Dr. D Spills the Tea

Coincidence

People always suggest things like surrogacy, adoption, and even foster care to parents that cannot reproduce for varying reasons—if you research it, it’s not that simple of a process for either of those choices and the barriers both financially and otherwise can be substantial.

    “Where are you going?” Phil asked, his coffee clattering to the countertop.

    “Home,” I mumbled, my suitcase packed and ready to go.

    “Why?”  He was on his feet now but Theo caught his shoulder, giving him a careful look.  There was an unspoken exchange between the two men but Phil still looked distressed.

    “I just have a few loose ends to tie up,” I explained, walking over to set the paperwork down on the counter.  Phil’s eyes widened with shock at the sight of my signature gracing the front page.

    “You signed—”

    “I’ll take you to the airport,” Theo offered.

    Phils’ face lit up, eyes shifting up to Theo with the widest grin I’d ever seen.  “She signed!”

    Theo pulled him into a hug, kissing his forehead and I watched Phil’s shoulders shudder.

    “Don’t cry,” I hissed, slapping his shoulder.

    “I was so scared,” he cried into Theo’s chest.

    Theo was watching me carefully, this knowing look in those green eyes.  I felt my own eyes begin to burn and went to turn my back on the scene when I felt a hand grip the back of my jacket, dragging me backwards.  Stumbling, I fell between the two men, four arms sandwiching me to two hard chests.  Phil was sobbing and, unable to stop it, I felt the tears start to fall—“You’re ruining my makeup!” I hissed, smacking both men on the back, struggling.

    Theo chuckled and I felt Phil kissing my forehead, my cheek.

    “Enough!” I cried, feeling his tears against my skin.

    “Good choice,” Theo muttered and, vacantly, I realized he was the one mainly holding both of us.  “What time is the flight?”

    “Soon.  I’ll be late if you don’t—”

    Theo released me and, stumbling, Phil caught my face in his hands, giving me a soft kiss on the lips.  Startled at first, I saw his reddened cheeks, dark eyes leaking, and threw my arms around him.  “You’re my best friend,” I wailed.

    “I love you the most!” he cried back.

    Theo nudged him so hard that I felt it, making me giggle.  “See?” I teased over Phil’s shoulder.

    “Second most!” Phil corrected, making Theo smirk back at me.

    Yes, yes—second most.  I giggled, smacking Theo’s shoulder but he caught my hand, pressing my knuckles to his mouth.  So many kisses in such a short amount of time was overwhelming.

    “I still have to go back,” I frowned, at Theo, feeling Phil kiss me on the cheek again.

    Affectionate, these two.

    Pulling back, flustered, I fanned at my face.  “I have business to attend to.”

    “I’ll go with you,” Phil immediately offered, wiping at his face.

    “I don’t think—”

    “She wants to do it alone,” Theo cut in, rubbing his partner’s back.  “We’ll drop her off together, though,” he added, giving me a small smile.  “That’s non-negotiable.”  Giving me a wink, I felt my heart flutter at how smoothly he’d taken control of the situation and in my favor no less.

    “Thank you,” I whispered, glancing between them.  “I’d really appreciate that.”

. . .

The flight back to New York was packed, unlike the one coming to Pittsburgh so, even in Business Class, I found that someone was seated directly next to me.

    No middle seat this time, even if they were large bucket seats.

    Crossing my legs, the older man’s eyes moved over me, almost lecherously and I quirked a brow at him, maintaining perfect eye contact.  Normally men get the hint and at least have the decency to look ashamed for ogling me like some kind of treat but this one misunderstood my intentions, immediately offering me an all too friendly smile.

    Great.

    “It’s rare to see a beautiful young woman like you in Business Class,” was his opener.

    I already hated him but opening his mouth just made it that much worse because either a) he wasn’t accustomed to women in a position of power, b) he wasn’t accustomed to powerful women being young or beautiful, or c) he was suggesting someone else was footing the bill to this flight—all three options made him despicable in my opinion.

    “It’s rare to see a man like you bold enough to speak to a woman like me,” was what I offered back, smiling as a show of teeth.  I’d rip him apart piece by piece if he came any closer.

    Surprise crossed his features, then he parted his lips and I waited.

    Patient.

    Ready to pounce—

    “Diana?”

    My eyes shifted above the old lech, to a young man who looked familiar.  Ebony skin, a charming smile—“Brent Holdings,” I mumbled, suddenly piecing together why Theo had been fine with me catching this flight without them.  That beastly, conniving man.

    “Uh, sir?  Mind if we switch?” Brent said, voice deepening as he gazed down at the older man who looked mildly uncomfortable.  Imposing but friendly—Brent wasn’t just a law student at Pennsylvania University but an ace on their football team.  It seemed that he hadn’t lost touch with the gym in his time practicing law.

