Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“All right. Fine, just…get in. I’ll take you home, walk you to your door, and we can forget this night ever happened.”
She gets in, muttering beneath her breath as I circle around to the driver’s side. She continues to mutter as I pull out of the parking lot and aim the SUV toward her cottage on the edge of town.
Thankfully, it’s the edge closest to Bubba Jump’s. A fifteen-minute car ride is going to be plenty for me in her current mood.
“So, what else haven’t you noticed?” she asks.
“That’s a trick question if I’ve ever heard one,” I say, not about to fall into a female conversational snare at this late hour. I’ve been up since before dawn, delivering a baby, attending to patients, and stalking her stupid turkey. All I want right now is a shower, my pajamas, and maybe a podcast on rare congenital diseases in my ears to keep my mind off that kiss and Wren’s unexpectedly perfect ass.
“Okay, then I’ll make it easier for you,” she says, crossing her legs, drawing my attention to the way her skirt slides up her thighs.
That’s another thing I’ve never noticed—that Wren’s thighs are curvy in all the right places and look gorgeous in see-through black hose.
“What’s my go-to lunch food, pizza or salad?” she continues. “That ought to be easy enough. I eat the same thing almost every day.”
“Salad,” I say with as much authority as I can muster, considering I literally have zero memories of watching Wren eat.
I must have seen her with her lunch hundreds of times—I go into the breakroom to grab whatever I’ve brought from home from the fridge almost every day while the nurses are eating—but my mental screen is blank.
But Wren is a healthy person. I feel confident salad is the correct answer.
She makes a loud honking noise, followed by, “Wrong. I eat vegetarian sushi for lunch. Every day except Fridays, when the girls and I get takeout from a restaurant in town as a special treat.”
I scowl. “That isn’t fair. You cheated.”
“I didn’t cheat. I proved a point. You don’t know me. At all.”
“That isn’t true,” I say. “Just because I don’t pay attention to all the senseless minutia doesn’t mean I don’t know the important things.”
She shifts in her seat, fixing her full attention on my face. “Okay. Then tell me something important about me. Something you have paid attention to.”
“You like making jewelry, and you’re very good at it,” I say, grateful to see the turn onto Wren’s road up ahead. Five more minutes. If I can make it five more minutes with drunk and disorderly Wren without saying the wrong thing, we can put this strange night behind us and start fresh on Monday.
I know Wren, the real Wren, and she hates conflict. If only I can escape the SUV without saying something that will drive a permanent wedge between me and my best nurse, she’ll be happy to pretend this never happened.
“That doesn’t count,” she shoots back. “You bought jewelry from me for your family for Christmas, and you always remember things when there’s money involved. Your fiscally responsible gene demands it. Give me something else.”
“All right,” I say, hating that she’s right.
She clearly knows me, but I know her, too. I do…I just can’t think of anything to prove it at the moment.
“I’m waiting.” She cocks her head.
“I’m thinking.” I push down harder on the gas, willing to risk a ticket in the name of getting her home ASAP. “I had an early morning. I’m tired.”
“So am I. I’ve barely slept at all this week. I’ve been too stressed about that stupid turkey finding a way to squeeze through the old dog door out back and peck my eyes out while my guard is down,” she says. “But I can still remember that you love soccer, hate football, and can’t resist a game of pick-up hockey on the lake once it’s frozen over. I know that you eat quinoa topped with grilled vegetables for lunch almost every day and sometimes sneak in lemon bars you believe you keep cleverly hidden in the pantry above the tea bags. But the other nurses and I all know that they’re there and sometimes we steal tiny pieces because they’re really tasty and you should tell us where you get them.”
“I’m not hiding them,” I lie. “That just seemed like a good place to store lemon bars. Out of the way. Off the counter where all the cups are always drying.”
“I know that you secretly love stand-up comedy,” she continues, clearly unimpressed by my excuse. “You’re also a surprisingly excellent singer—considering most of your family is tone deaf—and you don’t own a single pair of white socks.”
My lips part in a retort that I absolutely do own white socks, but suddenly I’m not sure. I don’t pay attention to my socks. I just…put them on every morning.