I’m still telling myself that when I step off the curb.
My foot hits ice.
One second I’m walking, coffee in one hand, croissant in the other. The next, my foot hits ice and I’m falling, twisting, my ankle rolling sideways.
Coffee flies. Croissant hits pavement. I land hard on my hip, and my ankle protests.
I lie there staring at the gray sky. Listening to coffee drip somewhere behind me.
The bakery door bangs open.
“Don’t move!” Mrs. Patterson rushes over, purple cardigan flapping. “I saw you go down—are you alright?”
“Fine,” I say automatically.
I sit up, wincing. My ankle is tender, but it’s not that bad. Probably. I’ve had worse.
“You are not fine.” Maeve crouches beside me, hands gentle on my ankle. “That’s already swelling. Can you wiggle your toes?”
I can. It barely hurts.
“Good.” She looks at Mrs. Patterson. “Patricia, bring my car around.”
“I don’t need?—”
“You need a doctor.” Maeve’s tone brooks no argument. “That ankle’s already swelling.”
“I can ice it at home?—”
“You can let a professional make sure nothing’s broken.”
I want to argue. It’s probably fine. A minor twist at worst. But Maeve and Mrs. Patterson are already in full mother-hen mode, and honestly, the fight has gone out of me.
I don’t have a good response. Mrs. Patterson’s already gone for the car. A crowd is forming—Tessa appears in the doorway looking worried, faces I half-recognize peer down at me with small-town concern.
Between Maeve and Mrs. Patterson, they get me into the backseat with my leg stretched out. I could probably walk, but they’re not giving me a choice.
The clinic. Lucas’s clinic. Because apparently I haven’t suffered enough today.
The waitingroom smells like antiseptic and old magazines. Mary, the receptionist, checks me in and produces a wheelchair.
“I can walk?—”
“Clinic policy.” She’s already positioning it behind me. “Dr. Price just finished with his last patient. He can see you right away.”
Of course he can.
Maeve squeezes my shoulder. “We’ll wait here.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“We’ll wait,” Mrs. Patterson says firmly.
I let Mary wheel me back. The hallway is quiet—fluorescent lights humming, distant sound of equipment. We pass a supply closet, a bathroom, an office with a closed door.
And underneath the antiseptic, I catch it—faint at first, then stronger as we move deeper into the clinic. Bergamot and sandalwood.
My pulse kicks up and my skin flushes. I’m not even in the same room as him yet and my body is already reacting.
