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“Did she date much?”
Her brows hit the ceiling. “Madeleine? No way. She was too busy heading up every club in school. She was the classic overachiever, just like her brother, except he went off to become a doctor, and Madeleine sort of…fizzled out.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I mean in college she majored in something crazy like global finance, and yet here she is, back in Hamilton, switching dead end jobs every few years.”
Interesting.
“But even if she wanted to date, guys at Hamilton High were a little intimidated by her. I mean, she’s not exactly Miss Congeniality. Most guys want someone who’s a little more upbeat, someone with a little personality.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Oh, she’s got personality all right.”
Sasha shrugs. “Well then it’s wasted on men here in Hamilton. If you ask me, I think she should move somewhere else. She could get some fancy job and meet a guy who actually appreciates her quirks.”
Quirks. Jesus. Just because she doesn’t titter at everything a man says doesn’t mean she has quirks. She’s confident, smart, and somewhat cynical, but then again, so am I.
I realize I’m defending her in my head and shove away from the front desk.
“Thanks for the info. I’m headed to lunch.”
“Want some company?” she asks, hopeful.
“Already have some.”
I drop my white coat in my office on the way out the door and then start to walk to Hamilton Brew. Madeleine emailed me this morning, confirming our lunch meeting and giving me the address for the coffee shop. I’m starving, and when I push through the door, I’m greeted by the smell of fresh baked bread.
My stomach grumbles on cue, and then I scan the room and find Madeleine set up with her laptop and notes at a table pushed up against the side wall. She looks more professional than I’ve ever seen her in a fitted dress and nude flats. Her long hair is pulled into a high ponytail and she’s typing away at her laptop, and I almost agree with Sasha—in Chicago, men would be flocking to her. In Hamilton, her “quirks” are completely wasted.
I weave through tables to get to her and she glances up, a wide smile breaking out across her face. She’s radiant despite the overcast day. I reach her and lean down, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She always smells like lavender, I realize, just before I feel her stiffen. I jerk back to standing.
Why the hell did I just kiss her cheek?
“Oh! Um, hello,” she says.
A deep blush creeps up neck and I clear my throat.
“Hey, did you already order?”
She can’t meet my eyes. She’s focusing on a point just over my right shoulder as she shakes her head. “I was waiting for you.”
I nod toward to the counter. “C’mon, I’m starving.” She drops her papers onto her laptop and reaches for her purse. I hold out my hand to stop her. “It’s on me.”
She frowns and shakes her head. “I like to treat my clients when I invite them to meet me at a restaurant for business.”
“And I like to pay when I take a friend to lunch,” I say, closing the subject.
She doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t drop her purse either. That’s fine. When we order, I tell her to go first, and when she orders the same turkey club I was eyeing, I tell the cashier to make it two and then slip him my card before she can unclasp her wallet. She laughs and reaches for one of the massive chocolate chip cookies on display beside the cash register.
“For that, you’re buying me a cookie too.”
The coffee shop fills up for lunch fast, and by the time we’ve taken our seats with our sandwiches, no less than five people have come up to say hello to Madeleine.
“You’re pretty popular,” I comment, unwrapping my sandwich.
She shakes her head. “It’s just how life is here in Hamilton. Stay here for another few months and you’ll see. You can’t make it through a turkey club without ten people coming up—”
“Maddie Thatcher, is that you!?”
I turn just in time to see a small woman with short blonde hair bolting for Madeleine.
“Mrs. Bell!” Madeleine says, leaping out of her chair. “When did you get back in town?!”
They’re hugging and talking too fast for me to catch up, including mention of an RV trip and newlywed bliss. I finish half my sandwich before they finally extricate themselves from their conversation and notice me sitting here, watching them with amusement.
“Oh, Adam! I’m sorry, this is Mrs. Bell, Daisy’s mom.”
I can see the resemblance as soon as she mentions it. She’s a little shorter than Daisy, obviously older, but they have the same delicate bone structure, the same mischievous gaze.
“Adam!” Mrs. Bells says, turning back to Madeleine and lowering her voice. “The vet, Adam?”
