A snake plant in the corner keeps the space from looking too aseptic, but beyond that, it's boring.
For the life of me, I cannot figure out why Isorta kinda maybewant this Bravo guy to be the Peter guy from my engagement party. It's not a stretch, is it? Olive Township is a small town, but it's ever-growing, constantly adding to its population. Tourists flock here from that viral travel article, calling our little hamlet aJewel in the desert. Once they arrive, they see the author was right. They fall in love with our eclectic vibe, our white stucco store façades, our little honor system storeInconceivable!with its unmanned old-fashioned cash register for payment.
A few steps to the left, and Bravo comes into view. Even folded into a seat with his back to me, I recognize those broad shoulders, the gentle slope.
It's him.
My throat takes on the attributes of the dry, dusty desert outside as I propel myself forward, catching sight of myself briefly in a windowed reflection. I’m a mess.
I coax back flyaways, swipe at muffin crumbs on my chest.
Muffin!Poppy seeds, also known astiny hell raisers,are probably lodged in my teeth.
I steer right, filling a paper cup of filtered water from the little machine in the corner and swishing. Then I take a deep breath to quell my nerves.
Oh-kay. Loins are girded. Shoulders are straight. This is my town, and my business. I've got this.
"Bravo," I say smoothly, sailing into the small room. "PeterBravo."
His gaze snaps to mine. Surprise parks itself in those turbulent irises, and is that a flicker ofhorror? Why? It's unexpected, shaking my confidence a smidge.
There's no way he had a look of horror. I'm misreading his emotions. The last words he said to me float through my mind.You don't know me, Daisy St. James, so don't go assuming you can read my body language.
Corralling my unease, I take the seat opposite him. "I didn't take you for a last name only kind of guy, but with a last name like Bravo, I see why you would go that route."
His hand, palm resting on the table top, flexes. "It's no St. James, but it'll do." His voice is deep, gruff, smoky, like he's recently spent time around a campfire.
The comment sparks confusion, and curiosity, in me. Does he already know what my last name means to this town? Perhaps Hugo filled him in.
Balanced on the tip of my tongue is the question of why he shot daggers my way in front of that house yesterday. On its heels is the question of why he left so abruptly two nights ago. It would be unprofessional of me to ask, and also, it doesn't matter. Because this guy, Peter Bravo, doesn't matter. I mean, I'm sure he does somewhere, to somebody. But not to me. Not in the long term.
In the short term, however, he is my client. At least, I'm assuming so. That's why he's here, right? Physical therapy. Clearly I should've completed at least one minute of due diligence before whipping in here. My eyes fall to the iPad, lying haphazardly on the table in front of me.
"So," I begin, adopting a detached, but friendly, tone. "What brings you to my office today?"
His eyes squint, regarding me with laser-like focus. He leans forward, hands clasped on the desk. Tattoos I could not make out two nights ago are on full display now.
A frog skeleton, wrapped in?—
I swallow my gasp.
No way.
Daisies?
A coincidence. It must be. I mean, it definitely couldn't be anything but. We're perfect strangers. Or nearly, anyway.
Strangers who shared the same champagne bottle, a hell of a sunset, and some terse words on engagements. But strangers, nonetheless.
And now, very likely, my patient.
"What's wrong with you?"
His question snaps me from my thoughts. "What do you meanwhat's wrong with me?” I hear my tone, how affronted I sound. I have got to rein that in. What is it with me around this guy?
"You're making a face."
"I'm not making a face,” I say, pleasant this time. I gesture vertically, the same length as my face. "This is just my face."
