He hesitated, eyes darting to the emergency exit. “Yes. But if ‘no’ comes with job security, thenabsolutely not.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why yes?”
“Because you’re terrified of getting hurt. You think giving someone a second chance is like handing them a loaded gun and hoping they don’t aim it at you again. But that’s not how it works.”
My chest spasmed at his words, soft and unexpectedly sharp.
“I’ve known you for a few years,” he said. “I mean—you hired me. From the moment we met, you were this brilliant, fun, unstoppable force of a woman—a free-spirited, badass doctor I couldn’t help but admire. But there was always something...off. And it wasn’t until after you got married that I realized what it was. You were carrying a sadness beneath it all, and I only noticed because it went away after...him.”
I averted my gaze, shoving my fingers into a half-hearted shuffle of papers.
“You’ve always held people at arm’s length,” he went on, “like if anyone ever saw the real you, they wouldn’t stick around. But I think you found someone who finally does. And yeah, he messed up, love isn’t perfect. It’sadmittingyou messed up,learning from it, and trying to do better. I don’t know what Mr. Handsome, Dark, and Emotionally Unavailable did, but the flowers, the food, the sunset pics—that’s him trying.”
I stared at him for a moment, chocolate melting on my tongue, before murmuring, “Are you secretly running a marriage-counseling practice out of the storage closet, or is this a new hobby?”
He grinned. “Don’t tempt me. I might start charging for my psychological expertise.”
I leaned back in my chair, studying him. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
He paused mid-exit, turning toward me. “Do what?”
“This.” I gestured vaguely at the chocolates, the flowers, the heartbreak carnage. “You don’t have to be my minion, or emotional support receptionist, or whatever title you’ve taken on today. You can just come in, do your job, and leave. I’ll respect that.”
He blinked, like I’d just offered him a severance package he didn’t ask for. “Are you joking?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “But I also know that’s just your resting deadpan face. So, for clarification purposes—no. You arenotgetting rid of me that easily.”
I sighed. “Kevin—”
He smirked, hands tucked into his pockets. “You’re my favorite part of the job, Dr. T. Why would I give up the daily thrill of watching you unravel in designer shoes?”
I rolled my eyes, but a small smile tugged at my lips. “You’re annoying.”
“Correct,” he said. “But consistent.”
“Get out of my office. Pretty sure my two p.m. patient is here.”
Kevin gave me a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Try not to traumatize anyone in my absence.”
He slipped out, and a moment later, Farah walked in—a perky twenty-something with the energy of someone who still thought brunch could fix her life.
“Hey, Farah,” I said, standing to greet her. “How are you doing?”
“Good,” she said, before her eyes landed on the floral explosion. “Wow. Secret admirer?”
“Something like that,” I muttered, dropping into my chair. “So, how can I help you and your uterus today?”
She laughed, twisting the strap of her purse. “Well, I’ve been having some shifts in my health. I’ve been throwing up a lot lately.”
I froze.
I’ve been throwing up a lot lately, too, but I figured my body was just rejecting the news that Khalifa had a secret wife.
She continued, oblivious. “And my period is late, which it never is.”
My period is also super late. Which, apparently, I haven’t noticed because Khalifa has always been the one to buy my pads. Like clockwork. Perfectly timed to my cycle, down to the brand and absorbency level. The man knew the symptoms of my uterus better than I did. It was both unsettling and, frankly, kind of romantic.