    “He doesn’t mind,” I offered, smiling sweetly at the older man.

    With two smiling lawyers gazing down upon him, it only took half a moment for him to break, rising from his seat so Brent could slip into it, pushing his briefcase beneath the seat in front of him, his shoulder pressing against mine.

    It wasn’t his fault, of course, it was just his build.

    The old lech, seeing how little space the row seat would have opted for a vacant one across the aisle and, noticing this, Brent slipped into the row seat, offering me more space.

    “How are you doing, Sweet cheeks?” he asked, offering me a charming smirk.

    I always hated that stupid nickname.

    He’d given it to me as a way to tease me, often offering me unwanted shows of adoration when his score increased on his tests, upsetting the Brent fan club.  I remember being so annoyed as he announced, quite loudly, that I was the girl of his dreams before tackling me in the cafeteria in front of all of his friends.  Annoying as he’d always been, he had been diligent in his studies and I didn’t mind scaring off some of the big breasted “distractions” as he’d called them back in the day.

    “I’m well, thank you,” I said with a slight nod.

    “My ice queen hasn’t changed, I see,” he said, reaching his hand out to me.

    I frowned at it.

    Wiggling his fingers, he leaned back against the seat. “I missed you, DeeDee.”

    “I heard you’re doing well for yourself,” I offered, pressing my pointer finger to his palm with a soft poke.  That’s all he’d get from me—one poke.

    He chuckled.  It was a deep rumble in his chest and I uncrossed my legs, recrossing them the other direction.  It made his eyes shift to my legs, my heels.  “Red bottoms.  I never pegged you as one for designer brands.”

    “You never pegged me at all,” I offered, giving a wry smile.

    I was probably the only girl in college who he’d never bothered to approach.  Or sleep with.

    He chuckled but didn’t comment, pulling his laptop out of his briefcase.  Opening it, I watched as he started moving through documents.  He squinted, frowned, then promptly pulled out a glasses case.  I watched, amused, as he pulled out black rim glasses, setting them upon his nose.

    Handsome.

    So handsome that grandfather glasses only seemed to add to his charm.

    His eyes shifted back to me and he smirked.  “Hm?”

    “I’m just wondering when you went blind,” I offered.

    “When I was thirteen, I think,” he laughed.  “I always wore contacts.”

    “Why?” I wondered.

    He quirked a brow.  “You like these, Sweets?”  He was referring to the glasses but, honestly, I . . . always liked him.  Outrageous as he could be, he had always been straightforward and genuine in his intentions toward me.  Averting my eyes, I thought about how surprised I’d been to see his name on that business card, how surprised I’d been that Theo had—“Theodore Blackwell reached out to me about you recently.  I was surprised to hear your name come out of his mouth.”

    Theodore Blackwell, that dog.

    “Did he now?” I played coy, as if this were news.

    “Yeah, we met in an MMA club, you know?  The guy’s a bit of a beast but I guess that happens when you have a father like Cliff Blackwell,” Brent laughed.  “The first time I was forced to tap out was when I got caught in a full nelson by that bastard.  Earned my respect on round one.”

    That sounded about right.

    Frowning at the man before me, he shook his head.  “Don’t look so disappointed in me, Sweets.  You’ve never seen that man on the mat.”

    Still, I could imagine.  “Please tell me you beat his ass on round two.”

    “I did, actually,” he grinned.

    I automatically grinned back in response.

    “Hm, there it is,” he said, c*****g his head.

    My smile slipped a bit as I took in his amused expression.  “What?”

    “A real smile,” he tsked, averting his eyes back to his laptop screen.  “I can always tell when you’re faking it.”  Pursing my lips at him now, he glanced back at me and smiled.  “Now she’s mad,” he muttered, eyes shifting back to his screen. Of course I was mad.  How could he just sit there and decide that he knows anything about me?  The audaci—“What do you have going on with Mr. Blackwell anyway?”

    Going on?

    I averted my eyes, tapping my heel impatiently.  The audacity, indeed.

    “It’s rare that he’d give such a shining recommendation for an acquaintance,” he added.

    “We’re old friends,” was all I offered, not that it was any of his business.

    “Mr. Blackwell doesn’t have many friends,” he pushed.

    Turning abruptly, I narrowed my eyes at him.  What the hell was he suggesting?

    He typed away, ignoring my searing glare aimed at the side of his head.  Still, after a moment, his lip twitched upward.  He was trying not to smile.  “Is it true you’re moving back to Pittsburgh?” he asked suddenly, still not looking at me.

    “Yes.”

    “We’re hiring.”

    “I didn’t ask,” I told him, blunt.

    He was smiling now.

    Shouldn’t he be mad?  He was always like this, riling me, ignoring me, changing the subject—even back then.  He could be a real pain when he wanted to be.

