Page 2 of Brain Damage

Still, I have to say, this is the first time I’ve gotten tears over a diagnosis of jock itch. Did he think I said fungating carcinoma instead of fungus?

Damn, I’m definitely going over my stupid quota.

“Sorry,” Mr. Leroy says, dabbing his eyes self-consciously with the back of his hand. “I’m being dumb, sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask as I reach for our stock of tissues.

Mr. Leroy gratefully swipes a tissue from the box. “It’s just that…” He sighs deeply. “My wife left me last year, and I’ve gained all this weight and been so depressed, and now I have fungus. I mean, what woman is going to want me with fungus growing on my crotch?”

I clear my throat and force a smile. “Mr. Leroy, I’m sure there are plenty of women who⁠—”

“Would you date a guy with crotch fungus?” he interrupts me.

Would I? I visualize Mr. Leroy’s moist, red groin folds and my stomach turns. “Sure,” I say.

Mr. Leroy snorts.

“Look,” I say, holding up my prescription. “You use this cream and the fungus will be gone in two weeks. Keep the area clean, lose some weight, and I promise it won’t come back.”

Mr. Leroy pulls the piece of paper from my hand and looks at it like it could be a winning lottery ticket. “Yeah?”

“I promise,” I say.

I hold my hand out to Mr. Leroy and he shakes it. His hand is big and warm. In spite of the fungus, Mr. Leroy isn’t an unattractive man. He’s clearly going through a hard time, but he has warm, brown eyes and a nice smile.

“You’re a nice lady, Doc,” Mr. Leroy says to me. “I heard good things about you.”

I feel my cheeks color. “Thank you.”

He smiles again. I glance up at the clock: fifteen minutes spent with Mr. Leroy. I’m already bracing myself for a lecture from Roger as I work through my twenty-minute lunch break.

I’m already behind schedule as I bring up the chart for my next patient on one of the computers in the hallway. As quickly as I can, I scan the details. Clark Douglas. Thirty-eight years old. Here to have a suspicious mole checked out. I’m just relieved that it’s not another teenage acne patient. Not that I mind teenage acne… raging teenage hormones definitely help pay the bills. But when it gets to be August, it seems like that’s all I see. The kids want their skin to be clear before school starts up again.

I knock on the door once then enter without waiting for an answer because the doors are inexplicably soundproof.

Let me just say that I may be a doctor, but I’m only human. And sometimes when a patient strips down in front of me for a mole check, even though I am a complete professional in my behavior, I can’t help but react. For example, if the patient sitting in front of me has the most perfect body I’ve ever seen. In my life.

Clark Douglas is gorgeous. I’m not sure I’ve ever used that word before to refer to a man, certainly not in my adult life, but it really does seem appropriate in this case. He is gorgeous. And also, he’s topless. Topless on my examining table, his pecs and deltoids perfectly toned—he is definitely doing enough upper body work. I can make out the bulge of a six pack on his slim abdomen. This is not a man who’s got fungus hidden in the folds of his groin, that’s for sure.

And he’s just as amazing from the neck up as well. I always thought that chestnut was a nice way of saying brown, but I stand corrected—this guy has the most gorgeous thick chestnut locks of hair on his head. He has dimples too, not huge ones, but just enough to be sexy—perfect dimples. His eyes lock with mine and they are clear blue, like the untouched waters of the Pacific.

Oh God, I sound like a teenage girl writing terrible poetry.

I’ve got to get myself under control.

“Mr. Douglas?” I ask. I strip my voice of any sort of emotion.

Clark Douglas smiles at me. God, even his teeth are gorgeous. It’s almost disgusting. “Guilty as charged.”

“I’m Dr. McKenna,” I tell him.

I hold out my hand to him and he shakes it. His hand is broad and warm, perfectly enveloping my smaller, plumper hand.

“Didn’t Jessica give you a gown?” I ask him. I know very well she did. I see it lying unused next to him on the examining table.

Mr. Douglas shrugs. “Isn’t it easier if I don’t wear it?”

“It’s for modesty,” I explain.