Chapter Two
The hum from the fluorescent lights cut through the examination room’s silence. Rhett removed his stethoscope eartips with an inward groan.
“Well? Is he gonna pull through, Doctor?” The redhead in the sunflower sundress hitched her breath. No one gave a performance like Kennedy Day. No wonder she’d done well in all those pageants back in high school.
But the real kudos had to go to Muffin, the Bichon Frise valiantly playing dead on the stainless steel surgical table. Still, not even expert training could override a strong, healthy heartbeat.
Proper Southern manners dictated a few words of comfort, but his growing migraine crowded out any chivalrous impulses. “He’s going to live to lick another day.”
Kennedy clapped her hands without a hint of embarrassment. “Aren’t you a regular miracle worker?”
And aren’t you one hell of a dog trainer?
He reached into his white lab coat pocket and removed a treat. In an instant, Muffin bounded to his feet with a short but definitive yip. “Seems Lazarus here has worked up a healthy appetite.”
“Praise the Lord and pass the mashed potatoes. Come to Mama, Muffin Wuffin.” Kennedy scooped up the dog and smacked wet kisses on the top of its head.
Muffin stared at him darkly, telecommunicating,See what I’m dealing with? Be a bro and hand over a Barkie Bite.
Rhett passed the treat in solidarity.
“Silly me!” Kennedy’s shoulders shook with her tinkling laugh. “Before I forget, I brought you something special.” She reached into the bedazzled insulated bag beside her chair and removed a cake, as if bearing a fake dead dog and baked goods were normal occurrences.
Everland, his hometown, could be described many different ways, butnormalwasn’t the first adjective that sprang to mind.
The real miracle to this appointment would be shuffling Kennedy out before getting asked around for dinner. She sported that same determined look while wielding a pump-action shotgun on the opening day of turkey season. She might primp into the textbook definition of a Southern belle but had crack-shot aim when a tom was in her sights.
“This right here is the praline Bundt that’s won the Everland Fair’s Golden Fork five years running.” She positioned the cake to make it impossible to miss the caramel glaze or her cleavage. “You do like a nice Bundt, don’t you, Dr. Valentine?” She dropped her voice to a purr. “Or are you more of a sour cream pound cake man?
Dessert had never sounded so dirty.
“Rhett,” he snapped automatically. “Plain Rhett suits me fine.” The wordsDr. Valentinemade him want to check over his shoulder for his father and make a sign to ward off the evil eye. “We graduated a year apart. My dad coached Sailing Club. Your brother Kingston was on my team.”
“Of course.” She leaned forward with a suggestive wink. “And might I say you’ve gone from a dingy to a yacht.”
Time to hustle her out before things turned dangerous. He didn’t want to lead her on. Not when her megawatt smile gave him flash blindness, even as shadows haunted beneath her eyes. Everyone knew last year’s divorce had hit her hard. Breakups sucked. He understood. He even sympathized. But at the end of the day, her failed marriage wasn’t his circus.
He had his hands full with his own damn monkeys.
“Listen. About the cake.” He handed it back and led her toward the door. “My office policy is never to accept gifts from—”
“Gift?” She halted so fast her heels scuffed the linoleum. “Why it’s nothing but a harmless little nut cake!”
“Did Lou Ellen put you up to this?” His sister acted like her fourth term as second vice president of the Everland Ladies Quilt Guild was a mandate to nominate him as the town’s most eligible bachelor, as if his single status was due to circumstance rather than choice.
Online dating profiles kept popping into his inbox, as well as invitations to donate a dinner and movie date to the upcoming Village Pillage silent auction, or meet so-and-so’s third cousin, niece, dental hygienist, or belly-dance instructor. If he dared to smile at a woman at the post office, the local gossip blog, the Back Fence, posted a poll about wedding cake flavors by sundown.
He’d rather lick one of his waiting room chairs than date under that kind of scrutiny. Besides, bachelorhood came with undeniable perks:
He never woke without the covers.
Never got an arm ache from spooning.
Never had to fake laugh at a chick flick.
And when blue balls struck, well, his right hand had him covered.
Yep, all a man needed was a cold beer, a boat, and a couple of dogs.
