A Really Bad Idea Read online

  A Really Bad Idea

  Copyright © 2019 by Jeannine Colette.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.com

  Editing and Interior Design by Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreading by Virginia Tesi Carey

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  ISBN-13: 9780463682296

  www.JeannineColette.com

  For my mom …

  and the doctor who saved her life.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Epilogue

  Keep in Touch

  Wild Abandon Teaser

  Acknowledgments

  Meadow

  “Earth to Meadow.” Angela snaps her fingers, pulling my attention over to where she’s sitting behind the reception desk at Park Avenue Cardiology. “Baby fever?” she asks without looking up from her computer.

  I glance down at the magazine I grabbed from the wicker basket in the waiting room. “Why do you always ask me that?”

  “Because, lately, you get this dreamy stare when you see a cute baby.” She lifts her head and points in the direction of the advertisement on the open page of the magazine. A baby with chubby cheeks and bright blue eyes is giggling. “And that baby is fucking adorable.”

  “All babies are beautiful.”

  She leans back in her swivel chair and gives me a dead stare. “No, they’re not. Most look like constipated old men.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but it’s really no use. The seven-year age gap between me and my coworker is a century in the world of life planning. While she’s still busy flirting on Snapchat and getting picked up at music festivals on Roosevelt Island, I’m spending Friday nights on the couch with a glass of wine and a good book … while getting distracted at the sight of an advertisement.

  “We’ll agree to disagree.” I toss the magazine back in the basket and take one of the open seats behind the reception desk. When I’m in between patients, I like to sit up here with Angela instead of being cooped up in the back office.

  Her fingers are drumming lightly on the desk as she raises a brow.

  I roll my eyes and concede, “Okay, fine. My neighbor’s baby does remind me of my great-uncle Leroy.”

  She gives a cheeky grin. “I love it when I’m right.”

  With a shake of my head and a light laugh, I grab a stack of folders and open the top one, doing a quick once-over of the notes from a patient we’ve already seen today. As a nurse practitioner, I see nonurgent patients on my own and assist the cardiologist on the more severe cases.

  Angela pushes her foot against the filing cabinet and rolls in my direction. Her long black hair sways with the action. “Got any plans this weekend?”

  “You know me, one hot date after the other.” Despite my sarcastic tone, her feet dance with anticipation. I place a hand on her lap to control her legs and explain, “Calm yourself, Yang. I’m going to my brother’s house.”

  Her excitement dwindles with the sag of her shoulders and a scowl on her lips. “Oh. That’s not fun. What is the perfect family celebrating this time?”

  “Brian and Beth are hosting my birthday dinner.”

  She scoots back to her desk, grabs her vitaminwater, and twists the cap. “But your birthday isn’t until next week.”

  “Apparently, everyone has plans next weekend.” I shrug.

  “Do you think your mom will give you a pass from prying into your love life since it’s your special day?”

  I let out a quick, heavy laugh. “There is no get-out-of-jail-free card when it comes to Gail Duvane’s unwanted, albeit well-intentioned, meddling. My thirty-third birthday is ample time for her to remind me that I’m single … and barren.”

  Angela takes a gulp of her drink. “You can fake sick.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve been meaning to visit my nephews, and, bonus, I get to raid Beth’s closet!”

  “Your sister-in-law has the best shoes.” She gets a dreamy stare in her eyes at my shoe-blogger sister-in-law’s ultimate collection of high-end footwear.

  “Too bad, her foot is a size too small.” I grimace.

  “I’d cut off a toe to own her Saint Laurent monogrammed heeled boots.”

  “They’re so pretty.”

  We both let out a sigh.

  One of the exam room doors opens, and Dr. Christian Gallagher comes out and walks up to the reception area. I gaze up to see him—thick, dark hair and piercing green eyes set on a ruggedly handsome face.

  “What are you two dreaming about?” he asks.

  “Meadow wants a baby,” Angela declares.

  “No, I don’t,” I argue and sidestep the conversation, waving a hand in dismissal. “Well, I do … someday, but we were just talking about Yves Saint Laurent boots we’re coveting.”

  Christian laughs with a deep baritone, and it draws the attention of the other nurses on staff today. “Well, the baby thing I can’t help you with, but I’m more than happy to fulfill your foot-fetish fantasies.”

  One of the nurses lets out a giggle, which he ignores, as Angela chimes in, “They’re twelve-hundred-dollars.”

  He shrugs like this is a mere drop in the bucket. I suppose it is when you’re a cardiothoracic surgeon. “Meadow’s birthday is around the corner.”

  I lower my forehead and glare at him through scolding eyes. “You are not buying me twelve-hundred-dollar shoes for my birthday.”

  Angela lets out the same dreamy sigh she had before, but this time, she’s looking up at Christian. “I wish I had a best friend like you.”

  He winks, and her cheeks redden as I go back to my paperwork. The exam room door opens again, and a patient exits.

  “All set, Mr. Thompson?” Christian asks, leaning his elbow on the counter. His white doctor’s coat is open, showing off a pinstripe button-down and cobalt tie.

