Chapter 4 – Meetings, Midday Stirrups, and Takeout Kisses

Beth

Wednesday, 9:06 a.m.

The conference room smells like burnt coffee and panic.

Our brand-new mega-client is halfway through explaining how they want a complete go-to-market campaign in half the time it takes normal people to form a thought. My pen is already three bullet points ahead, my smile is weaponized, and my calendar is quietly screaming.

“Ambitious timeline,” I say pleasantly, which is marketing for Are you unwell? “We can make it work if we lock creative this week and keep approvals tight.”

They nod, relieved. Meanwhile, I’m mentally Tetris-ing deliverables while praying my deodorant is doing God’s work.

By 10:58, we land on milestones I can almost believe. At 11:01 I’m packing my laptop with the speed of a raccoon stealing a sandwich, because I booked my lunch break for something wildly glamorous: a second pelvic exam in the same week.

Because apparently, my vagina is the overachiever now.

Dr. Cole called yesterday—him, not a nurse—to say my pap was inconclusive and he wanted to redo it. “Unlikely anything,” he’d said, voice steady enough to lower my blood pressure by ten points. “But let’s be thorough.” I’d nodded into the phone like he could see me and snagged the only window I had: today at noon.

Great. Meetings, stirrups, more meetings. The modern woman’s trifecta.

⸻

11:52 a.m. — Cole Women’s Wellness

The lobby is empty when I push through the glass doors. Not just quiet—empty. No receptionist, no spa music. Just citrus cleaner and fluorescent humming.

“Miss Monroe?”

I look down the corridor. He’s there—no white coat today, just dark slacks and a navy button-down rolled to the elbows, forearms I refuse to comment on, and that calm, professional half-smile that could talk me off a ledge or into sin.

“Thanks for coming on short notice,” he says, holding a door open.

“Thanks for squeezing me in. I’m buried under a huge campaign, so lunchtime was my only shot.”

“We’ll make it quick.” His voice is smooth enough to melt ice. “You know the drill—undress from the waist down, gown’s there. I’ll give you a moment.”

I nod and step inside. Same room as last time. Same disposable gown. Same padded stirrups that look aggressively cheerful for what they do.

I undress, hop onto the table, drape the world’s thinnest sheet across my lap, and tell my brain to stop picturing him as anything other than a doctor. A very attractive, silver-fox, hands-of-God doctor, but still.

A soft knock, the door, and he’s back—gloves, gentle voice, practiced calm.

“I promise this won’t take long,” he says, snapping a glove. “Before we start, I realized I didn’t ask last visit—do you want full STD testing while you’re here?”

“Oh.” I blink. “Yeah, that’s smart. Let’s do it.”

“Great. I’ll collect one of those swabs during the pap. Then urine sample here; blood draw next door.” He meets my eyes. “Ready, Miss Monroe?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

He settles on the stool between my knees. “Because your last sample was inconclusive, I need to swab the cervix a bit deeper—more thorough than usual. It may cause a little more discomfort and possibly some cramping later. Tylenol or another NSAID should help.”

“Super,” I mutter. “Can’t wait.”

The speculum clicks open—my least favorite sound—and he works quickly, voice steady. “Deep breaths. There we go.”

It’s not pain so much as a deep, intrusive scrape that makes my pelvis clench. I stare at the ceiling tile with the water stain and practice my best stoic face.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“Yup,” I say through a smile that could cut glass.

Metal withdraws. A pause. Then—so soft I almost miss it—something absorbent dabs between my thighs. Gauze? Paper towel?

He’s… cleaning me.

I blink at the ceiling like it contains the answers to life.

“Alright,” his voice returns, even and composed. “Next is the STD screening. Some are blood tests, but one is rectal. It’s routine.”

“Rectal?” My voice jumps an octave.

“It’ll be quick,” he assures. “Try to relax again.”

Right. Relax. My superpower.

Cool lubricant, the oddest little pressure, and then it’s over.

“Almost done.” A beat. “There. You did great.”

“Do I get a sticker?”

He chuckles, that near-silent little thing that makes my insides misbehave. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Gloves off. Professional distance re-engaged. “I’ll step out so you can dress. Don’t forget the urine sample and the lab next door for blood.”

“Copy,” I say, pulling the sheet close as I sit up.

He pauses at the door, eyes flicking to mine. “You handled that very well, Miss Monroe.”

I attempt flippant and land somewhere near feral. “I try to be… accommodating.”

His brow lifts, the smallest flicker. “That much is clear.”

Door. Close. Silence.

Did I just flirt with my gynecologist?

Did he…?

Nope. Absolutely not. Brain, go to jail.

