Paging Dr. Hot (2 page)

After witnessing that scene between the good-looking young doc and his wife/patient, all I can think of is I want to marry a doctor like him who can assuage my medical fears. Marry a doctor. I
love
the sound of that—it equals no more worrying, which equals getting back to my once carefree self. Most doctors are in their profession to heal and that makes them natural nurturers. I could use some of that nurturing—it sure would be great to feel normal again.

Harrison’s hand settles on the base of my spine as he gives me a gentle nudge. “Let’s go, hon.”

His bold touch sends my thoughts skittering in a different direction. A warm glow suffuses me and I can’t budge. Did he just call me “hon”? In Harrison’s deep voice, it sounds delicious.

I touch his forearm and gaze into his forest-green eyes. “Uh…Harrison. Thanks for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome.”
Harrison gives me a smile so hot it could melt the whole North Pole. I tell myself that he might have a killer grin, but we don’t have anything in common that I know of, except for a love of animals. He craves
extreme sports and I can barely hit a ball with a tennis racket. He gets an adrenaline fix from playing with assassin sharks and I have to watch out for bees.

It’s a real shame he won’t do, I think, looking away from those amazing green eyes. After today’s scare, I’m turning my efforts toward my new goal.

That evening, I share my epiphany with Fizzy, my neighbor and sometimes dog sitter, as we sit on her balcony. She’s in her mid-thirties and a bartender at Mango Mania, her family’s bistro in South Beach. Her real name is Lily, but everyone calls her Fizzy because of the cocktail she invented called the Mango Fizz, a Floridian version of the Italian Bellini.

Fizzy and I met a couple of months ago in the elevator the first day I moved in. It turned out she lives two doors down from me. Once she met my miniature longhaired Dachshund, Romeo, our friendship was sealed.

I avoid giving too many details about Harrison’s rescue, instead telling her about the EpiPen and the awesome scene I witnessed between the doctor and his wife/patient. She leans forward, her blue eyes widening as she listens.

When I conclude with, “So now I’m searching for my doc in shining armor. I’ve decided I’m going to marry a physician.”

“You have?” The corners of her lips twitch as she gives me an incredulous look.

“Yeah. Any kind of doctor will do, as long as he’s smart and kind.” I think for a second. “Well, maybe not
any
kind of doctor…”

Fizzy slumps back in the chair and claps her hand over her scarlet mouth (she always wears red lipstick) as she hoots with laughter. Her fair skin turns bright pink as she wheezes. From the moment I met her, it struck me that Fizzy looks like a Titian painting with her copper red curls and abundant pale curves.

“Stop laughing. What’s so funny?”

“This is perfect. You’re such a hypochondriac, you can visit a different doctor every week.” Fizzy grins. “And it wouldn’t hurt if he’s hot.”

“Very funny.” I give her a grave look. “I’m serious. I’d love a walking, talking WebMD as my husband. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It’s better to have someone else worry about you for a change, so you can get on with living.” Her eyes twinkle. “I heard somewhere that doctors prefer petite brunettes.”

“Really?” I wonder where she heard that…

More giggles. “Kidding. But I’m sure it’ll help that you’re a health nut.”

“Yeah, well
some
people should quit smoking.” I frown at the cigarette in her milk white hand. Fizzy never tans—good thing she avoids
that
danger with her alabaster skin.

Fizzy blows a puff of smoke away from me and tosses her fiery red curls. “How are you going to meet your Dr. Hot?”

“I’m not sure yet. But I’ll find a way,” I say with more certainty than I feel.

“Like?” She sounds dubious.

“I’ll tell everyone that I want to meet a doctor and if they know of an eligible one to give me a heads-up.”

Fizzy snorts. “That might take forever, if at all. What else do you have?”

I hesitate. “Single doctor websites?” I suggest lamely.

Fizzy gives me a “
you
hooking up online?” skeptical look. “Next.” Her voice sounds like a game show buzzer.

“I know, I know—I’m a single woman on TV. I wouldn’t want to end up with a creepy stalker.”