  “Thanks, Doc. I can’t believe, two months ago, I was in critical heart failure, and now, I’m standing here with you.” Mr. Thompson puffs his chest out, like he’s king of the world.

  “That’s the miracle of surgery. I want you to follow up with my father in a few weeks, and I’d like to see you again in another four weeks to make sure that valve is strong,” Christian advises as Angela hands him a follow-up card.

  “A father-and-son team—cardiologist and heart surgeon. There must be something in the Gallagher water,” Mr. Thompson jokes as he grabs his coat from the rack and then tips his hat before walking out the front door and onto the streets of Manhattan.

  “That’s your last patient of the day!” Angela throws her arms up in celebration.

  “Thank God. Penn Station is a nightmare,” Christian says, loosening his tie and undoing the top button, revealing the Yankees T-shirt underneath. He secured box seats for tonigh
t’s Mets-Yankees game and asked Angela to clear his afternoon.

  He runs his fingers through the dark strands of his hair as he makes his final notes on a patient’s chart.

  Angela stands up and lifts her scrubs. It looks like she’s going to flash him when, really, she’s proudly displaying her own Yankees T-shirt she bedazzled with pink rhinestones. “I came prepared in case your plus-one cancels.”

  He shakes his head and grins, his eyes still focused on what he’s writing. “If I’m going to take anyone, it’ll be Meadow.”

  “Me?” I ask incredulously.

  “Her?” Angela mimics my tone. “She hates baseball.”

  I twist in my seat. “I don’t hate baseball.”

  She leans back with a sashay of her body and motions toward her shirt. “You certainly don’t bedazzle the shit out of your shirts for it.”

  “Touché,” I concede and then turn back to my own notes.

  Christian laughs, that deep vibrato sending a hum into my chest. He hands Angela the folder to file away and then turns to me. “Ticket’s yours if you want it.”

  I look up to see him staring at me with mischievously grinning eyes.

  “I thought your dad was going?” I ask.

  Christian and I have been friends too long for me to know there is no way his father, Dr. Thomas Gallagher, would pass up a chance to see his beloved “boys in blue” play.

  “He is, but if I tell him I’m taking you instead, he’ll understand.”

  I cross my arms and raise a brow. “To a Subway Series game? I don’t believe it.”

  He chuckles, his dimples highlighting his rugged grin. “What can I say? The old man loves you.”

  The senior Gallagher has been playing matchmaker with me and Christian since we were ten and our parents had us enrolled at tennis camp. My parents were no better, constantly dropping hints about Christian and his accomplished physician family. While they were never able to get us to date, they did help us forge a friendship that has spanned over twenty years.

  “Enjoy a boys’ night.” Noticing the time, I give him a shoo. “You’re ahead of schedule, so take advantage. It’s the first afternoon you’ve taken off in a year.”

  “Are you saying I’m a workaholic?” he teases, knowing full well he’s addicted to his field of medicine.

  With an outstretched arm, I point him toward his office. “Get dressed and grab a drink with your dad before the game.”

  He looks at me for a beat before letting out a breath and dropping his shoulders. “All right. You sure? I’d much prefer to have a beautiful blonde by my side.”

  “I’m positive. I have a good book and a long bath planned.”

  He lets out a groan before walking back toward his office when Angela hits me in the arm. I’m rubbing the sore spot on my bicep as she says, “That man was totally asking you out.”

  I curve my brow at her and go back to reviewing an echocardiogram from earlier today. “He did not ask me out on a date. He asked me to a game. As friends. We passed the era of possibility a long time ago. Besides, he’s a thirty-three-year-old bachelor who can have any woman in the city. He’s at the onset of a three-year fellowship, hoping to become the greatest heart valve replacement surgeon in the world. What the hell would he want my baggage for?”

  “You don’t have baggage.”

  I stop what I’m doing to swivel toward her, lower my forehead, and give her a deadpan look. “I can load an airplane with the amount of bags I have packed.”

  She raises a shoulder in mock agreement. “Okay, fine, you have a carry-on worth of shit, but you’re a sexy, single woman who happens to be crazy smart and has a killer body that spikes half the patients’ blood pressure when they see that fine ass. You should work those curves underneath the scrubs. Don’t hide because of one failed relationship.”

  I balk at her insinuation. While I want to argue with these points, I choose to simply remark on the main one. “Christian and I are just friends.”

  “He flirts with you all the time.”

  “He flirts with everyone.”

  She sways her finger. “He doesn’t flirt with me.”

  I open my mouth to correct her before realizing she’s right. “We’re just friends.”

  “Friends make the best lovers.”

  “Stop it, Angela,” I singsong my annoyance.

  “I’m stopping, Meadow,” she sings back just as Christian walks out of the hallway that leads to the back offices.

  He changed into jeans, his Yankees T-shirt, and a baseball cap. He slides on his brown bomber jacket, which accentuates his broad shoulders, as he heads out the door with a wave, leaving the lingering woodsy scent of his cologne in the waiting room.

