“Now you’re just being dramatic.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe I was being dramatic. Or maybe this really was the end of my life as I knew it. Either way, I said my goodbyes, hung up the call, and forced myself to go back into the living room to watch the rest of the show.
The truth was, as angry as I was with Tammy and the board, and as livid as I felt with the production company, neither of those had anything on the loathing I felt for myself. I’d been excited. Na?vely thinking the show would improve my social life, for fuck’s sake. Oh, you’re so impressive, Will, I’d thought women would say.
But the show had taken a direction completely different from what they’d pitched—a harrowing account from St. Luke’s most elite doctors—and turned it into a lighthearted romp on everything ethical and professional.
Unfortunately, with my guard down and my head up my ass, I’d given them the material. I’d been the man on camera, and there wasn’t anyone but myself to blame for that.
Goddammit.
On the edge of my seat, I watched with disgust as the man on the screen—me, apparently—said something bordering on offensive and winked…while doing a dilation check on a harmlessly pregnant woman…just before the show faded into the final commercial.
Good. God.
I didn’t even remember doing it, winking for the camera like that, and I certainly didn’t remember doing it with my hand inside of a woman. The camera had been right behind her head, and a gown was covering all the skin of her legs, but, for shit’s sake, it was never appropriate to wink at a woman while giving her such an intimate exam. I wonder if she’d felt uncomfortable? If she’d thought I was winking at her?
Even though I knew I’d never act that way without some kind of pseudo-reasonable explanation, panic and hysteria swirled inside me until the disbelief wore off and let them explode.
“I look like a predator!”
No woman was ever going to come near me again. Not for medicine and certainly not for sex. I was going to have to move. To somewhere remote. Without television. And live in a hut or something. Oh my God. No one is ever going to blow me again. I was going to be the male version of a spinster, but instead of cats, I’d just have a collection of pocket pussies.
Sweet Jesus, I am going to throw up.
“Don’t worry, Willy. If anything, this will probably up the ante on your female attention and dating life. Women are notorious for seeking out things that are bad for them,” my dad remarked.
Kline gave a low whistle, and Georgia stood up from her seat in affront. “Um, excuse me?”
“Dick,” my mom said. But being my mother, she said it through a goddamn chortle.
Being the center of such discord, I figured it was my familial duty to wade in. Plus, if I didn’t say what I was thinking soon, I feared I’d burst into something from Men in Black. “No, Dad. Crazy women seek out things that are bad for them. The smart ones run in the other direction.” My voice dropped to a dejected mutter. “Which is exactly what they’re going to be doing with me now. Jesus.”
“I bet no one is even watching,” Georgia chirped hopefully, trying to make me feel better through a backhanded insult. I’d spent all day hoping the opposite, but at this point, I wanted nothing more than for my sister to be right.
My phone, the opportunist, chimed tauntingly in my pocket. I half considered not reading the text message that beckoned, but in the long run, I wasn’t sure ignoring this little problem would actually make it go away. Instead, it might just make me a bigger fool.
My family continued to debate my now questionable eligible bachelor status in the background as I pulled my phone from my pocket and swiped to read the message without pausing to see who it was.
In hindsight, I probably should have taken the moment.
Thatch: Hot damn, son. You’ve been pretty good at hiding your freak-a-leek all these years. Cassie already has her legs in the air around the clock, trying to get pregnant again, but if that doesn’t work out, you’re officially our new doctor. Hell, even if it does. Her pussy makes all the others you see on a regular basis look like amateurs.
There it was. An endorsement from Thatcher Kelly, my brother-in-law’s best friend and one of the most ridiculous human beings ever born. He was an adolescent in a giant’s body, and he didn’t like things that didn’t have a big, obvious pair of tits prepared, just waiting to be suckled. He was the worst judge of normalcy and the exact opposite of my target demographic—and he liked the show.
I was fucked. Really and truly fucked.
My head fell back in frustration as my inner voice mocked me with the real truth. You aren’t fucked, Will Cummings. You’re never to be fucked again.
There was one certainty in this moment, Scott Eastwood looked perfect naked.
And he looked even better naked in my bed.
“Good morning, Melody,” he said with that signature grin of his and pulled me on top of his ridiculously beautiful body—toned, firm, and sculpted, it was the kind of physique that Greek gods aspired to have.
“Morning, Scott Eastwood,” I said, and his smile grew wider.
“I think you can drop the formalities,” he teased, and I blushed. “We’re married now, honey. It’s about time you started getting used to just calling me Scott.”
Even though this is most likely a dream, Mel, we’ll never stop calling him Scott Eastwood…
Shit…am I dreaming?
I stared into Scott Eastwood’s heavenly blue eyes as he looked at me like the sun rose and set inside of me.
“You’re so beautiful in the morning, Melody,” he complimented and brushed a lock of hair out of my eyes.
Hmmm… Yeah… This seems a little too good to be true…
“I could spend the rest of my life just staring into your eyes,” he whispered and pressed a soft kiss—that included a little tongue—onto my just-woken-up mouth.
“You taste so perfect,” he told me.
I took pride in good dental hygiene, but even the cleanest mouths couldn’t escape the morning breath culprit.
Goddammit. I’m probably dreaming.
“We’re married, Scott Eastwood?” I asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Eastwood,” he responded through a soft chuckle, pressing his lips to mine once more. “We’re married.”
“Did I sign a prenup?”
He shook his head. “I’d never make the love of my life, my soul mate, sign a prenup.”
Fucking hell. Definitely a dream.
Shades of pink and yellow started to filter over Scott Eastwood’s face, and I knew it was only a matter of time. “Kiss me again,” I demanded and he listened.
A man who listens instead of arguing? Most assuredly a motherfucking dream.