Paging Dr. Hot (17 page)

“Like what?” I ask, exasperated.

Harrison’s jaw tightens. “I’m not sure exactly. But I’ll think of something.”

“Right now I know
exactly
what’s wrong with you!”

That wipes the smug look off Harrison’s handsome face. His green eyes narrow, his lean jaw grows even tauter and his mouth forms a tense line as he considers me for what seems like a long time.

“See you later,” he says in a curt tone. He scrapes his chair back from the table and leaves without a backward glance. As he ambles away in perfect-fitting jeans cupping a muscular butt, Mom’s advice wickedly pops into my mind.
Take a bite of the apple.

I sink my throbbing head in my hands when I hear the door shut. Why do these things happen to me? I have to clear my head of Harrison and concentrate on Alex. I mean, he’s supposed to come in for a taping tomorrow. I hope he’s still onboard for the interview.

Now what? I’m grumpy, confused and badly in need of Fizzy’s gumption and a dose of Romeo’s love. I trudge to the kitchen, pluck the key lime pie out of the fridge and head over to Fizzy’s place.

Romeo: Hot diggity dog! It’s party time at Fizzy’s pad. I’ve eaten up all her treats and now I’m running around her apartment playing with new toys. Best thing of all is that Fizzy had a little surprise for me…

I have one thing to say—ooh, la la! Vive la France.

Chapter Fourteen

Fizzy’s mouth drops open in surprise when she answers the door. She’s wearing a black tee that has
Fizzy Pop
emblazoned in white letters on it (a gift from Romeo), over a pair of black Capri leggings. Her long, red curls are pulled up in a high ponytail and she’s barefoot.

“What happened? Don’t tell me his mother called,” she says in a droll tone.

“Please, not that.” I pause for dramatic effect, before saying, “Harrison made a house call during my dinner with Alex.”

“
No!
”

I make a face. “Yes.”

Fizzy’s blue eyes flash with anticipation. “And?”

“Alex stormed out,” I say, giving her the Cliff note version.

“I see you brought the remedy,” Fizzy says, eyeing the key lime pie. “Come in. I want to hear everything.”

Romeo runs in and bumps into me, followed by a shaggy, little puppy. They run around in circles, yipping and sniffing each other.

“How adorable. Whose is it?”

“Mine.”

Boy, Fizzy moves fast on everything. “Yours? When did this happen?”

“I’ll tell you in a sec.” Fizzy takes the pie from me and puts it in the fridge. “We’ll have some later.” She swoops down and picks up the tiny dog with a poodle’s face and a Schnauzer’s body.

“Meet Coquette, my little schnoodle,” Fizzy says. “Isn’t she cute?”

“Omigod, she’s absolutely precious!” Coquette has dark chocolate, wide-set eyes in a butterscotch-colored face. I pet her wiry outer coat and discover that it’s downy soft underneath, like a Schnauzer’s. “You never told me you were in the market for a puppy.”

“I wasn’t. Harrison called this afternoon and told me that the owner left Coquette at his office yesterday, but she never came back for her. It was a college student who moved to D.C. and couldn’t take Coquette with her. I went right over and picked her up.”

“Wow.” Looks like Harrison and Fizzy are getting close. Their friendship is casual, the kind I had hoped for with Harrison. I squelch the twinge in my heart over not being the only one who is close to him. I can’t fault him for enjoying Fizzy’s company. Who doesn’t?

Romeo, the little ingrate, finally notices me and starts yapping to be picked up. Cuddling him close and enjoying his devoted licks, I fall upon Fizzy’s overstuffed canvas sofa. Romeo jumps out of my arms and Coquette follows his lead. Soon he is back to chasing the schnoodle around the apartment, getting in as many sniffs as she’ll allow him.

I look around Fizzy’s disheveled apartment and feel right at home. Her place is messy, but always fun. Everything about Fizzy is casual and uncomplicated.

“Hold on, let me give them each a piece of pig’s ear so we can talk,” Fizzy says.

Romeo happily carries it to one corner of the kitchen and attacks the crunchy treat, while Coquette prefers to savor hers under Fizzy’s bed. Now we can have a little peace.

