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Zoe just hmmed and looked at him sideways.
“I take it you know what I’m talking about?” Colt asked.
“Let’s just say if you see any artist at work I would recommend turning around and walking away as quickly and quietly as you can. Otherwise it’s a health hazard.”
“Good thing I’m a doctor, huh?”
He led her around to the back of the clinic and he unlocked the door. She was surprised to see a small elevator next to the stairs that led to the second floor.
“I’m not lazy,” he said. “I promise. I had it installed when my nana was still alive. Nana was my dad’s grandmother. I never knew when she was going to drop by for a visit, and I was afraid she’d fall on the stairs. She died just last year. She was a hundred and two. O’Haras are long lived.”
“I’m sorry,” Zoe said softly. “It sounds like you were close.”
“Very,” he said. “She was just as active and bullheaded at a hundred and two as she’s always been. Her heart just couldn’t keep up with the rest of her. She lived a great life, and she got to meet all of her great-grandkids and some of her great-great grandkids.”
“I’d say that’s pretty special,” she said. “Your family is special. I hope you don’t take that for granted.”
Colt led her up the stairs and let Chewy sniff around his new environment. And then he unlocked the door of his apartment and stepped aside so she could go in first.
“Wow,” she said.
“Why the surprise?” he asked.
“You made it sound like you lived in some college apartment above your clinic,” she said. “This place is nice. And you have a view almost as good as mine.”
He tried to see it through her eyes. He’d designed it so it would feel as if were part of the mountain—like a comfortable lodge—and he’d wanted it to have a masculine feel. After all, he was building it for himself. The ceiling was vaulted with heavy beams and there was a fireplace made of the river rock that was so prominent in the area. His furniture was brown leather and the rug on the floor a Navajo pattern. The kitchen was almost as large as the living area with commercial appliances and a big island for extra counter space.
“Hank and I renovated it after we finished the clinic,” he said. “I’m too old to live in a college dorm and I like my comforts, especially where the kitchen is concerned. Have a seat. I’ve got some sample packs of some stronger stuff for that headache downstairs. I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”
By the time he got back upstairs she was taking the orange juice out of his refrigerator and pouring herself a glass. “Want any?”
“I’ll just drink water,” he said, handing her the pills. She looked at him questioningly and he said, “It’s just a higher milligram ibuprofen. It won’t make you sleepy or anything like that. But it should take the edge off pretty quickly. I can tell you’re hurting. Have a seat and relax. I’ll make us sandwiches.”
Her lips twitched. “I thought you were cooking. Even I can make a sandwich.”
“Not like one of my sandwiches,” he said. “But I did promise you a cooking lesson. I can swing by your place tonight after my last patient.”
“Is it an O’Hara trait to bulldoze their way into any situation?” she asked, taking a seat on the barstool.
“Pretty much,” he said. “In a family as big as ours if you don’t make your wishes and wants known, and at top volume, you have a tendency to get drowned out.”
“Well, in that case you’re welcome to come over for dinner,” she said. “Chewy and I will happily be your test dummies.”
Chewy barked and then jumped up on the couch and made himself at home.
“Should I turn the TV on for him?” Colt asked. “Or maybe get him a magazine?”
“I’m sure he’s fine. Chewy is a day sleeper. We’ve had a lot of activity so he’s probably tired.”
“I hear you, buddy,” Colt said. “Shopping is hard work. I went one time with my mother when she was renovating the barn and it took me a week to recover.”
Colt took thin sliced roast beef and fresh bell peppers and onions from the fridge and then got out his frying pan. His movement around the kitchen was easy and familiar, and he loved the aroma as he started to fry the vegetables in olive oil.
“You have a well-stocked fridge,” she said. “But I don’t see any junk food.”
“What kind of doctor would I be if I lived on junk food?” he asked, arching a brow. “In the spring and summer Laurel Valley has a weekly farmer’s market. Fresh produce and vegetables. Fresh eggs and homemade bread. You should check it out.”
“So it can rot in my fridge?” she asked. “This is why I eat takeout most of the time.”
