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Seeing him and hearing my name roll off his lips gives me an electroshock and prompts me to simultaneously let go of the poor woman behind the counter and regain my footing. I try to angle my body so that my butt is pressed against the booth and the chocolate Armageddon is out of sight.
Not that John won’t have seen it already. He’s not blind.
The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth tells me he can see very well.
“No matter,” I say. “Everything is perfect.” I stare at the receptionist, reading the name tag pinned to her chest. “Carla and I were trying to sort out a situation, but your help isn’t needed. Thank you.”
There. That was a perfectly calm, perfectly polite answer to give my ex.
John doesn’t seem to buy it. He cocks one eyebrow at the receptionist and the wretched woman rats me out. “She botched her trigger shot and needs a replacement. Dr. Townsend went home already, so I was about to call you before she”—the receptionist throws me a dirty look, massaging her wrist—“almost clawed my hand off.”
John unleashes an annoyingly dashing smile on the receptionist, melting the sour expression right off her face. “It’s okay, Carla, I can give Miss Mayer the shot.”
“No need,” I say.
The dashing smile with all its megawatts turns to me. “You have a better option?”
“You can just write me a prescription and I can give myself the shot.”
Not missing a beat, John fires back, “We wouldn’t want to risk a second mishap.”
“I’m perfectly capable of giving myself the shot.”
“As the broken vial in that plastic bag clearly proves.”
I hadn’t even realized I was still clutching the darn thing. “This was an accident; it won’t happen again.”
“Come on, Mari.” He beckons me to follow him. “After what we went through last time, a hormone shot will feel like a walk in the park.”
I swear if he calls me Mari one more time…
With my lips pressed into a hard line, I have no choice but to follow him.
Dr. Bane Of My Existence guides me to a room with a single examination table, a desk, and a million cabinets filled with different drugs.
He drops his coat on a chair and turns to me. “Do you have your prescription?”
Wordlessly, I hand him the slip of paper.
John scans it quickly and then, whistling—I hate him—he searches the shelves for the right medication. He sets it on the metal counter of the cabinet, clicks it to the right dose, and then turns to me.
“You should probably remove your coat.”
I do as I’m told, glaring at him.
“Are we going to discuss the fact that your bottom is covered in what appears to be—”
“It’s chocolate,” I interrupt him. “And no, we’re not going to discuss it.”
Silently staring at me, John grabs the roll of hospital paper over the bed and tortuously drags another layer down, despite the perfect protection paper sheet already covering the leather.
The tear of the paper resounds as loud as a gunshot in the small room. I roll my eyes, imagining the torture to be over, when John pulls another layer on top of the two already shielding the bed from my butt. Equally slowly, eyes never leaving mine—I hate him more.
Once the little show is over, he pats the bed, and with the most carefree tone in the world, says, “You can sit now.”
Gingerly, I take my place on the bed, staring at the needle and the vial.
“You might be more comfortable if you lie down.”
