What a Girl Wants (16 page)

“I’m going to park in the lot across from Union Square. We can take the cable car up to the hotel and then maybe do a little shopping on our way out.”

“That sounds wonderful. I haven’t been on a cable car since I was ten.”

“I’ve never been on one,” he admits.

“Where did you grow up?”

“Atlanta.”

“Georgia?” Ah, Southern chivalry.
Well, no wonder.

He nods and now I am absolutely dumbfounded by this enigma in the tattered seat beside me. He is dressed like an Armani model, smells like a masculine woodsy spice that is clearly not drugstore cologne fare, and yet driving a complete piece of junk in the city.

“My parents are actually here from Georgia for a surgical seminar. They’re staying at the Fairmont.”

“Are they planning to meet us?” So
not
ready to meet the parents.

“If you don’t mind. I realize that’s bad form, but they’re too busy with the conference to come all the way down to Stanford.”

“Of course not. I’d love to meet your parents.”

“They’re dying to meet you.”

My stomach flutters at his touch. I’ll admit I’m leery. Despite the dumpy car, this guy is just too right, too successful, too everything. But he holds his hand out and helps me from the car and my stomach flutters again. I can literally feel the electricity pulsatng between us. We have our own amazing current that sizzles like bacon. I swallow hard. We both stand there looking at one another hungrily, and I know I’m walking on dangerous ground.

“We should get to the restaurant,” I say, to plan an escape route from this passionate current I don’t want to take, but know I must.

He clears his throat. “Absolutely.” As I turn away, he pulls me back gently into his arms. And he kisses me softly on my cheek, then quickly redirects to my mouth. I can feel my pulse racing, glad that there are no heart monitors present for Doc Kevin to read. This is not like me, to be kissing on a first date, but I feel completely safe in his arms and, at the same time, in desperate trouble. I’m helpless, breathless, finding it difficult to step away . . . It is he that ceases kissing first and pulls away to stare into my eyes and caress my cheek. He breaks our gaze and drops his arms from about my waist. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what got into me.”

Oh, Lord, I am treading dangerous undertow waters. Deliver me.
I haven’t actually started the date and I’m falling. Am I so desperate?
Is he?

15

I
’m in the elevator of the world-famous Mark Hopkins Hotel, brushing my skirt casually as if I haven’t just lost all judgment. I toss my hair before remembering it’s only about five inches long—kind of loses the effect. Once the elevator doors shut, I am instantly mortified. I’m overcome by the sickening-sweet scent of restroom soap fumes. My expensive cologne is vying miserably against the vaguely familiar smell. I’m tormented. Do I say something? Like,
Hey, I know I smell like a public restroom, funny story
actually
. . . or do I just ignore it?

If Kevin has noticed my industrial-strength odor, he’s keeping it to himself. I have hope, because hospital soap is much more antiseptic-smelling, so maybe he’s not familiar with the standard bubblegum-meets-strawberry-meets-sanitation department fare.
I pray.

My silence is too obvious, and Kevin is looking at me expectantly. So I smile and tilt my chin like I’m just so darling. “I am really glad you picked me up at the airport.”
Ack. I hope he knows
that I meant “pick me up” in the pure sense of the phrase.

“Me too,” he says, ignoring my blushing face. “It was nice to be back in the world again. My first two years of residency are officially over. This deserves a celebration. And what could be better than my dad picking up the tab for such a party?”

“It’s nice your parents are meeting you here. They know I’m coming, right?”

“Of course they know you’re coming. They’re anxious to meet you. Remember?”

My eyes narrow, “What do you mean ‘they’re anxious?’ What did your parents think of Arin?”
Where did that come from?

He rubs his chin. “We were never serious enough for them to think anything, but they thought she wasn’t intelligent enough for me.”

I laugh. “My mother doesn’t think anyone is intelligent enough for me. What is it with parents that they think their children are all geniuses?”

“I
am
a Mensa member.”

Okay, little freaky.
I would think most people around here are intelligent enough to join Mensa.
Actually taking the time to test?

Weird.

He shrugs and tries to laugh off my silence. “Aren’t you a member?”

“Um, no.”

“Did you ever try?” he asks, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to join Mensa.

“Not my thing,” I explain.

“Well, do you think you could pass? Have you had your IQ measured?”

“Is it a prerequisite for dating you, the IQ test?”

