By the time he walked into his apartment, he was more awake than when he’d left the hospital. Between the traffic and the bright sun, his head decided sleep could wait a little longer.
He tossed his keys and his wallet in a bowl by the door and headed to the kitchen. A big bowl of cereal and a glass of milk would give him the right amount of fuel to help him sleep. Or so he hoped. Even a few hours would make the evening better.
His fridge was a void wasteland. The milk was fresh but nearly empty. A few beers and a head of wilted lettuce would keep him from starvation if the big one hit.
Why had his mother placed that image into his brain? Walt didn’t worry about things like that. Truth was, if the big one rocked the southland, he’d be in the ER for days. Food would have to come by way of the cafeteria.
He leaned against the counter as he poured sickening-sweet cereal into a bowl. His eyes landed on Dakota’s book sitting on the counter. He’d already dog-eared a few pages. Admittedly, one passage was filled with steam and attraction . . . the others, however, were witty passages or ones that made him question her personal past.
He was attracted. So much so she found a way into his mind daily since he left her in Miami. No one woman took that kind of space in his mind since Vivian. Even now, years after . . . Vivian’s name in his mind brought up images of their time together.
He didn’t want to do that again. Life was fragile, painfully so. Who knew that better than an emergency doctor who watched people lose their battle with life on a daily basis?
Then he’d read Dakota’s book. Two people from different lives, different histories . . . both having issues that most would never experience nor understand. Their physical attraction was off the charts.
Walt knew that was probably some of his attraction. How could a woman who wrote words so explicit and emotionally compelling be anything but a passionate wonderland under her Lakers cap and sarcastic exterior?
He needed to know a little more about her before he let the wonder of the woman he knew as Dakota, author of sensual romance novels, walk out of his life.
Walt opened the book and picked up his phone.
She answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Dakota.” Her voice had a sleepy quality to it. It brought to mind early mornings and long evenings.
He cradled the phone in his hand and played with the cardboard on his empty cereal box.
“Dr. Eddy. I was wondering if you’d call.”
“Wondering or hoping?”
“Eweh . . . such a leading question. Does the woman say with a breathy tone . . . Oh, Doctor, I’ve just been pining for your call.’ ” The slight Southern accent he’d heard after a drink licked the edges of her voice. “Or does the woman say in a noncommittal tone . . . ‘Doctor who? I forgot all about you.’ ”
“Do you always play out scenes in your head?”
“You read my book . . . you tell me.”
“How do you know I read your book?”
Dakota laughed and something inside him sprouted. “Because it’s a long-ass flight from Miami to LA. How did the Keys hold up?”
“Fine. Minor damage, few problems with the local hospitals.”
“Anticlimactic and not worthy of the fuel to fly there.”
He laughed. “Have you been talking with Trent and Glen?”
“No. But that’s something I’d guess they’d say.”
“You’d be right.”
“I’m an observer of people, Doc. Something I think you and I have in common.”
Walt gave up playing with the box and poured milk into the bowl. “You’re going to have to forgive me. I’m in need of food and can’t seem to end this conversation before I shovel it in my mouth.”
“Ah, honesty. Very admirable. Have you been at work all night?”
“I have.” He went on to tell her about the last three nights, some of the never-ending sagas that became his patients’ lives. He shoveled in a few bites when she offered a comment.
“I’m taking notes,” she told him.
“Untold stories of the ER?”
“No, that’s been done. I’m going with the jaded doc angle. Character profile. I’m using you, Doctor, fair warning.”
“Ah, honesty. Very admirable.” His words mimicked hers and her laugh crawled up his spine again.
“My schedule is stupid,” he told her.
“My schedule is flexible.”
He pushed his unfinished bowl of cereal aside, pulled her book in front of him. “Have any of your stories started with two people simply dating?”
“No. Actually, there’s usually chaos and drama.”
“Dating is too simple?”
“You might say that.”
He would.
“Tomorrow night. I need your address.”
She was silent.
His heart sped.
She started spouting off numbers and a street.
He scrambled to write it down, the half-empty bowl of cereal tilted and fell to the floor.
Shit.
“What time, Doc?”
“Six,” he told her.
“And how should I dress?”
“Casual.” Because he had no earthly idea what they were going to do.
“You’re making this up as you go along.”
“Maybe.”
Her laugh brought a smile to his face. “Again with the honesty. I didn’t used to think that was a desirable quality in a man.”