⸻

1:24 p.m. — Back at the office

By the time I shove back into my chair, I’m sweating through my blazer and three minutes late to my own sanity. I kick off my heels, unclip my hair, and exhale so hard it bounces off the whiteboard.

This account is a big deal. The kind that gets you promoted. Or gets you ulcers.

My phone buzzes.

Tommy:

Hey beautiful. Any preference on dinner spot tonight? I was thinking somewhere low-key but still first-kiss-worthy.

Oh. Right. The date.

I’d filed “romance” in my brain’s junk drawer and forgot where I put it.

Me:

Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Work has been absolute chaos yesterday and this morning. I haven’t even had a second to breathe, let alone think about dinner plans.

My thumbs hover, hating what they’re about to type.

Me:

I hate to do this, but I’m going to have to take a rain check. This new project is massive and the timeline is insane.

I brace for the sigh, the guilt-trip, the subtle “no worries :)” that means actually many worries.

Tommy:

I get it. Work comes first. But you still have to eat, right?

Tommy:

Let me bring dinner to you. You work late, take a short break to eat with me, then get back to conquering the marketing world. I promise not to distract you… much.

I melt a little.

Me:

You really don’t have to do that.

Tommy:

I know. I want to. I’ll pick something up and be there around 7. Text me your office suite and what you’re craving.

I set the phone down, lighter for the first time all day. The workload is still a mountain, but at least someone’s offered to send snacks up the cliff face.

I dive back into timelines, deliverables, budgets. The hours blur.

⸻

7:00 p.m. on the dot

A knock.

I jolt, legs tingling from being pretzeled under my desk too long. “Come in!”

The door opens and Tommy walks in grinning, forearms stacked with takeout bags that smell like garlic, ginger, and salvation.

It hits me, cold and immediate: I never texted him my office address. Or suite number. Or dinner preferences.

“Oh my God,” I blurt. “I never sent you the office info. Or what I wanted to eat.”

He shrugs, easy. “When I didn’t hear back, I figured you were sprinting and lost track of time. Looked you up on LinkedIn.”

I gape. “You stalked me?”

“Maybe a little.” He lifts the bags. “But I come bearing gifts.”

He sets up on the little conference table like he’s catering a wedding. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I got a bit of everything—sesame chicken, orange tofu, beef and broccoli, dumplings, fried rice, lo mein, spring rolls—plus chopsticks, forks, napkins, wet wipes, and fortune cookies because I have commitment issues with dipping sauces.”

“You didn’t bring dinner,” I say, awed. “You built a buffet.”

He flashes that boyish grin that should be illegal. “You’re worth feeding.”

My insides do something deeply unprofessional for a woman who is technically still on the clock.

We eat side by side on my office couch under fluorescent lighting that could kill romance and houseplants. Somehow, with him, it feels… cozy. Like the ugly couch is in on it.

“Serious question,” I say, gesturing with a noodle. “Fortune cookies. Before the meal or after?”

He squints at his cookie like it’s a moral dilemma. “If I open it now and it says ‘You’re about to make a mistake,’ I’ll take it personally.”

“Only one way to find out.” I crack mine open and read with theatrically raised eyebrows: “You will soon be kissed by someone who knows what they’re doing.”

A beat. His eyes meet mine. Slow smile.

“Is that so?”

“Cookie doesn’t lie,” I shoot back, aiming for casual and landing on breathy.

He sets his container aside, turns toward me. “I really like you, Beth.”

My stomach flips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear like he’s been waiting all day to do it. “And I’m dying to know if your cookie is psychic.”

He kisses me.

Soft at first, testing. I kiss him back, then harder, because apparently I’m starving for something that’s not lo mein. One hand on his shoulder, the other on his jaw; he tastes like orange and heat and finally. We tip into it—hungry, breathless, chopsticks forgotten on the carpet.

I’m a whisper away from swinging a leg over his lap when he pulls back, breath ragged, eyes dark.

“Okay,” he says with a shaky laugh, “I need to stop.”

“Why?” I manage, dizzy.

“Because I like you,” he says again, voice lower. “And I’m not gonna lie—I want to bend you over the back of this couch and fuck you senseless right now…”

My spine turns to sparkles.

“…but I’m not going to do that.” He smooths a thumb over my cheek. “I don’t want you to think that’s all I want from you. And I promised not to derail your night. I’ve already kept you longer than I intended.”

“Oh.” It comes out tiny and, okay, a little disappointed.

He kisses my forehead—the kind of kiss that whispers later—then stands, gathering the empty bags.

“There’s plenty of time for this,” he says, smiling as he backs toward the door. “Go be a badass. And don’t forget your second fortune cookie.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

I stare at it for a long beat, lips tingling, heart thudding, desk a disaster, deadlines looming—and for the first time all week, something warm and fizzy blooms under my ribs.