fine with my inviting Matt to join us for dinner that night. He’d met Matt before and seemed to enjoy talking to him about his work with Animal Services.
I supposed that if I decided to intensify my relationship with Matt, Kevin wouldn’t mind. Tracy might not, either. But although Matt and I now had a “friends with benefits” sort of thing going on—and maybe more—I didn’t want to rush things.
Neither did Matt, fortunately. He was astute enough to realize I wasn’t ready for anything too serious. Not yet, at least.
Matt had been married before, too—back when he had been a Navy SEAL. He had divorced around the time he’d left the military and become a K-9 officer in the police force of a small California town. Soon after was when he had moved to L.A. to join Animal Services. He had only recently revealed his former marriage to me, and we had been seeing each other for months. No kids, though, and he seemed to regret it. Maybe that was why he was so kind to animals.
Too soon, Kevin had to jump into his car and head back to his college campus, east of our home. Matt and Rex were still there when Kevin left. Enjoying their company made my son’s departure easier.
They stayed the night, too, and my activities with Matt helped even more with the transition.
When I need medical attention, I don’t head for Beverly Hills. There are other good doctors who staff reputable hospitals much closer to where I live. Dante funds generous benefits to the staff, including me, at HotRescues, so my medical insurance might cover the extra costs of going there. But why bother?
The office where Miles Frankovick’s medical practice had been was in the eighth-floor penthouse of a building on Wilshire Boulevard. I pulled my Venza into a metered spot along the street and hoped that I had overpaid for the time I would spend there. I didn’t want a Beverly Hills parking ticket.
The building was, inevitably, ritzy for a place housing many medical offices, with lots of glass and gold trimdecorating the marble façade. The elevator unfolded proudly to reveal the entry to the office I sought. The carved oak door was labeled ornately with BEVERLY HILLS’ PREEMINENT COSMETIC SURGERY FACILITY . To one side, a display case as elegant as a piece of antique furniture framed a list of half a dozen names that included Miles and also Dr. Serena Santoval.
The waiting room looked as if it belonged in a European castle. Its gleaming slate floor was covered with plush braided area rugs and had several conversation areas with richly upholstered chairs and European-looking tables laden with magazines. Several people sat there leafing through the publications. I glanced around to determine whether I thought any needed plastic surgery.
They didn’t.
Neither did the two receptionists behind the desk that led into the medical areas. The women themselves were either hired for their model-like beauty, or they’d partaken of some of the services here as part of their compensation. Or both.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Lauren Vancouver. I have an appointment at ten.”
“Which doctor?” asked the gorgeous brunette with cheekbones as sculpted as any famous starlet’s beneath her perfect complexion. Her lips were poufy enough to suggest that she had, indeed, received collagen injections.
“Dr. Santoval, I believe.” I leaned over the desk conspiratorially. “I’ve heard good things about her, but, well …” I pretended to hesitate. “I heard even better things about Dr. Frankovick.”
The receptionist’s hazel eyes widened and grew damp.Despite looking like a resident promotion for the doctors, she was, apparently, human. Maybe she was the weepy person I’d spoken with on the phone. Was that part of the image, too?
“He was a good man,” she said. “His patients swore by him.” She straightened her shoulders beneath her white medical top. “But Dr. Santoval is quite good, too. The only thing is, we’ve had to switch your
I supposed that if I decided to intensify my relationship with Matt, Kevin wouldn’t mind. Tracy might not, either. But although Matt and I now had a “friends with benefits” sort of thing going on—and maybe more—I didn’t want to rush things.
Neither did Matt, fortunately. He was astute enough to realize I wasn’t ready for anything too serious. Not yet, at least.
Matt had been married before, too—back when he had been a Navy SEAL. He had divorced around the time he’d left the military and become a K-9 officer in the police force of a small California town. Soon after was when he had moved to L.A. to join Animal Services. He had only recently revealed his former marriage to me, and we had been seeing each other for months. No kids, though, and he seemed to regret it. Maybe that was why he was so kind to animals.
Too soon, Kevin had to jump into his car and head back to his college campus, east of our home. Matt and Rex were still there when Kevin left. Enjoying their company made my son’s departure easier.
They stayed the night, too, and my activities with Matt helped even more with the transition.
When I need medical attention, I don’t head for Beverly Hills. There are other good doctors who staff reputable hospitals much closer to where I live. Dante funds generous benefits to the staff, including me, at HotRescues, so my medical insurance might cover the extra costs of going there. But why bother?
The office where Miles Frankovick’s medical practice had been was in the eighth-floor penthouse of a building on Wilshire Boulevard. I pulled my Venza into a metered spot along the street and hoped that I had overpaid for the time I would spend there. I didn’t want a Beverly Hills parking ticket.
The building was, inevitably, ritzy for a place housing many medical offices, with lots of glass and gold trimdecorating the marble façade. The elevator unfolded proudly to reveal the entry to the office I sought. The carved oak door was labeled ornately with BEVERLY HILLS’ PREEMINENT COSMETIC SURGERY FACILITY . To one side, a display case as elegant as a piece of antique furniture framed a list of half a dozen names that included Miles and also Dr. Serena Santoval.
The waiting room looked as if it belonged in a European castle. Its gleaming slate floor was covered with plush braided area rugs and had several conversation areas with richly upholstered chairs and European-looking tables laden with magazines. Several people sat there leafing through the publications. I glanced around to determine whether I thought any needed plastic surgery.
They didn’t.
Neither did the two receptionists behind the desk that led into the medical areas. The women themselves were either hired for their model-like beauty, or they’d partaken of some of the services here as part of their compensation. Or both.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Lauren Vancouver. I have an appointment at ten.”
“Which doctor?” asked the gorgeous brunette with cheekbones as sculpted as any famous starlet’s beneath her perfect complexion. Her lips were poufy enough to suggest that she had, indeed, received collagen injections.
“Dr. Santoval, I believe.” I leaned over the desk conspiratorially. “I’ve heard good things about her, but, well …” I pretended to hesitate. “I heard even better things about Dr. Frankovick.”
The receptionist’s hazel eyes widened and grew damp.Despite looking like a resident promotion for the doctors, she was, apparently, human. Maybe she was the weepy person I’d spoken with on the phone. Was that part of the image, too?
“He was a good man,” she said. “His patients swore by him.” She straightened her shoulders beneath her white medical top. “But Dr. Santoval is quite good, too. The only thing is, we’ve had to switch your
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