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“It’s him!” April shrieks.
I glare at her.
Bernadette’s hands flutter. “Oh! You should answer! He’s been very persistent. He only wants you.”
I wish people would stop saying things like that. “You both need to stop fangirling.” I wait until they stop twittering like birds before I answer. “Hello?”
“Poppy?”
“You’re speaking to her.”
“Thank fuck.” He mumbles something, maybe to someone on the other end of the line. “Sorry about that—the swearing, I mean. I’m boarding the plane back to Chicago. Listen, I know you said no more home treatments, but I really need to see you, and your appointment warden won’t book me in for anything in the next day or two. Can you help me out? Please.”
Why do I have no resolve? “What time does your flight get in?”
“Uh, like, before noon, I think? Maybe a little later? And we have a team meeting as soon as we get back, but I’m totally free after that. I’ll take anything right about now. I got into a scuffle on the ice last night, and it undid all the good you did last time.”
Oh my God. The word scuffle coming out of his mouth does funny things to me. “I saw that.”
“You did?”
I cringe at his surprise, and the fact that I’ve outted myself as a hockey watcher. Like this man needs his ego fed any more. “Mmm. Let me check my schedule this afternoon.”
Bernadette shakes her head and motions to the screen. I came in early today so I could get out early. My last appointment is at six thirty and it’s only forty-five minutes. Technically I can fit Lance in, although that’s going to put me up to seven sessions today. And I’ll miss yoga. Although our new instructor isn’t nearly as good as the girl who’d been teaching the class since early spring, so I’m really not missing all that much, apart from exercise.
I point to the computer screen and give Bernadette a questioning look. She shrugs, and April makes flailing hand gestures. “I can take you at seven fifteen.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“At your house, or the clinic?”
“At the clinic. We close at eight, though, so it can only be forty-five minutes.” I want Bernadette to be here when he leaves, just to be safe. Lord knows I’m stupid around this man.
“Okay. That works. Yer a precious angel. I really owe ya, Poppy.” His voice becomes muffled. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m hanging up. No, ya does nae hafta do that.” His voice becomes clear again, the Scot thicker with his agitation. “I gotta go or they’re gonna kick me off the plane. I’ll see you tonight, Poppy. Thanks again.”
I listen to dead air, still processing the precious angel comment, before I finally hang up.
Bernadette and April are squeal-flapping.
“You’re worse than teenage girls at a boy band concert. You can’t act like that when he’s here.”
April huffs. “This one starts treating famous hockey players, and she’s suddenly Ms. Serious.”
“It’s one hockey player, and he’s asking me to treat him, not marry him.”
“Yet,” April says.
“I have another client, so I need to get ready.” I leave the two of them to go set up, trying not to squeal-flap myself.
The rest of the day moves in an anxious blur. I don’t want to fixate on Lance, but really, I have a lot of time to think about him and the fact that he’s scheduled all these appointments and insisted on seeing me today. I also try not to think about what it means that I’ve given up my evening plans so I can treat him. I’d like to say it’s because I’m nice, but I’m not so nice that I’d give up my evening for just any client.
I’m antsy by the time seven rolls around. Typically I’ll work a little longer on my clients, particularly if they’re regulars, but knowing that Lance is likely waiting out there makes me feel rushed. Still, I don’t want to short-change anyone, so it’s seven twenty by the time I finish up.
I slip out of my room and down the hall to wash my hands before I check reception for Lance. He’s sitting in the same chair as the last time, wearing a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved henley pushed up to his elbows. Its dark green hue makes his eyes and hair pop more than usual. He has bruises along his jaw, and his eye has a dark shadow under it. There’s a new, bigger fly bandage across his split eyebrow. He’s still gorgeous.
But that’s not the most shocking thing. Clutched in one hand is a bouquet of red flowers. Poppies, to be exact.
His eyes move over me. “Hey. Hi. I brought these as a thank you.” He stands and thrusts them at me.
God, there’s far too much fluttering in my stomach. Lance Romero brought me flowers. Because I managed to get him an appointment with me. It’s a little weird.
