“I work mostly with family services but I’m serious, if you ever need someone to come out to a call, here’s my card.” Reaching into her bag she pulls out a business card and hands it to Miles’s friend who nods in thanks.
“Well, we really should get going,” I finally cut in, finding my voice.
“Got any fun plans for today?” Miles asks, stealing my attention back to him with one glance of his soft brown eyes.
“Uhh–umm,” I stammer.
“Just girl stuff, you know,” Rae butts in to save me as I choke on my own tongue. I can’t figure out why I am acting like this with him now. It wasn’t like I struggled to form words with him last week when he came to my office. The lingering feelings of my flirty drunken text session still have their barbs in my heart and no matter how hard I try I can’t shake them.
“Ahh, I see.” He nods his head at her. Noticing we’re clogging up the entryway, we all take a collective step back to let people in.
“It was nice seeing you and meeting you both,” I say to Miles then to his friends. The two of them nod politely as Rae and I step out into the open air. I feel my lungs expand completely for the first time since seeing him step inside the tiny coffee shop. The feeling doesn’t last long when I hear his voice behind me again.
“Hey, doc.” I turn around to look at him and god does he look good with wet hair. “Like I texted you before, don’t forget to drink lots of water. It’ll help with the hangover.”
I force a smile and wave.He would bring up our texts. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“See you Thursday?”
I want to tell him no or come up with an excuse to reschedule. To find a reason to give myself more time to let my heart forget how he looked at me last night while I was wearing his hat or how protective he was with the Uber driver. I need a little time away from him, that’s all.
But instead of doing any of that, I hear myself say, “Yep, see you Thursday!” and confirm our appointment.
Alone.
Just the two of us.
For forty-five minutes.
In my tiny office.
Great.
13
MILES
“So your shrink is actually kinda hot.” Carter bumps my elbow as we cook lunch for the firehouse. It’s Wednesday afternoon which means it’s our turn to handle lunch duty. While he groans like a two year old every time the responsibility comes around, I personally love when it’s my day to cook. I find that getting lost in the ingredients and following a regimen I don’t have to make decisions during is one of the few times I can turn my brain off. Working as a fireman means my brain is always on guard, even if just a little. But when I’m cooking, that feeling of needing to be guarded falls away and I cherish the moments I can use as an excuse to close out all the noise.
Unfortunately for me, I’m failing at shutting out any noise because of my friend who won’t shut up about running into Hanna this past Sunday.
“Would you stop calling her that?” I bite, glancing at him as I roll out the homemade pizza dough I’d just made from scratch. “And don’t talk about her like that, it’s disrespectful.”
“Talk about her like what? I said she’s hot; that’s a goodthing,” he replies, reaching his finger into the metal bowl on the counter and taking a swipe of the fresh ricotta cheese I’d just mixed. He cries out when I whip my hand around and smack his away.
“No, it’s degrading. And Hanna’s nothotshe’s…she’s…” Words fail me as the image of her in those oversized overalls and messy bun come back to me in a flash. How casual, yet somehow breathtakingly stunning, she looked. The way her tired but soul-piercing gray eyes looked up at me and how I wished something criminal I got to wake up next to them every day.
“She’s what, lover boy?” he teases, leaning against the counter and tipping his chin at me. He’s been on my ass all week about her, asking if we’re a thing or not. Based on how she’s ignored my text messages, I’d go with ‘or not.’
“She’s none of your business,” I reply with an edge to my voice. He eyes the knife in my hand uneasily when I slam the handle of it into the top of the cutting board. I’ve told him at least a hundred times by now to let it go. At this point, I’m over his questions.
“Fine, fine, she’s none of my business.” He raises his hands in defense. “But when you see her tomorrow, you should really talk about your anger management issues. Youareseeing her tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“I’m assuming so, seeing as how she said we were when we ran into her last weekend.”
His brows press together in the center of his face. “Didn’t you mention that you texted her? At the coffee shop, you said you checked in on her that morning?”
“Yes,” I mumble, pretending to act busy and distracted with lunch prep. It isn’t the hardest recipe I’ve ever made and at this point in the process I’m about ready to throw the pizza into the oven andfinish the salad.
