Dr. Hot Stuff - Tawna Fenske Page 0,12

he explains. “There’s some setup on the back end that allows folks to pick their preferred title. Regular stuff like ‘Mr.’ or ‘Ms.’ or ‘Mx.’”

“Mx.?” That’s a new one to me.

“It’s a gender-neutral title for people who don’t identify with male or female or who prefer not to specify for any reason.” He shifts easily, thigh flexing as he moves the pedals. “It’s becoming more common.”

“I see.” I make a mental note to remember that one, just in case. “Were there more titles than those ones?”

He laughs. “That’s the problem. The company that created the intake form uploaded hundreds of titles for countries all over the world. Most medical offices narrow it to a dozen or so, but we missed that step when setting it up.”

The low, alluring rumble of his voice has me mesmerized, and I forget for a moment this is a conversation and not a monologue. I’d cheerfully listen to him read the owner’s manual for this truck.

“What happened?” I manage to ask when I find my voice. “I presume some of the titles aren’t commonly used?”

“Some I might have left in there anyway,” he says. “Stuff like ‘reverend’ or ‘doctor.’”

“A doctor treating a doctor,” I muse. “That must be interesting.”

“Could be a college professor or even a veterinarian,” he points out. “But I’ve had a few patients who were medical doctors.”

“So what other titles were there?” I stretch my legs out in front of me, curling my toes in my hiking boots.

“Let’s see, there was ‘chancellor.’ I guess that works for any patient who’s a chancellor at a university. There was also QC or KC which I had to look up.”

“What are those?”

He steers the truck around a big hunk of ice in the road. “Stands for ‘Queen’s Counsel’ or ‘King’s Counsel.’ I guess it’s for a judge or barrister in some parts of Europe.”

I laugh, unfamiliar with either title. “Something to aspire to, I suppose.”

“Then there were the really odd ones,” he says. “My personal favorite was ‘His Beatitude.’”

“His what?”

“Beatitude.” The dimple in his cheek is driving me crazy. Who gets turned on by face divots?

Me, apparently.

“‘His Beatitude’ or ‘His Eminence’ are used in some catholic communities,” he explains. “Which I guess would be handy if the archbishop of the Syriac Orthodox Church shows up needing a tonsillectomy.”

I laugh and brush a strand of hair off my face. “It’s good to be prepared.”

“We had one guy click the box for ‘Your Excellency,’” he says. “That guy was a kick. Spent the whole exam keeping a straight face while I asked things like, ‘have you experienced any shortness of breath, Your Excellency?’ or ‘When was your last bowel movement, Your Excellency?”

I hoot with laughter, hardly caring that my mother would find it most unladylike.

“Isabella,” she hissed once, grabbing me by the arm at a royal gala. “It’s gauche to laugh with your mouth open.”

But here in the cozy cab of Bradley’s truck, I keep right on laughing. I’m grateful my mother can’t see me. Can’t read my mind, either, to know I’m thinking impure thoughts about the man driving me around in his big American pickup truck. “I love it,” I tell him. “I presume you’re no longer offering the full array of titles?”

“Nah, we had to pare down.” He grimaces. “Finally figured it out when a woman came storming up to the counter demanding to know what we were implying about her husband. She took it personally that ‘Mistress’ was an option.”

“Oh, dear.” I cover my mouth with my hand as he hits his turn signal and waits for a tractor to pass going the other way.

There’s an arched metal and wood sign over a long, asphalt driveway. Metallic silver letters spell out “Parker Ranch.” While not quite as grand as the signage at Ponderosa Resort, it’s much fancier than most farms we’ve driven past. I wonder how big this ranch is, but decide it’s improper to ask.

As Bradley steers us toward the barn, butterflies dance in my stomach. “Your mother’s expecting us, right?”

“Right. She might be back at the house, though. My sister’s daycare has early release on Wednesdays, so sometimes my mom looks after Jordan.”

“That’s your niece?”

“Yeah.” A warm smile spreads over his face. “Pretty much the cutest kid ever.”

I give him the haughtiest look I can muster. “Aside from Bree’s baby, you mean? My nephew is the pinnacle of cuteness.”

“I’ll give you that. Brian’s adorable. I dig how they mashed up ‘Breeann’ and ‘Austin’ to make his name.”

“Isn’t that clever? Perhaps Mark