Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Tomorrow?” He shrugs off his coat. He’s in jeans that hug his thighs like jam on a scone, and a blue shirt that makes his eyes look bluer than usual. And usually they’re bluer than blue. “A patient’s booked in?”
He doesn’t look as happy as I expected him to look. Running his hands through his hair, I try not to stare at the way the fabric of his shirt grows taut over his arms. In another life, I could imagine having a serious crush on Zachary Cove, if that life was one where he smiled a little more often and gave his assistant something to do.
“Yes, that insurer recognition is kicking in,” I say. “It’s only a matter of time before they’re queuing out the door.” I hand him the burrito. As he takes the plate, his fingers scrape mine and it’s what I imagine it’s like to receive an electrical shock straight to the heart. I feel an almost physical jolt. He meets my eyes, his brows pulled together as if he’s confused, and I wonder whether he just felt the same thing I did.
He looks away and sits, taking a forkful of burrito before he’s fully in his chair. I might be imagining things, but it sounds like he lets out a small moan of pleasure at the first bite. I have to look away before I start mentally undressing him. “This is so good.”
If I ever give him food again, I’ll need to make sure I don’t have to touch him when I hand it to him or listen to him eat it. There’s no telling what I might do.
He swallows and digs in for another forkful. “But the appointment? You’re going to have to cancel it.”
My face heats like I’m standing too close to a fire. He can’t be serious. It’s the first glimmer of a future that I’ve had in nearly five weeks.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I’m busy.”
“Doing what?” I blurt and instantly regret it. It’s none of my business what he does in his office all day every day. For the last couple of weeks he’s in the office before I arrive and leaves after me. Maybe he set up Minecraft on his computer or something. Shane’s addiction to video games was a source of tension between us. He insisted it was the best way for him to cool off before a race. And after a race. And between races. It drove me mad. Pun intended.
I just wanted us to make the most of our time together between races. Looking back it should have been a sign, but I was in so deep, I didn’t see. Dr. Cove doesn’t strike me as a Minecraft kind of guy. Then again, I don’t know him that well.
Dr. Cove clears his throat as if to say none of your fucking business. “I need to get on. Please shut the door.” He doesn’t even look at me.
Shit. Far from making myself unsackable, I’m practically writing my own letter of dismissal.
“I’m sorry. I’ll get you coffee in an hour.” I leave him, being careful to shut the door as quietly as possible on the way out so I don’t escalate anything. Shane always slammed doors, and I hated it, even though it was never intentional—so he said. Looking back, he knew it made me anxious, yet he never seemed to make any effort not to do it. Was he deliberately trying to make me anxious? Was it his way of showing his displeasure or trying to make me feel bad—a form of punishment for not giving in to him right away?
Dr. Cove isn’t Shane. My logical brain knows this. But another part of me can’t help making connections between the only two workplaces I’ve ever known.
Back on my own, I sigh. The one patient we’ve had in nearly seven weeks and he’s turning it down.
I pull out my notebook. I need distraction. If this place had a fully functioning kitchen, I’d be able to manage my stress better. I’d just cook myself calm. But no such luck. Creating recipes is the next best thing. I’m working on a new marinade for a chicken dish, but I can’t get the ginger amount right. Or maybe it’s the citrus throwing things off? I could try blood oranges instead of regular oranges. One of each? Maybe I’ll abandon it and attempt another fruit souffle.
I go through my notes and then research ingredients online for the next forty-five minutes. Then I put on my coat and head out to get coffee. I might have one myself this morning.
“You want an Americano?” the girl behind the counter says.
I sigh. “Yes, please.”
“Anything else?”
A place at Le Cordon Bleu and the money to pay for it, I don’t say. “I’ll have a medium cappuccino, please.”
“You look miserable,” she says. “Want to talk about it?”