Page 280 of The Doctors Will See You Now

Double sigh.

As a realist—my friend Amanda would argue I’m more pessimist, but she’s a French-frolicking traitor right now—my outlook on tonight was the opposite of good. I mean, if Barron the Bore landed me in the ER after what was supposed to be a simple night of dinner, what did Dr. Erotic have the power to do?

Maybe give us a real orgasm, my vagina chimed in.

Shut up, Vagina. You’re the one who got me in trouble with Barron in the first place.

Another cursory glance at the clock made me wince.

Shit! How is it twelve fifteen now? I’ve done nothing!

I forced my focus away from mentally flipping off Scott Shepard and read through my notes on various column ideas for the fifteenth time. I groaned. I needed something better than which Hemsworth brother looked better naked. Sure, those Aussies were the apples of a lot of women’s eyes—including my own because, hello? Have you seen Thor?—but I wanted and needed something with substance versus the trite, cliché crap that filled most gossip-based columns. I wasn’t going for the next Great American Novel, but something better than which Kardashian had the biggest ass wouldn’t be off base.

Hmm. Maybe I can do an article about which Hemsworth has the biggest ass…

Before I could brainstorm more ideas—as I desperately needed to—my phone buzzed with a text message. I sighed in annoyance. I knew who it was before I even checked the screen.

Dad: Which shirt should I wear?

He’d been at it all day with the text messages. Five messages ago, it was which shoes. Ten messages ago, it was hairstyle, which was ridiculous because my dad was partially balding. The hairstyle question had all of one option—the same fucking hairstyle he’d been sporting for the past twenty years.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out from the one million text messages that Bill Paige was bristling with anxious energy because of that stupid anniversary party Nicole Shepard had invited him to. And, yeah, with Scott’s underhanded trickery, I’d gotten dragged into the shindig as well.

Although, ironically, it had appeared that my dad was trying to play matchmaker last night at Mustang’s and set me up with a man who had been dubbed Dr. Erotic. So it wasn’t like Scott hadn’t had any help.

I made a mental note to ask my dad if he’d ever seen Scott’s show. I had a feeling he didn’t really know the kind of reputation that man had built for himself. Unless you were Hugh Hefner, it wasn’t exactly the norm to spend your nights out surrounded by twenty-something popstars and busty swimsuit models.

Needless to say, it felt like I was going on some kind of weird double date with my father. And it only felt weirder when I thought about the fact that our pseudo-dates were mother and son. This was some serious Jerry Springer kind of shit. But if I was being honest, there was a small part of me—the columnist side—that secretly wanted to go. My readers had shown a huge interest in the pieces I’d written about Dr. Erotic, and I was praying tonight I’d discover even more dirt to dish.

My phone buzzed with yet another text message from my father.

Dad: Hello? Low? I need help here. Which shirt should I wear?

I smiled at his impatience and looked through the numerous picture messages he’d sent. All of them were the same exact collared, long-sleeved, button-up dress shirt, just different colors—lilac, sky blue, black, white, and about ten other color options.

Bill Paige, back in the game. If I weren’t trying to fit in a little writing time for Monday’s column, I’d find it more adorable than annoying.

Me: The blue one. It brings out your eyes.

My dad had a killer set of blue eyes I’d spent half my life watching women react to shamelessly. He just never reacted back. I honestly wasn’t even sure if he knew the effect he had on the opposite sex, but tonight, once I finished up this column, I’d do my best to make damn sure he had the confidence boost he needed to be ready for a night of schmoozing Nicole Shepard.

Dad: Will you come over a little early and help me get ready?

Me: I thought that’s what we were doing with all of these text messages?

Dad: Low.

Me: Fine. But I need to finish this column first.

Dad: Can you get here by 4?

Me: That’s 3 hours before the party, Dad. That seems like way more time than we need. Unless you’re wanting me to do your nails before we go…

Dad: Shit. Do you think I need to get a manicure?

Good Lord, he was nervous. Even too amped up to realize I was being a total smartass and teasing him. As I started to type out another text message, I silently wondered if I should lay off the sarcasm and give him a break.

Nah.