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“There has to be a bad date story in there somewhere, or a drunken night with Claire.”
I shake my head again. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing. I haven’t done a damn thing for the last six years—unless you want me to tell you about the time a horse stepped on my toe and I had to have my toenail removed.”
Rhett scrunches his nose.
“Didn’t think so. I got bit by a stray dog and had to get a tetanus shot. Oh, and one time a skunk got into Mr. Lytle’s house, and I helped chase it out, but not before getting sprayed. I went through ten cans of tomato juice that night.”
Rhett smiles. “See, you have funny stories.”
“About animals.”
Sighing, I flop back on the grass and look up at the sky. The sun is starting to set, casting red and orange across the clouds.
“I missed out on so much. I can’t tell you how many times I turned down my friends because I was too tired to hang out, or didn’t have enough money to buy myself a beer. Looking back, I wish I would’ve gone anyway, made those memories.” I think about that for a moment and then correct myself. “Actually, it wouldn’t have mattered; I still had to stay home to take care of my dad.”
“I’m sorry, Mo.”
“Don’t be. My life hasn’t been bad; it just hasn’t been very exciting.”
Rhett sighs, shifting his gaze to the sky for a moment and then back to me. “You know,” he says, running his fingers up the side of my arm. “It’s never too late to add some excitement to your life.”
When his fingers hit the collar of my shirt and dip beneath, grazing the swell of my breast, my breath catches. “I’m listening.”
Shifting in the grass, Rhett props himself on an elbow and leans over me. He delivers a heated kiss and moves to my ear. “I could show you how much fun three showerheads can be. Did I mention they’re adjustable and one of them has a pulsating option?”
My throat constricts. “Are they removable?”
“Damn right they are.”
Pushing up, I slip my shoes on and look down at a smiling Rhett. “Then what are we waiting for?”
Rhett
“I hate hospitals,” I tell Mo the next morning.
“Shhh.” She shoots me a warning look as we enter the sterile waiting area. “This isn’t a hospital; it’s a doctor’s office, and there are people around.”
I look everywhere, doing a three-sixty, and don’t see a damn person. “Where? Where are the people?”
“You’re grouchy today,” she says, motioning for me to sign in at the front desk.
I scribble my name on a piece of paper at the same time the receptionist slides the glass window open.
“I’m going to need your insurance card and a photo ID,” she says, using a black marker to cross out the name I just signed.
Well, that was pointless.
I pull the cards she’s requested from my wallet and hand them to her.
“You can have seat. I’ll get these back to you when we call you in.”
I nod as the window closes again. “I’m grouchy because I hate doctors,” I say, following Mo.
She walks to the back of the waiting room and grabs a magazine from the shelf. When she goes to sit down, she winces.
“You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay,” she whispers, fighting back a smile. “I’m sore.”
