment and set me down on the nearby couch. He left momentarily, returning with a red first aid kit and a cool cloth that he pressed to my forehead.

  “Lie on your back and lift your legs,” he instructed firmly. The man placed a few couch cushions beneath my feet.

  “How forward of you,” I mumbled, stupidly light in the head. I did as I was told, though, too weak to argue.

  “No, you moron,” he grumbled. “It’s so you don’t pass out.” He pressed the damp cloth to my forehead with a surprising amount of tenderness. The coolness against my skin was an instant relief, a sensation to focus on instead of the queasiness that had taken over my body. He took my hand and inspected the wound, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “How did this happen?” he asked me.

  “Boxcutter. I was unpacking.”

  “What kind of an idiot cuts themselves with a boxcutter?”

  “Idiots who think they’re boxes, obviously.”

  The faintest smile ghosted across the man’s lips, half-amused. “So, not only do you have shitty taste in music, but you’re a smartass, too.”

  “Better than a dumbass.”

  He gave me a real chuckle that time, but said nothing more. The man got to work cleaning up the cut, working with incredible diligence. There was an intense focus in his eyes that held me captive, the threat of an imminent fainting spell slowly passing. Up close, I had to admit that he was incredibly handsome. He had stoic, sharp features that drew in the eye. He reminded me of a marble statue, rigid around the edges with an odd softness about his remaining features. There was an air of seriousness about him, which didn’t seem to match how gentle his motions were.

  At some point I had to look away, not because I was incredibly squeamish and feeling ill –though that was definitely a part of it– but because the longer I stared at him, the warmer my cheeks started to feel. I was hypnotized by the depth of his eyes. At first glance, he seemed intimidating and standoffis
h. Our first encounter certainly didn’t help my initial impressions of him. But now I could see a kindness behind them, a softness that only made itself apparent the closer I was. My other hand twitched, eager to grab up a piece of charcoal and parchment paper to try and capture his eyes on paper.

  “The cut’s deep,” he informed me calmly, “but I don’t think you’ll need any stitches.”

  I listened intently. His voice was smooth, deep like a warm cup of hot cocoa. The first time I ever heard him speak, he had been yelling. But now, when it was just the two of us, sitting across one another in relative quiet, I couldn’t pay attention to anything else except for the rich bass notes of his timber. He sounded like the calming rush of ocean waves washing up onto the shore, or the sweet mixture of heavy rain on metal rooftops while thunder rumbled off in the distance as the accompanying beat of dancing lightning.

  “And how do you know that?”

  He applied a bit of disinfectant over the length of the cut, the rubbing alcohol stinging painfully. I instinctively tried to pull away, but he held firm.

  “Because I know,” was his simple response.

  “You’re a man of many mysteries, I see.”

  “I like to think so. The ladies at the old folks’ home certainly dig the façade.”

  I giggled, raising an eyebrow in amused confusion. “Did you just make a joke? Did that just happen? I didn’t think that was possible.”

  “What? Can’t seniors have a sense of humor, too?”

  “They can. You, not so much.”

  “How do you know I’m not a standup comedian?” he questioned. “You could be insulting my very being.”

  “Are you a standup comedian?” I retorted.

  “No.”

  A laugh rose up from my chest and bubbled past my lips. “Well, that’s a relief. I’ve never been fond of dry humor.”

  “Seems to be working on you just fine,” he chuckled. There was a warmth in his voice I’d never heard before. He seemed like an entirely different person when he wasn’t grumpy and yelling over something as trivial as music playing a bit too loud. He shuffled through his first aid kit, which was stuffed to the brim with supplies, and located a clean bandage. He applied it right away, placing enough pressure on the cut to finally stop the bleeding.