Fizzy joins me on the couch and shoves a pile of magazines and DVDs aside so she can prop her bare feet on the teak coffee table. A gold filigree ring sparkles below her garnet painted toenail. She lights up a cigarette and takes a deep drag, exhaling it with satisfaction. “Tell me everything and don’t leave anything out.”

“Ew!” I wave the air around me and give an irritated little cough. “Please put that out,” I say crankily. “You know how much I hate secondhand smoke.” Oh no, I sounded like La Dragona.

Fizzy obliges and then waves her hand in a whooshing motion in front of my face. “There, the air is clean now. Happy? What the hell, Frankie, are you PMSing?”

I shake my head. “Sorry, but I’ve been dealing with two cavemen. You won’t believe what just happened.”

Her blue eyes glisten with excitement. “Harrison threw you over his shoulder, carried you to his place and made passionate love to you.”

“No, but he acted like he wanted to.” A shiver of anticipation snakes up my spine, in spite of myself.

“Wait, hold on. If I can’t smoke, at least we can have pie while you tell me.”

She jumps up and runs to the kitchen, returning with the whole pie and two forks. “Okay, dish.”

When I finish telling her everything, Fizzy topples over, clutching her belly and laughing. “I can’t believe the stuff that happens to you.”

I watch Fizzy’s jiggling tummy and suddenly I’m laughing too. It’s contagious. We giggle and struggle to catch our breath.

Romeo and Coquette return to see what all the fuss is about. Their noses twitch as they sniff around the empty pie plate and lick up a few graham cracker crumbs. Romeo settles on my lap and curls into a ball. Coquette claims her place on Fizzy’s lap and closes her eyes. Within seconds both dogs are snoozing.

“Fizzy Pop, we shouldn’t have polished off the whole pie,” I say, feeling guilty. “Especially after what Alex said to me tonight.”

She narrows her eyes as she leans in. “What did he say?”

“I was about to take my last bite of key lime pie and he took my plate away. Then he said, ‘a moment on your lips, a lifetime on your hips’ and he looked like he meant it.”

“No way!” Fizzy exclaims, looking affronted for me. “How dare he!”

My heart sinks remembering his callous comment. “I know. I mean, he’s all about healthy eating, but why did he have to refer to my hips? Worst part is he said it
after
he had squeezed my butt when he was kissing me earlier.”

“Well, screw him.” Fizzy licks the prongs on her fork, and then stabs the air with it. “Take that, Alex!”

“Yeah,” I agree in a small voice, grimacing. “After devouring this pie, it won’t only be a lifetime on my hips. The calories will follow me to the afterlife.”

“The afterlife will be heaven. Oh, honey.
I’m
not worried about a little junk in my trunk. Latin men love curves, at least Santiago does,” she claims, sassy as ever.

“You mentioned that before. Now tell me about Santiago. He sounds perfect,” I say wistfully.

“Well, I wouldn’t say he’s
perfect
, no guy is. But he sure keeps me happy,” she says with a sly grin.

I frown. “Come on. That’s all you’re gonna tell me? You’ve mentioned Santiago twice this week, but no details. How come I dish and you don’t?”

“Because you’ve got two men fighting over you.”

I cross my arms over my chest and give her a mock glare. “Unless you tell me about Santiago, I don’t want to talk about men anymore.”

“I’ll tell you about Santiago when I hear from him again. He tends to disappear and then resurface,” Fizzy confides in a mysterious tone. “In the meantime, let’s talk about sex.” And then she dissolves into giggles again.

I giggle with her. God, Fizzy’s laugh is so infectious—she could coax a smile out of a corpse.

It’s eleven thirty in the morning and I am having a hard time keeping my eyes open. It doesn’t help that I got about three hours of sleep last night. Fizzy and I not only polished off the key lime pie, but we went back to my place and finished the Pinot Grigio. She and Coquette ended up falling asleep on my couch. When Fizzy tried to leave with me this morning, Romeo kept running out with us, so she left with Romeo on one leash and Coquette on another.

