“Knitting? What do you knit?”
“I knit animal earmuffs and hats and I sell them on the internet. I do pretty well with it, actually. I’m…I’m working on one set right now.”
“Animal earmuffs. Things that look like animals for kids to wear?”
Her shy, breathy laugh hits me somewhere in my chest and squeezes me. “Not exactly. I knit things for young farm animals to wear in cold weather.”
If I wasn’t paying attention before…
“Wait a minute, back up. You knit little tiny hats and earmuffs for baby animals to wear? Enlighten me some more.”
“Well, sometimes farmers want warm ear coverings for calves, baby goats, donkeys, whatever animals they have. I promise it’s a real thing. Google it.”
“Llamas?”
“I have done some for baby llamas and alpacas, yes,” she says with an indulging smile in her voice.
“You’re telling me your name is Millie and you make little bitty hats for baby farm animals, and you’re a virgin?”
“Ye—yes?”
I have to stop myself from blurting something out. Something like an immediate marriage proposal. It’s too much to process how fucking cute she is. And she’s not even my type! She’s too shy for me.
“I’m sorry. I’m having trouble processing these feelings I’m having right now,” I say.
A small gasp from her lands in my ears. “Uhm, why?”
I clear my throat, and through the window of the sound booth, my producer Reagan gives me a grossed-out look. I’m so rattled I forgot to use the cough button.
“So. No boyfriend, not dating anyone currently. That’s good.”
“Excuse me?” she squeaks.
“Sorry. That’s not what I meant.” That’s a lie. That’s absolutely what I meant. The idea of this sweet, pure woman on a date with anybody but me makes my blood pressure rise. This is insane; I’ve taken thousands of calls from women over the years, all of them sexy in their own way, but not a single one of them has made me feel things down in my guts.
Reagan is looking at me with both excitement and bewilderment, probably because to her, it sounds like I’m on the verge of hitting on a caller—not just flirting.
I’m flustered. Goddamn it. Smooth talking Doctor Dave the radio personality does not get flustered. David Hart, M.D. can discuss all manner of gross situations and injuries in a dignified manner. Plai
n old David Hart, single guy, on the other hand, is absolutely unsettled, and he is fucking this all right up.
I could continue to play off what I’ve just said for the sake of professional radio and to hide my feelings. I could do that. But something inside me doesn’t want to play it cool.
“Actually, that’s exactly what I meant. I like you, and I’m feeling a little bit protective,” I say.
She replies, “Can I be honest with you, Doctor Dave?”
“God, yes, please.”
“My three older brothers have been overly protective of me my entire life, and they’re part of the problem. They’ve been scaring boys away from me since I was fourteen.”
I have to chuckle. “I like them already.”
Millie’s tone turns slightly indignant. “Well, I don’t need another caveman brother,” she says. “I need you—I mean, I need someone objective to tell me how to find the right candidate to have sex with me.”
Sign me up. I volunteer as tribute, I want to say.
I take a sip of water to counteract my dry mouth and to cool off the fire she’s stoking inside me.