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“That’s not a proper thing to ask a woman, you know.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “If I remember correctly, you asked me how old I was within thirty seconds of walking into the examining room a few months back.”
“You have a very good memory, don’t you?”
“Yep. It’s been three months, and I could have identified your arse out of a lineup.”
She blushed again. I could tell she was flustered. “Back to the rules. You can’t say ‘arse’, either. No curse words, or you’ll have to put money in the swear jar.”
“The what?”
She pointed her eyes to the kitchen counter. Sure enough, there were two mason jars in the corner. Each had a piece of masking tape across it with what looked like a child’s handwriting. The one labeled Mom was filled half way with coins. The one labeled Brendan had one lone, shiny copper penny. Bridget sighed. “It was my son, Brendan’s, idea. He’d left his bike out at the curb again even though I’d told him to bring it in for the hundredth time. It was stolen, and I refused to buy him a new bike for no reason. I’d figured he’d get one for his birthday or Christmas, and by then maybe he’d learn his lesson. But he’s a resourceful boy. A day or two later, I was unloading the dishwasher and didn’t realize a glass had broken until after I’d sliced my finger open. I yelled, “shit,” and after the bleeding stopped, Brendan came up with the swear jar idea. He’d recently taken a liking to the word damn, and I’d been on him about it. If my jar is filled to the top first, I have to buy him a new bike. If his jar is filled to the top first, he has to get a haircut.”
“You don’t like his hair?”
“He’s going through this phase where he wants to grow it long. I think one of the girls at school told him she liked it that way, and now he won’t even agree to get a trim.”
I wiggled my brows and ran my fingers through my longish hair. “That’s how it all starts. He’ll have a selection of gel in no time.”
Bridget shook her head at me and sipped her tea. “Great.”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that you still haven’t answered my question.”
“What question?”
“How old are you?”
“I thought we decided a gentleman didn’t ask a woman’s age.”
“Well, there’s your first problem. You shouldn’t have assumed I was a gentleman.”
She laughed. “I’m thirty-three.”
“You don’t look a day over thirty-two-and-a-half.”
“Gee, thanks.”
I caught the time on my watch. I was enjoying my chat with Bridget, but I was going to be late to work if I didn’t get myself out of here in the next five minutes. Finishing off the rest of my tea, I stood and placed my mug in the sink. “I have to get to the hospital. What are the rest of the rules?”
“Oh. Let’s see…” she tapped her pointer finger to her lip a few times. “Off the top of my head: Clean up your own mess in the kitchen. Don’t leave dishes in the sink—either wash them or load them into the dishwasher, and even though you have your own bathroom, if you use the one off the kitchen while you’re in here, put the seat down when you’re done.”
“Got it. Is that it?”
“Yes. For now. Although I reserve the right to add more at a later date.”
I contained my smile. “Of course you do.”
“Are you working a twenty-four-hour shift?”
I nodded. “Four twenty-fours this week.”
“I don’t know how you guys do it.”
“You get used to lack of sleep.”
“I suppose. I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other from now on. I’m working a twelve-hour shift tomorrow, too.”
“You’re a lucky woman. And I’m not referring to the twelve-hour shift.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “Goodbye, Simon.”
“You have a good night. And try not to pass out anymore.” I was halfway out the door when a thought dawned on me. Turning back, I asked, “Is it body temperature or external temperature that makes you pass out?”
“Both, I guess. It’s usually the external temperature that makes my body temperature rise and then it hits me all at once.”
“So do you ever pass out while shagging?”
“Excuse me?”
I honestly thought she didn’t understand the term. “Shagging…you know…fucking.”
“I know what the term means. And even though it’s none of your business, no, I’ve never passed out while having sex.”
I dug into my pocket and pulled out a single. Holding it up, I walked over to the counter where the swear jars were and deposited the dollar into one.
“What’s that for?”
“Consider it a credit. You’re so fucking adorable the way your skin pinks up when I say fucking, I’m definitely going to say it again.”Why didn’t I visit my BFF more often? During my lunch break the next day, I took a walk over to Calliope’s yoga studio, which was only a few blocks from the new hospital I worked in for my final rotation. I’d picked up a smoothie before heading over and sat in the back of the class watching a room full of women in tight yoga pants bend over. She smiled and motioned that she’d be a few more minutes, but I was pretty damn content where I was. I got to sit and give my dogs a rest and take in the view.