“I’m a strong believer in the gene pool. As are my parents.” No hint of a smile here, as in,
I’m joking.

“Is that why you picked pediatrics? Gene work?”

“Whatever I can do to correct genetic mistakes is a benefit to society, don’t you think?” The elevator doors open. “Here we are.”

I’m momentarily stunned by the views. The crystal blue sky pierced by the world-famous Transamerica building, and all settling on the panoramic scenery of the San Francisco Bay. “It’s absolutely gorgeous. I’ll never get enough of this city.”

“There are my parents.” Kevin puts his hand in the small of my back and guides me towards a couple. I would say older, but they aren’t. Kevin’s father looks as though he’s just trained for a triathlon, and his mother looks like she knows the name of a very good plastic surgeon. There’s no look of surprise on her perfectly-lifted brow, and no windblown face where a lifetime of living should leave wrinkles.
Now, that’s some good work.
I’m studying it, trying to remove my gaze when Kevin introduces us.

“Mother, Father. This is Ashley Stockingdale.” He pushes me a bit forward.

“Hello,” I say reaching out my hand. “Such a pleasure to meet you both.”
Although it could have at least been after our first date.

His mother is scrutinizing me, her eyes going up and down my black pantsuit. Probably seeing if she can make out any genetic deformities.

“Miss Stockingdale,” his mother says, with a crisp nod of her chin.

“Ashley, we’ve heard quite a bit about you.” Dr. Novak Senior says. “But my son has been holding out on how beautiful you really are.”

If that isn’t the biggest cliché I’ve ever heard.
“Thank you.”

“Sit down. Sit down.” Kevin’s father calls the waiter over with a raised finger, and I find myself looking for that guy who answered the phone yesterday. I want to shout I wasn’t really dumped.

“Ashley’s a patent attorney for Selectech,” Kevin says. Again with the resume. “She’s just been to Taiwan to secure one of her patents.”

Doctor Novak is shaking his head. “Very nice, Miss Stocking-dale.”

“Call me Ashley, please.”

“Ashley? That’s a name after your time, isn’t it dear?” Mrs. asks. “I mean, usually Ashleys are about nine or ten right now.”

“My mother named me for Ashley Wilkes in
Gone with the
Wind
.”

“Why on earth would she do that?”

I shrug. “She liked the character, I suppose.”

“But he’s a man.” Mrs. Novak says, stating the obvious.
And
the Mensa member here would be?

“So what brings you two to the city?” I ask.

“Surgical conference. The latest in laser-assisted robots. You know, Ashley, I have an idea for a surgical tool, and I should get your help securing a patent,” Dr. Novak says. “I bet I could quit this line of work altogether.”

“That’s my goal too. I kept an eye out when I went to Taiwan to look at that machine, Dad. Figured out how it’s done,” Kevin says. “One good product, and you’re set for life with royalty streams.”

“Actually, you’re pretty young, Kevin, and a patent only gives you a head start of twenty years. With medical products that are specialized, it can be very slow. The secret to a good patent is a high sales pattern or high desire for the product. If you found the machine that cured cancer, for example.”

If I’m not mistaken, Kevin’s teeth are clenched. “Who’s to say I couldn’t do that?”

“No one. Certainly not me.”

“Miss Stockingdale, where did you go to school?”

“Santa Clara University. They have a law program that’s re-nowned, and I just loved the campus from the time I was a child.”

“Yes, didn’t someone from O. J.’s case work there?” Mrs. asks.

“Gerald Uelman is a professor, but don’t hold that against us; it’s a very good school.”

“I’d never heard of it before today,” Mrs. sniffs.

Um, then how did you know about Gerald Uelman?
I’m dying to ask. But I keep my mouth shut.

The waiter comes, and I want to kiss him just because he’s normal and probably has an IQ like mine. “What may I get you?” he asks me.

Someone who can discuss this week’s
People. “I’ll have a Diet Coke with a twist of lemon.”
Hey, I’m classy.

Kevin orders the house merlot, and then makes a big deal swirling it around in his glass for my benefit.
Yeah, yeah, can you
tell a fresh-roasted espresso bean from an old one? Well, I can.

“I’m dying for an espresso,” I say out of the blue. “Can you bring me a shot?” I ask the waiter while he’s looming over, waiting for Kevin to give the okay on the glass of wine.

