Granted, I haven’t showered yet today. My dark hair is a bit disheveled in the messy bun piled on top of my head. I’m not wearing any makeup, but I’m not a big fan of itanyway. I’m still dressed in pajama pants with tacos all over them and a sweatshirt that says “undiagnosed but something is definitely wrong”. I discreetly sniff myself to make sure I put on deodorant, and I’m happy to report I did.
“I’m already late,” he says with an air of importance as he stalks off, shoulders tight, scowl deepening.
I watch as he hurries down the sidewalk, everyone seeming to stay out of his way. The lights on a dark Porsche Cayenne blink as he approaches, and he slides into the driver’s seat.
Of course he drives a freaking Porsche. In a town where the local diner still serves pie on mismatched plates.
I crouch down and meet Bark Twain’s dark, apologetic eyes. He looks so sad. No doubt Mr. Grump in a Suit’s energy oozed onto this sweet dog who doesn’t know any better.
But Mr. Grump does.
“It’s okay,” I assure Bark Twain as I scratch behind his ears. “I’m not mad. I could never be mad at you. This is why dogs are infinitely better than humans.”
I glance at the Porsche as Mr. Grump in a Suit drives away.
I half expect him to speed. He doesn’t. In fact, he drives very carefully.
But as he passes me, his eyes find mine, and he treats me to a glare to end all glares.
Which I return with a bright smile, refusing to allow his negative energy to impact my day.
Once he rolls past me, I turn my attention to BarkTwain. “Especially that human,” I mutter under my breath.
The dog leans further into my touch, and I give him a few more head scratches before pulling myself up to my full height.
“Come on. Let’s go get you a pup cup.”
That’s all it takes for Bark Twain to dance in circles, the run-in with Mr. Grump in a Suit long forgotten.
CHAPTER THREE
HAYDEN
I walkinto Sycamore Falls Family Medicine with the same energy most people reserve for stepping on a Lego barefoot.
The waiting room is packed. Flu season is already hitting us, and I have a feeling this one will be a doozy.
Margaret looks up from the reception desk, treating me to the same congenial smile I remember from whenever I managed to injure myself during my childhood.
“Morning, Doc,” she says.
“Morning.”
She tilts her head. “Rough start?”
I think back to the war zone formerly known as my kitchen. “You can say that.”
She hums knowingly before returning to her computer, the click of the keyboard cutting over the TVin the waiting room playing some home improvement show.
I head down the corridor. The walls are lined with portraits of every physician who’s ever practiced here, going all the way back to the 1800s. A timeline of medical history in a small town.
Then there’s Cora.
Her portrait hangs right outside my office door.
She never worked here. Hell, she didn’t even want to work here. Her specialty was pediatrics.
But her father hung it anyway out of pride. Grief. Legacy.
