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“Hey, sugar.”
The endearment set her on edge. It had been more than a year since they’d last spoken. She certainly wasn’t his sugar anymore.
“What do you want?” She grated out the question.
“To talk,” he shot back. “And since you’ve refused to answer any of my secretary’s phone calls lately?—”
“That was you?” She gasped, realizing he must be referring to all the requests for an interview. The ones she’d let go to voicemail. “How in the?—?”
“Like you, I finished college and started working my way up in my field.”
“So that’s how a major news network ended up with my personal cell phone number!” How had she failed to connect the dots? It all made sense now.
“I’d like to say I’m sorry about that, but I follow the story wherever it leads, sugar. And this one led me straight to you.”
“Stop calling me that!” She couldn’t believe he was trying to cash in on their failed relationship for anything. She didn’t owe him a story.
“Just answer a few questions for me,” he wheedled, “for old time’s sake.”
“I know nothing about the feud that you haven’t already read online.” She pulled into the clinic parking lot, relieved to have an excuse to end their conversation. “I have no comments to make. I don’t even have an opinion on the matter. It, quite simply, doesn’t concern me.”
“I know you’re an outsider, Prim. That’s what makes your insight about what’s happening in town so perfect. All I’m asking is for five minutes of your time. Ten minutes tops! We could do it over a cup of coffee. Today.”
“You’re here?” She practically yelled the question.
“Every reporter worth their salt is in your town right now, sugar. I mean Prim. Sorry about that. Old habits die hard.”
“I, er…” As she pulled into her assigned parking spot behind the clinic, her insides chilled at the sight of the metallic blue sports car in the spot next to hers. It was the same one that had forced her to pull off the road a few minutes earlier. She was sure of it. The insignia emblazoned in gold paint above the lid of the gas tank was unfamiliar to her — the outline of a crown with cursive K scrawled inside it.
The Dallas Kings?
Good gracious! What in the world was the mafia doing at the rez clinic?
“Listen, I’ve gotta go.” She pressed a hand to her racing heart, half-tempted to turn around and drive straight to the police station. Or the guard shack. Or anywhere else but here. The only thing that made her hesitate was the fact that the driver had arrived at the clinic ahead of her. It wasn’t like he’d followed her here. And the unusual gold insignia on his car could mean anything. Literally anything.
She drew a deep, soul-cleansing breath, reminding herself that it was okay to be cautious and vigilant, considering everything that was going on. However, she couldn’t jump at every shadow. She was a P.A., for crying out! People were depending on her.
Ashton was still babbling when she tuned back in to the phone still pressed to her ear. “Oh, come on, Prim! Let’s grab a coffee. If you’re not interested in talking about the feud, at least let me deliver the gift your mom sent with me.”
Her throat tightened at the reminder that her mother had no idea just how badly Ashton had broken her heart. However, she was out of time for haggling. Her first patient appointment was about to begin. “Fine,” she snapped, just to get him off the phone. “Meet me at The Longhorn Grill at one-thirty.” It was a public place with plenty of witnesses. If Shep was awake by then, maybe he’d join her and show Ashton just how completely she’d moved on from him.
“It’s a date,” he sang out.
“No, it’s not.” She hung up on him, grabbed her medical bag and lunch sack, and stomped into the clinic.
The head nurse had her first two patients checked in and seated in their exam rooms. Prim tossed her gear inside her office and yanked her white lab coat on over her pink smock. Locking the door, she hurried down the hallway and reached for the clipboard outside the first exam room.
The name on the clipboard made her shiver. It was Mato Paddock. The owner of the blue sports car, apparently. To her knowledge, he’d never before visited the clinic, at least not during her tenure. He was complaining about a swollen wrist. Limited mobility. Possibly broken. She drew a bracing breath and opened the door.
The nineteen-year-old Comanche was perched on the edge of the exam table, cradling his wrist against his chest. He wore low-slung jeans with a maze of chains hanging from his waistband. A baseball cap was turned backwards over his longish black hair. His graphic t-shirt looked painted on, probably to show off his pecs to the ladies.
“Good morning, Mato.” Prim left the door of the exam room wide open, not wanting to be alone with him. “What happened to your wrist?”
He gave her a sullen look. “Ran into a doorway.”
She gritted her teeth at his attitude. “Was this before or after you nearly ran me off the road?”
A slow smile curved his mouth. “Aww, was that you in the Supra, doc?”