Her upper lip curls into a snarl. “Agreed.”

“So help me come up with something, will ya?”

“It shouldn’t be too hard. Men love your type.” She takes another drag of her cigarette and gives me an assessing onceover. “With your cute hourglass figure, those big brown eyes and that pouty mouth, you can lure any doctor you set out to.”

I make a face. “Thanks, you make me sound like Betty Boop.”

“Nah, it’s a compliment, silly. I’ll help you come up with a plan.”

“Thanks, Fizzy Pop. Maybe we can find one for you too.”

Fizzy takes another drag of her cigarette and blows out smoke rings. “No thanks. I’m not in the market,” she says pleasantly.

“Ooh, tell me about it. New man in your life?” Fizzy never talks about her love life, and whenever I bring mine up she avoids discussing hers.

Fizzy gives me a Mona Lisa smile. “It’s complicated. I’ll tell you another time. Let’s concentrate on finding your Dr. Hot for now. Two heads are better than one.”

I take a final sip of iced tea and get up. “I have to make dinner and feed Romeo. Wanna come over?”

Fizzy follows me to the door. “Sounds like fun, but I can’t tonight. I have plans.”

“Oh?”

The corners of Fizzy’s mouth lift into a naughty grin. “Hot date.” After a long pause, I realize she’s not going to elaborate. “I’ll take a rain check on dinner though.”

“Ha. Only if you dish about your date,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Sure.” Her tone is casual, yet noncommittal. “I’ll bring the wine.”

Romeo: Grrr. Where are you, Francesca? I’m hungry and I have cabin fever. Gotta stretch these little legs, ya know? If we were in the city, I’d be strolling in Central Park, enjoying the crisp autumn air in my Burberry coat and cap.

When we go for a walk tonight, I won’t be wearing anything but my collar. Too bad the Miami weather doesn’t allow for fashion statements in the fall. What fall? It’s late September and it’s hot and humid, even at night. I’d have more luck on my bitch prowl if I were properly decked out.

I know we can’t go back, but I wish we still lived in the Big Apple. I’m a Northern hot dog, not a Miami salsa dog.

Chapter Two

I can’t believe a month has gone by since my epiphany at the hospital. I just woke up from a disturbing dream where I’m a white-haired, withered old raisin begging a scary, shot-wielding nurse to page Dr. Hot for me. Thank God it was a dream, or rather, nightmare. I haven’t had time to follow through on some of Fizzy’s zany suggestions for meeting doctors. Honestly, I’m not sure if she was pulling my leg, but some of her ideas gave me pause. I’ll have to think about that later. If I don’t rush, I’ll be late for work.

I shower and primp. This formaldehyde-free Keratin hair treatment rocks. In no time, my hair is swingy and frizz-free, and I’m ready to devote a little quality time to my darling pup, Romeo. While I pet his caramel-colored long fur, he stares at me with doleful chocolate eyes, pouring on the guilt trip.

“Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” I croon, hoping his favorite lines will perk him up. It’s corny, but I do it in an English accent, which usually makes him purr like a kitten. Not this time—he turns his snout in the air and gives me his back.

“Don’t be like that, baby. Who’s Mommy’s good boy?” I feel terribly guilty about the twelve-hour days I’ve been putting in. I really must get home earlier today. I rub behind Romeo’s ears and then lift the velvety flap and whisper, “Fizzy’s coming over to play with you and take you for a walk.”

Usually the mention of Fizzy makes Romeo yap with delight, but he acts unaffected by the news. I offer him a doggy bacon treat and he refuses it. Gathering him close, I smother his little face in kisses. “Aw, come on, cheer up.” I gently scratch his fur from the top of his silky head to his tail, leaving him limp and satiated long enough for me to get my breakfast together and sit beside him on the couch.

A spoonful of Greek yogurt mixed with raspberries is poised midair between the bowl and my mouth when my iPhone pings with a text from my boss, Antoinette.

Need you at the station. URGENT.

“Uh oh, that doesn’t sound good. Gotta go, baby. Be a good boy while I’m gone. Mommy will try to be home early tonight. I promise.”

