Harry’s nervous tapping on the wheel continued the rest of the way into town. Something was bothering him. A couple of gentle prods to talk went ignored, and I didn’t want to push my luck further. Our friendship was already hanging by a thread.
When he pulled up outside the clinic, he didn’t unbuckle his seat belt. His jaw clenched, tense. Poor kid. I clamped a reassuring hand on his shoulder before I hopped out of the truck.
For only the third time ever—which was still three times too many—I walked through the clinic doors.
The waiting room was deserted. Brooke lounged behind the reception desk, one of her bright red heels kicking out as she flipped through a magazine and shoved a bit of muffin into her mouth. My shadow looming over the desk eventually caught her attention. Her eyebrows slowly lifted as if my presence were the biggest inconvenience in the universe.
I held up my bandaged hand. “Workshop accident.”
“Just your hand?” Brooke fluttered her eyelashes. “It’s a pity you didn’t get sliced and diced lower down.” She picked up the desk phone and tapped a few buttons. “Doc, I’ve got a bleeder out here if you’re free.”
Her red fingernail pointed at a row of chairs. She wanted me to sit my backside down and wait. Too bad. I ignored her and lounged against the wall. I had no intention of getting comfortable. The sooner I was out of that damn clinic, the better.
Every so often, Brooke flashed me an evil smirk over the top of her magazine. I’d bet she was planning how to murder me for the unforgivable way I’d treated her friend. A map of one of the remote wilderness trails was probably hidden in the glossy pages, a big redXmarked where she planned to bury my body. She was pure type A, that one. She could pull it off without getting caught. No one would know.
The sweetest voice in the world floated down the corridor. “Alright, who have we got…?”
Lola stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes flew to Brooke, my bandaged hand, and back to Brooke. But before she could protest and refuse to see me, I saved her the effort.
“No.” Nerves thumped through me that had nothing to do with my butchered hand. “I need to see the other doctor.”
Lola threw her hands up.
Add that to my list of screwups, but there was no way I could be alone in a room with her after everything that had happened between us—the bar, the storm, anddefinitelynot after seeing her with Hollyoak. I couldn’t face her again until I found a way to fix us.
Brooke smiled at me sweetly.Toosweetly. “The other doctor is doing their rounds at the old folks’ home this afternoon. Only Dr. Hughes is available.”
I looked helplessly at Brooke, pleading for mercy. I’d take murder over the torture of being alone with Lola. “I can’t see Dr. Hughes.”
Lola shrugged. She was completely done with me. “Whatever. Your choice.” She waved me away. “Bleed out in the corridor if you want. There’s a warmed-up raspberry muffin and a pile oftest results waiting for me.” She spun on her heel and headed down the corridor.“Adios, muchacho!”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Brooke bent over the reception desk to holler after her. “I don’t want the big oaf bleeding out on my nice new carpet!” She pointed her red fingernail at me. “You heard the doctor. Move your butt to the treatment room,muchacho.”
I trudged down the corridor.
Brooke cackled. “Don’t worry,” she called after me. “The doctor will takerealgood care of you.”
My murder might be on the agenda after all.
17
She Saw the Patient
Lola
A nervous beat bouncedoff the treatment room walls.
Aiden’s broad shoulders crowded the corner he’d wedged himself into. He sat on the edge of the bed, his posture stiff, every muscle tight. The constant tapping of his boot hinted at frayed nerves, and wary eyes tracked my every move before sliding to the closed door.
Only one of my patients had bolted for their life from a treatment room. Maybe I was about to see the second.
“This won’t take long,” I reassured him.
Aiden said nothing. The beat of his boot sped up.
I scoured the shelves, grabbed everything I needed, and with a shove, the metal trolley with all my goodies rumbled across the treatment room. I faltered, wobbling. Aiden’s gaze was back on me. Oh, those eyes—wild and grey like a storm over the ocean, yet somehow soft like a big ol’ rumpled teddy bear.
My fingers twitched on the cold, steel handle of the trolley, fighting the urge to stroke the hair around his temple and gently, neatly, curl it behind his ear. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to comfort him and promise that everything would be okay.