  “Can you at least admit he’s fucking hot?” she says with a hand on her hip.

  I dramatically place my stack of folders on the desk in front of her and rise, heading toward the exam rooms for my evening lineup of patients.

  Park Avenue Cardiology is a boutique practice that looks more like a hotel than a doctor’s office. With light walls, soft brown leather couches, and a coffee station in the waiting room, our patients wait for their next appointment in comfort.

  As Thomas likes to say, “The key to living a healthy life is to reduce stress. And no one has ever calmed down in an uncomfortable chair.”

  Even our exam rooms look more like suites with crisp white beds, walnut furniture, and textured wallpaper. We have a top-notch computer system and state-of-the-art equipment to ensure every patient gets the best care.

  As soon as I graduated with my master’s in nursing, I came to work with Thomas at his practice. While he’s dwindled down his office hours to just three days a week as a cardiologist, Christian has been working round the clock as a surgeon.

  Christian came on board a year and a half ago after finishing his five-year general surgery residency in San Francisco and earned a fellowship at the St. Xavier Heart Institute here, in Manhattan. He performs surgery out of the hospital and sees his patients for follow-up visits here, at his dad’s office, once a week.

  Those days, like today, are my favorite.

  I busy myself for the next few hours, seeing patients on behalf of Thomas and assisting the other cardiologists on staff.

  By seven o’clock, I’ve seen twenty patients, taken or ordered a variety of EKGs, TEEs, MRIs—pretty much every test with a three-letter acronym—and spoken at length about the importance of a good diet and exercise. And, now, I am ready to head home.

  “Let’s do drinks tonight,” Angela calls out as I walk to the front door, wrapping my lightweight scarf around my neck.

  “Date with my bathtub, remember?” I respond as I zip up my jacket.

  “You’re so lame!”

  I give her a backward wave as I head out the door.

  Since it’s still light out and the weather is mild, I head down Seventy-Fourth street, cross Fifth Avenue, and go into Central Park. My apartment is on the opposite side of town, so I like to walk across the park and stop for a moment at Bethesda Fountain.

  With its bronze angel statue at the top with her outstretched arms, the iconic fountain beckons me. For years, I’ve tossed a coin in the water and made countless wishes.

  I’ve always believed in wishes, good-luck charms, and totems. It started when I was a kid and carried on to when I moved to Manhattan and made my first wish at this fountain. I had just returned from visiting Christian in medical school in San Francisco. I know it seems silly, but I put a lot of hope in my wishes. Maybe, one day, my greatest wish will come true.

  I take a penny out of my purse, hold it up, and listen to the sound of water falling and the soft chatter of tourists.

  “Splash!” a tiny voice yelps. A little boy is sitting on his mother’s lap, leaning into the fountain and slapping the water, making it spray all over his father sitting next to them. “Splash, Daddy!”

  Instead of being mad, like I assume some parents would be, the man seems to find his son amusing and l
aughs as he continues to get sprayed on.

  “Come here, you little rug rat,” the man exclaims as he grabs his boy, picks him up high, and then lowers him down for a kiss on the cheek.

  The little boy squeals, and his mother looks like her heart is about to burst with love at the sight of her son giggling in happiness.

  I hold the coin in my hand up to my chest, close my eyes, say a silent wish, and toss it into the fountain before continuing my walk through the park.

  Central Park in the spring is beautiful. With the cherry blossom trees at the earliest onset of their flourish and the tulips creeping through the earth, I inhale the sweet fragrance and fresh air.

  When I’m in my neighborhood, I stop at the corner market and grab a few groceries before arriving at my apartment building. My doorman, Salvatore, is quick to greet me.

  “Good evening, Ms. Duvane,” Salvatore says as he opens the door.

  “I have something for you.” I motion with my chin to a box at the top of one of my brown bags.

  He sees the package of Good & Plenty peeking out the top and smiles. “Always thinking of me.”

  Whenever I go to the grocery store, I get him his favorite candy. It’s the least I can do for the kind old man who always makes me feel safe and welcome.

  “How’s Carol?” I ask, referring to his wife, as he takes the candy from the bag. “Did she get her stomach checked out?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You were right about it being an ulcer. Doctor has her on an antibiotic and is helping her get rid of the acid.”

  “So happy to hear. Give her my best.” I walk into the elevator that Salvatore already pushed the call button for.

  When I’m on my floor, I juggle my grocery bags as I fiddle with the key ring. I let myself inside my apartment, close the front door with my foot, and place my groceries on the counter.

  Living alone has taken some getting used to. When I got married eight years ago, it was for better or for worse … except no one told me “for worse” included my husband cheating on me with a puck bunny.

  Brock Lannister is a defenseman for the New York Islanders and my now ex-husband. When we met at a bar on Bleeker Street, I knew absolutely nothing about hockey, let alone who was on the roster for the Islanders. He was handsome as hell, told the best jokes, and was romantically spontaneous. Many times, I’d get off a shift to find him waiting on the curb with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a limo ready.