“Of course, Miss.” And then, cute waiter winks at me.
Calgon,
take me away!

It suddenly occurs to me that Kevin’s hair holds absolutely the straightest part I’ve ever seen. It’s like his hair was created to lie in this ruler-like line. Does he use a surgical tool to get it that straight? Does his mother come from Atlanta to ensure its pinpoint accuracy? I wonder if God chooses your career by the hair you have. Big-haired people always gravitate towards marketing.

But there’s this attraction between us that can’t be denied. That must count for something. When I looked at Seth, there was that momentary roller-coaster-hill-thrill. I feel that same lift, only multiplied with Kevin, like a sharp airplane takeoff for noise abatement. My stomach is doing continuous gymnastics when his gaze pierces mine, but then I watch him with the stupid glass of wine and I want to hurt him. His nose is practically in the glass, and he’s inhaling like a pig snorting for a truffle. What is
that
about?

Kevin has definite benefits, I remind myself as he swishes the wine around in his mouth like it’s Scope. He is gorgeous, of course.

He’s a doctor. A doctor who loves kids. Okay, his car choice could use some guidance, but I just can’t help but think
, What is this
interview with the parents?
Did Arin make the cut? I mean, I love Arin, but she’s no brain surgeon. And men have a way of making beautiful women into who they want them to be. Did Kevin try that with Arin and fail?

In a way, it’s the men’s own fault. They automatically equate beautiful with the best, rather than the neediest, most high-maintenance chick you’ll ever date. Me? I just come with regularly scheduled, five-thousand-mile maintenance. There has to be a long-term benefit in that.

But I have the distinct feeling Kevin is not making his own decisions here. “So how did you two meet?” Mrs. Novak asks.

“I’m a friend of Arin’s,” I say, waiting for a reaction.

“Arin’s?” His mother says as though I’ve just said I shared an open-mouthed kiss with Madonna onscreen.

Kevin speaks. “They knew each other from church. Arin and Ashley both sing in the church band.”

“Do you have a musical background, Ashley? Musical minds are very good at math,” Dr. Novak states.

I listen to David Crowder in my car.
“No, not really.”

Now the parents are looking at each other. I’m not making the cut, and I couldn’t be more pleased. Not that I don’t want Kevin. He’s not out yet. I’m just not up for in-laws like these two. My parents are bad enough . . .

“She reads music for the band,” Kevin offers.

And then, my cell phone rings. It’s my mother, and suddenly I could kiss her for her beautiful, nagging phone calls. “Excuse me,” I say, as though I’m so important. “This will just take a moment. Hello. Ashley Stockingdale.”

“Ashley, are you back from that horrible place yet?”

“I’m back. I’m in San Francisco. Just got home an hour ago.” I am a top attorney, I should not be rattled by my mother’s nagging voice. Yet, I am human—and you know how dogs hear certain sounds and then howl? It’s like that with me and my mother’s tone sometimes. Kevin’s parents are seeming healthier by the moment.

“The church is having a festival the day of Dave’s wedding, so we’re moving it up to Vegas. I planned the shower for Sunday. I sent out invitations and called everyone who didn’t RSVP already. We have twenty-four people coming and so you’re going to need to get started.”

That woman can stress me out like no VP of engineering who ever lived. I’m supposed to plan a party for what, two days from now? I walk into the foyer where I can talk in a hoarse whisper. “Mom, I am the maid of honor. I’m supposed to plan the shower.”

“You were planning it, until you took off for that third-world country without telling us. I had to call your secretary to find out my own daughter was in Taiwan. Ashley, you just will never find a man if you pick up and leave like that.”

“Mom, this really isn’t a good time to talk. I’m meeting a friend’s parents. Just meeting them for the first time.”
Come on,
come on. Remember all that first impression garbage you taught me?

“Well, since you’re in the city, get some good prizes for the games. I figure we’ll need about six things. Spend about $15 each. What did you want to do about food?”

I’m trying to unclench my teeth, but my words come out between them. “I was planning to do the whole event at a restaurant.”

“Ashley, I just told you it’s at my house on Sunday. Your brother is getting married in three weeks now. We have to have a shower for Mei Ling. It’s not their fault the church double-booked.” Kevin and his parents are looking for me and I edge nearer, smiling as if I’m wrapping it up. But my mother is showing no signs of slowing.