    “We should have dinner.”

    Dinner?  I quit tapping my heel, glaring back out the window.  “Why?”

    “Usually to sate hunger.”  There was humor in his voice.

    I rolled my eyes.  “What do you want?”

    “An interview.”

    “I didn’t apply for a position,” I reminded him coldly.

    “You can interview me then.  To see if the position I’m offering you is up to par.”

    To par?  Was he serious?  Turning to face him, I looked at him like he was crazy and he just smiled, cheek pressed to his large fist, reading something on his screen.

    “Are you serious?” I asked.

    His eyes shifted to me.  “I’m serious about choosing a winning team.”

    No smile now, expression intense—I felt a shiver run through me at the way his demeanor had done a complete one-eighty.  Was this “coincidence” set up by Theodore Blackwell or Brent Holdings?  Frowning, I drummed my nails on the armrest.

    Both, I decided with a sigh.  Two powerful men rooting for the same outcome, pulling strings to make sure things go their way.  What a scary situation I’d stumbled into—still.

    The opportunity was clear.

    “Just dinner,” I told him sternly.

    He grinned, that twinkle in his eyes.  “Just dinner,” he agreed.

. . .

Of course he would choose this restaurant.

    Del Frisco’s Double Eagle Steakhouse is known for their hearty, albeit expensive meals.  Delicious, yes, but a common go-to for someone I had very little interest in running into.

    I must’ve made a face since Brent said, “We don’t have to eat here.”

    “No, this is great, really,” I mumbled with a frown.

    “Wow, don’t force yourself,” he laughed.  “You’re hosting the interview, remember?  You can choose the venue.”

    Glancing up at him, I forced a small smile.  “It should be fine.”

    He quirked a brow at that.

    “Will our luggage be fine?” I asked pointedly.

    “I took the driver’s number.  He said he’s fine holding it for us until we’re ready for another ride,” Brent shrugged.

    “Really?” I wondered, mildly impressed.

    “Should be alright,” Brent chuckled. “If not, I’ll just replace what’s lost.”

    Hesitant, I glanced around, half expecting familiar blue eyes, fixed black and pepper hair—“C’mon sweet cheeks,” he said, hand pressing to my lower back.

    It would be fine, I decided, allowing him to guide me into the steakhouse.

    The hostess knew Brent’s name as soon as he stepped into the door and he offered her a polite smile, slipping her something green before we were immediately led to a small, square, window-side table graced with white linen and well-polished glasses—“Ms. Sanchez, a pleasure to see you,” was the immediate greeting of a familiar young man.

    “Evan,” I grinned, taking in his charming dimple, slicked back brown hair.  “How are you?”

    “Great, miss.  I landed the part in Hamilton.”  His light brown eyes glimmered with excitement.

    I gasped.  “Congratulations!”  A struggling actor in New York City, I was the one to suggest that he go out for a Broadway Musical.  He was, after all, a triple threat.  Then, “Why are you still here?”

    “This is my last of two weeks,” he chuckled.  “I never burn a bridge, miss.”

    “As you shouldn’t,” I told him seriously.

    His eyes flickered to the man across the table who looked amused by our banter, “Good afternoon, sir.  My name is—”

    “Evan,” Brent offered with a coy smile.

    Evan straightened a bit, offering a smile.  “Mr. Holdings,” Evan said with a hint of surprise.

    “I’m glad to hear you got the part,” Brent grinned.

    Evan shifted.  “I heard an important benefactor recommended me.”

    “Then they must have an eye for talent,” Brent said, glancing down at the menu.  I got the gist that Evan knew exactly who the benefactor was and that Brent had no intentions of owning up to it.

    “Well,” Evan said.  “Should I just bring the regular for both of you?”

    My eyes shifted to Brent who’d glanced up at me at the same time—“Yes,” we said in unison.

    Evan glanced between us but said nothing, giving a small nod before moving back toward the kitchen.  Leaning back in his seat, he grinned at me.  He wasn’t in a suit but he still looked dapper in a crisp black dress shirt which he’d rolled to his elbows.  I was in jeans and a red sweater that hugged me tight enough to show a bit of curve.

    We matched in business casual gear.

    I was thankful I’d dressed up for the flight—if I’d opted for those wonderful fluffy slippers there’s no way I wouldn’t been able to dine here without a stop at my apartment.

    And I did not want this man in my apartment.

    He smirked, setting the menu down.  “Who are you worried about seeing?” he wondered.

    I said nothing, forcing my eyes down to the menu.

    “A regular, huh?  Evan seemed surprised to see us together.”

    “We’ve never come here together,” I offered, glancing up to find his skeptical gaze on me.

    “Your ex?”

    He’d asked it just as I saw him.

    Stepping in the front door, dressed in a fresh navy suit—ironically, it was the one I’d picked out for him.  And on his arm?  Victoria.

