Dr. Xavier Martin was one of the handsomest men I’d ever met.
And one of the hardest to read.
He was Black, like James. He had extremely short, almost shaved, hair. Like James.
But that was where the similarities ended.
Dr. Martin was shorter. Not by much, but he was closer to my height. He was also leaner than James. More like my own body type. And at least ten years older, which didn’t make him one bit less attractive.
Not that I was checking him out in any way other than the clinical—I wanted to understand who I was seeing. The two pictures behind his desk caught my attention. The first was of him, a striking Black woman, and three young girls, including one who was a babe in arms. The second included Dr. Martin, a young woman just a few inches shorter than him, and two other girls