I dial Elise’s number to touch base with her. After several rings she answers, sounding as bleary as I feel today.

“You feeling okay?” I ask her.

“Yeah, just a little sleep deprived,” she mumbles. I hope I didn’t wake her up. “Twins are a lot of work.”

“I’ll bet. How are they?”

“They’re doing great, but me, not so much,” she admits. “All of a sudden, I’m feeling blue. I want to cry all the time.”

“Could it be post-partum depression? Remember how Brooke Shields went through it after her first baby?”

“I guess it finally hit me that my boys are never going to have a father to raise them,” she says, bursting into tears.

“Oh, Elise, don’t feel bad about it. Your brothers promised they’d help raise the twins. And you have your mom and dad too. I’ll bet a great guy will come along soon who will love you and the boys. But in the meantime, you’ll do a fine job raising them,” I say, championing her.

Elise takes several deep, shuddering breaths and I can tell she’s struggling to compose herself. I hear her blow her nose. “Don’t mind me, Francesca. Are you doing okay handling my stuff and yours at work?”

“Yes, everything’s under control. Please don’t give it a second thought.” Truth is, it’s catching up with me—the medical beat and the social scene. At least they’ll be intertwined during the Bowled Over event.

“I have to postpone our breakfast meeting until the following weekend if that’s okay with you. I just don’t feel like going out yet. I am exhausted all the time and I’m struggling to keep nursing the twins.”

“Don’t worry about it. The following weekend works just as well.”

“Thanks. Call me if anything comes up that you need help with.”

“Sure thing.” I hang up the phone feeling sad for Elise. There must be
something
I can do for her…but what?

Ten minutes later, my eyes are glazing over and the computer screen is looking blurry. I wish Vinny wasn’t off today. I could have sent him out for Starbucks.

I slap my face a few times. Wake up! Alex is coming after his rounds, whenever that is—probably after noon I’m guessing.

I tried calling him as I left this morning, but got his voice mail instead. Then I texted him and he wrote back,
“Sorry about yesterday. See you at the station after rounds.”
I’m relieved he sounds contrite and kinda nice, but still…I don’t like the way he left yesterday.

Just as my head nods forward for the third time, I force my eyes open.
Enough already. Stay alert.
It’s useless fighting it. I need a shot of caffeine.

I run next door to Leticia’s bakery for a
cortadito,
strong Cuban espresso coffee served with a splash of steamed milk. I arrive at the entrance and am surprised to find Alex dressed in scrubs, casually leaning against the counter. He is smiling and joking with a curvaceous, young Cuban waitress in a skin tight black dress with a frilly white apron over it, sporting one-inch candy red nails and tons of gold bangles. I hold my breath and stand outside the door, wondering if I should go inside.

When the flashy brunette turns from the counter and wiggles away, Alex checks out her round thighs and ass with a wolfish grin (Horn dog). She returns bearing a plate filled with guava-filled Cuban pastries called
pastelitos
, and a large mug of
café con leche
, which is made with whole milk and sweetened by tons of sugar.

My jaw drops as he consumes not one, but two guava
pastelitos
. He sips the
café con leche
and grabs a third
pastelito
. Speechless and appalled, I watch him devour the heart clogging pastries. Just last night he denied me the pleasure of my last bite of one little slice of key lime pie—the hypocrite!

I smell a rat.

I push the door open, march up and rap him on the shoulder. “How are the
pastelitos
here?” I ask in a snarky tone.

“Francesca!” Alex almost chokes as he gulps down the pastry.

“A moment of guava jelly, a lifetime on your belly,” I say, reaching forward to wipe a glob of guava on the side of his mouth with a paper napkin. I throw the crumpled napkin on his plate and fix him with a challenging look.

That draws hearty laughter from Alex and an arched, tattooed eyebrow from the waitress watching us.

“Sassy,” Alex says, dark eyes glittering with approval. “I like that.”

“What you want?” the waitress asks me in a heavy Cuban accent.

“Un cortadito por favor
,” I say in my best Spanish, trying not to sound like a
gringa
.