    When I let out a soft laugh, Brent glanced over his shoulder.

    “Ah,” he said, amused.  “George Whittiker?”  George looked struck the moment his eyes landed on me.  Then Brent.  Flickering between both of us, I forced my eyes back to Brent who quirked a brow.  “Please tell me you weren’t affiliated with George Whittiker.”

    I bit my lip.  “Affiliated isn’t the word.”

    Brent bristled.  “No.  Sweets, you can’t be serious.”

    Ducking my head, I wondered why I felt ashamed.

    George Whittiker was fabulously wealthy with an astounding rap sheet.  There was no reason for me to feel so utterly deflated that Brent looked—I mean, what kind of expression is that?  Glancing back up at him, I frowned at him.  “Don’t look so disappointed in me,” I said, echoing his words from earlier.  “You’ve never seen him in the court room.”

    He scrunched his nose in distaste and, despite the horrible situation, I couldn’t help the nervous giggle that slipped through my lips.

    “Diana.”

    Shifting, I was torn between surprise that he’d approach me at all and shock that I’d be surprised at George’s guts considering the messages he’d left me.

    His eyes shifted to Brent, then back to me.  “Could we speak for a moment?”

    “Go on,” I offered.  “Speak.”

    His blue eyes were full of malice and he grit his teeth.  “This isn’t the best location—”

    “This is the only location,” I offered, quirking a brow.

    He smiled then, expression smoothing over.  George always had one hell of a poker face.  I should have known he was an actor from the moment we’d held our first conversation.  “Darling, don’t you think this is a bit petty?”

    “Sweets,” Brent said, his eyes glued to me.  “Just give the word and I’ll shut him up.”

    His smile was malicious, the gleam in his dark eyes promising.

    It reminded me of someone else, someone similarly ill tempered.

    “Brent Holdings,” George said, clearing his throat.  “I see you’ve met my fiancé—”

    “I called that off, George,” I said, waving at the air dismissively.

    “A wise decision,” Brent offered.

    I rolled my eyes, thankful that Evan had made his appearance with my martini.  Taking it, I noticed the wary glances between the two formidable men and just nodded for him to shoo for the time being, taking a swig of the pink liquid.

    “If you would just answer your phone, I could have explained—”

    “I caught him f*****g Victoria,” I told Brent.

    Brent quirked his brow.  “Who?”

    “His secretary,” I said with a shrug.

    “Oh,” Brent raised his brows, giving George an openly judgmental look.

    “This is slander, Diana,” George argued.  “It wasn’t what it—”

    “And this is bothersome George,” I said, gesturing to him, standing over our table.  “Your date is waiting for you and you’re making the other guests nervous.”

    “Diana, if you would just—”

    “I see why you didn’t want to come here now,” Brent offered.

    “Yes, I admit I was worried about this,” I told him, taking another swig of martini.

    “You’re awfully calm about this,” Brent added.

    I just shrugged.

    What was there to panic about?  I’d already called the whole thing off and George wasn’t in any position to protest.

    “How do you two know each other?” George pushed.

    “I was planning on proposing, actually,” Brent said.

    “Proposing?!” George snapped.

    “You’re dampening the mood, actually,” Brent said seriously.  Then, glancing backwards, he asked, “Is that Victoria?”

    I could see her, standing in the lobby, looking mildly distraught.

    “Yes.”  I gave her a small wave and saw her cheeks take on some color.  A beautiful woman, she wasn’t entirely bright.  Sheepishly, she gave a small anxious wave back.  “The one and the same.”

    “He could have you and he decided to pork that twig?” Brent asked.  If was foul language, particularly considering our surroundings, but the look of disappointment he gave George was enough to make me nearly splutter out my small swig of martini with laughter.

    “Di, we can discuss this later,” George said, taking a step backwards.

    He was retreating now that he saw this was a losing game.

    “You can discuss it with my voicemail,” I offered, giving him a sweet smile.

    Enraged but careful to hide it, he went back to Victoria, leading her back out of the restaurant.  I sighed, glancing back at Brent who had this unreadable expression on his face.  “What?” I asked, rolling my eyes at the speculation behind that stare.

    Straightening, he sat back against the chair, chin held high.

    “What?” I demanded, hating how he was staring down his nose at me.

    “I expected better from you, Ms. Sanchez,” he said, c*****g his head.  Blushing, I ducked my head, surprised by my reaction.  I should be telling him to go to hell, to mind his own goddamn business—“But one man’s loss is another man’s treasure, right?”

    Peeking back up at him, I took in his wide smile and frowned.

    “The proposal I wanted to make,” he said, writing something down on his napkin with an expensive looking black pen wearing his name.  He slipped it across the table and I set my martini down, taking it.  Scrawled in block lettering was one word:  Partner.