Page 13 of Baby Maker

"Told you. I would have figured you for a tea drinker."

"I do drink tea. Although, they allow us other beverages in England."

"What would the Queen think?"

"I'm not sure. I haven't spoken to her recently. I must inquire on our next Skype call." I drum my fingers along the table, chewing my lower lip. "Do you mind your nickname?"

"Which one?"

"You have more than one?"

"The woman I'm dating calls me Keegey, and I hate that more than a root canal without Novocain."

"I hate it for you." I feel an odd twinge at the mention of his girlfriend. What is it? Jealousy? No, I would never pursue a man like him, regardless. Even if he is the definition of dashing.

What is wrong with me? I'm a married woman. I shouldn't be thinking of another man, particularly not one who's unavailable. And my doctor. But damn, those pants…

"It's the worst nickname in the world." Keegan interrupts my thoughts, lucky for him considering how racy they were becoming.

"No," I interject. "It's not. I've got you beat."

"Do tell."

"In year six—"

"Year what?"

After years of being married to a fellow Brit, I forget how many terms are unfamiliar to Yanks. "I was twelve, so junior high here in the States? Anyway, this terribly daft boy decided to call me Caligula. I didn't even know who the hell Caligula was. Neither did the rest of the students. We all found out together about his array of kinks. Some nicknames dissipate quickly, but not mine. Lucky for me, the nickname stuck all the way through Year thirteen."

He grins as another chuckle warms my ears. "I hear he threw some wild orgies."

"Nothing compared to the ones I threw." I giggle at his raised brow. "Hey, I had to one up my namesake."

"I like you, Calliope. You've got a killer sense of humor." He averts his gaze, swirling his coffee. "As for my nicknames, I could do worse than Baby Maker. It's what I do, right?"

I choke on my coffee, earning a pat on the back from Dr. Russo. "That's not why they call you that."

"Why do they call me that, then?"

I send him an exasperated glare. "You know the reason."

He throws up his hands. "I don't, but you are going to tell me. You're a wealth of vital information, apparently."

"Because," I whisper, my cheeks reddening for the umpteenth time this afternoon, "all the women want to make babies with you."

The comely doctor leans forward, straining to hear my answer. It also provides me with another whiff of him, and it's as disconcerting to my hormones as it was the other day at his office when I touched him without permission. "Why are you whispering?"

"You want me to announce it at full volume? Okay, no problem." I open my mouth, but his hand covers it as we both devolve into laughter.

"Thank you for your discretion. I have one question, though."

"What's that?"

"Why did you call me Baby Maker? Something you want to tell me?"

I'm frozen to the spot, unable to break my gaze from his amused smirk. "It just slipped out."

"Did it?"

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