Romeo’s response sounds like a mixture of a gurgle and a loud
harrumph
. Sighing, I hand him his squeaky hamster toy, kiss his furry forehead, then grab my keys and dash out.

As I drive to the station, I relive my recent dream and fret about the fact that in one month, I haven’t met
one
eligible doctor. Not that I haven’t thought about it, but I’ve been really busy with work. After hours, I’ve been diligent in fulfilling my promise to St. Jude by organizing a heart disease prevention campaign for women by working with Elise Richards, the medical reporter who will do the interviews.

I’m most happy about Mom, who is so excited about being interviewed on TV. Poor Mom had such a rough time after the heart attack, trying to follow new diet restrictions and forcing herself to exercise. And to make matters worse, she was worried about me and Dad and how we were coping with her recent brush with death.

Dad was the Rock of Gibraltar—but not me. Even though I tried to act serene for her sake, I was sick at heart and a jumble of nerves, worrying about the woman I love most in the world—Mom. After her heart attack, I was tormented by the need to be nearby to lend support and keep an eye on her progress. I left my job in NYC and hightailed it to Miami where I was lucky to nail a job at WBCG. It was pure serendipity (and a lot of fervent promises to St. Jude) that landed me at the TV station as their “Roving Social Diva”.

When I arrive at work, I stand outside Antoinette’s office and brace myself for the “urgent” meeting with her. She answers my knock with a shout, “Hold on. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

So much for her emergency. While I wait, I check my iPhone.

Two messages from Chloe, who lives in Manhattan. The first one: “Hey, Frankie, call me. I told Harrison about your problems with Romeo and he says to bring him in tomorrow morning at nine. His office is open on Saturdays.”

Romeo’s been acting up lately. Before I left for work yesterday morning, he turned up his snout and left me another nasty little present under the dining room table. He was probably mad that I put in another long workday. Either that or he’s having digestive problems. I need to take him to Harrison soon or quit work.

Next message: “Where are you? Call me. I miss you.”

I miss Chloe too. We’ve known each other since we first met as college freshmen. We were roomies for four years and traveled together every summer. She’s the sister I never had. Chloe understands me, and she gives good advice even though she’s stuck in a long-term relationship with Brad, her commitment-phobic high school sweetheart. She dresses retro early 60s and loves Rock Hudson and Doris Day movies, even though she is a feminist at heart. Go figure.

From what she’s told me, Harrison is a bit of a gypsy who doesn’t like to settle in one place for long. He recently relocated from Colorado to Miami and Chloe says he doesn’t know many people here besides his veterinary partner. Even though I told her about the scene I caused at the ER last month, she is convinced we’ll make the perfect pair.

Me? I’m not so sure. I haven’t seen Harrison since that morning at the hospital. Of course, I
have
been keeping a low profile and trying to avoid running into him when I think he might be jogging or walking his dog.

Anyway, dating Harrison is out of the question. If I’m going to marry a doctor, he has to be a people one. I’ve already had my heart broken twice falling for the wrong guys. This time, I’m going to follow my head,
not
my heart. I’ve been too naïve and trusting in the past. It’s time to hone my instincts about men.

A shout from Antoinette gets my attention. I square my shoulders and enter her office.

Without looking up from her computer screen, Antoinette snaps, “Sit down. We need to talk.”

“What’s wrong?” I sink into the chair in front of hers and notice a bulging vein in Antoinette’s taut (thanks to Botox) forehead—a sure sign that she’s stressed out.

“Elise is in labor.”

“Oh, no! Wasn’t she due at the end of next month?” Elise’s medical segments are so popular that she’s neck-in-neck in ratings with Dr. Eric Champlain, Channel 4’s popular medical reporter.

“Tell that to the baby or
babies
. She’s having twins.”

“Yes, I know.” At forty, Elise is a single mother of twins, and now they were born way early. Her temporary replacement hasn’t arrived yet. Talk about complications.

I wonder what all this has to do with me as I watch Antoinette hammer her pen on the desk like a woodpecker’s beak.