“In private practice you get to form bonds with people.” He smiles brightly. “Honestly, it’s my favorite part of what we do. I like to feel like I’m part of my patient’s daily lives.”
“That’s a refreshing attitude,” I reply. Looking at the clock behind him, I add, “I’m running late though. I’d better be off.”
As I turn to walk away, he says, “Let me know when your schedule changes back and we’ll set up a time to catch some fish.”
“Will do,” I tell him. And while I’ve never particularly longed to fish for my own food, I expect I would enjoy spending time with Edward out on a boat somewhere. After all, the whole point of moving to Elk Lake was so I could experience a slower pace of life.
But first, I have to figure out how to shake Constance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FINLEY
Along with my penchant for hyper-focusing—where twelve hours can feel like twelve minutes—there comes the flip-side to that phenomenon. For instance, I haven’t seen Thomas in two days, but it’s felt more like two weeks. No exaggeration. And I’ve thought about him nearly constantly.What is he doing right now? What is he wearing? Does he smell like oranges and cloves?
My dating history makes me nervous about my chances of attracting Thomas as a real boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Just because other men couldn’t see what an amazing partner I’d be doesn’t mean Thomas is similarly handicapped. Having said that, he didn’t text me after our supper out, so he might not even think of me as a friend yet.
I fluff the blanket around Tanya Jackson’s baby girl, Cherie. Then I make googly noises at her to get her to smile, which she does. “Only six weeks old, and already a pro!” I announce.
“She’s pretty special,” Tanya says. Her brown eyes are drooping like she hasn’t had much sleep lately.
“Is she your first?” I ask. Tanya is a new client, and I don’t know much about her yet.
“She’s my fourth,” she tells me. “I thought Mike and I were done, but this little girl had other plans.”
Four? No wonder she looks worn out. “How old are your other kids?”
“Eighteen, twelve, and nine,” she tells me. I try not to act surprised by the wide age gap but apparently fail. “I had my first in high school,” she explains. “His dad isn’t in the picture.”
“My good friend is adopting a baby whose birth mother is graduating this year,” I tell her. Allie and Margie have been very open with their story, so I don’t worry I’m talking out of turn.
“That’s probably a good thing,” she says. “It’s hard having a little one when you’re still a kid yourself.” She adds, “My parents helped out a lot, but I still missed being carefree like my friends.”
Tanya’s hair is styled in a high ponytail that makes her look younger than her years. According to the age of her oldest, I calculate her to be somewhere in her mid-thirties.
“I hope I get to be a mom someday,” I tell her. For some reason I feel the need to add, “But I’m not even dating anyone …”
My client says, “I know people say there’s nothing wrong with being a single parent, but take it from me, it’s a lot easier when you do it with a partner.”
“That would be the only way I’d want to do it.” I snap several quick-fire photos of Cherie before telling Tanya, “I think we’ve got it. I should have the proofs ready for you in a couple of days.”
She wraps her baby up in the fuzziest looking blanket I’ve ever seen. I can’t help myself; I reach out to touch it. “Wow,” I tell her. “If they made clothes out of that material, I’d buy a full wardrobe in it.”
She laughs. “If I could wrap myself up in a king-sized version of this I’d fall asleep and never wake up.” Picking up the baby,she adds, “Thanks, Finley. I’m excited to see what you got today.” Then she walks out of the studio.
Babies are magical and unless you get a colicky one, they’re the best models out there. Even if they have a gas bubble and make a face like they’ve just eaten bad cheese, everyone loves them. They simply can’t do wrong.
I’m cleaning up the set when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number. “Hello?” I drop the basket full of fake pink roses next to my editing stand.
“Finley, it’s Thomas.” His voice feels like warm sunshine and causes a fluttering in the pit of my stomach.
Being that it’s been two months since I’ve heard from him (Fine!Two days), I try to act nonchalant. “I’m sorry, who?”
“Thomas Culpepper.”
Sitting on my stool, I reply, “Oh, Thomas, yes. How can I help you?”
He pauses like I’ve just been rude to him. Which is pretty much how I intended to come off. I’m not very good at pretending I’m feeling something different than I am. “Are you mad at me?” he wants to know.
