Page 110 of Flirting with 40

It’s still of Paul, but this time it’s of the calls he’d answer but was always in a hurry to end. The ones where a throaty laugh could be heard just before he disconnected. The laughs I now know belonged to Barbie.

“Slade?”

“I have to go. I just—I’m sorry.”

Without another word, the connection goes dead.

And every ounce of confidence that I was just soaring on comes crashing down around me.

By the time I get home in my brand-new dress and sky-high heels, I’ve worked myself up into a tizzy. My lone text to him remains unanswered, and every excuse I’ve fabricated as to why I was basically stood up, I’ve systematically debunked.

One by freaking one.

The woman’s voice in the background doesn’t help my overactive imagination from reliving everything with Paul all while taking Prisha’s damn advice and twisting it to fit its narrative.

To put it mildly, I’m hurt and more than mad at myself for believing that this could be real.

That a good guy like Slade Henderson could really like an almost forty-year-old divorcée.

Then again, maybe there aren’t any good guys left after all.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Slade

My pulse pounds like a freight train in my ears as I wait for Dr. Schultz to go through the chart in his hand.

This isn’t how I expected tonight to happen. A phone call when I’m standing in the middle of the florist shop and then rushing to get to the hospital as soon as possible. A command from my mentor to grab my lab coat out of my locker, throw it on, and meet him in the pediatric unit ASAP.

Putting on that lab coat is the closest thing I’ve felt to being a doctor in a long time. It’s a good thing.

I think.

“She’s asking for you.” His voice is a somber hush as his eyes flicker to the closed doorway to our right before meeting mine. Ivy is in that room speaking with the police psychologist.

“For me?” I ask, surprised Ivy would even remember me. The poor little girl has been through hell and back, I should be the last thing she remembers.

He nods. “She’s been stirring for the past week, signs here and there, but she woke late this morning. She was confused and agitated, but once she understood what happened, she calmed some.”

I hate that I’m just finding out about this now and thankful I’m finding out about it at all.

It had to be a big, scary place to wake up in when the last time you were conscious you were bleeding and hurting while people were shouting orders and things were being poked and prodded into your body.

“Is it really the best idea for the police to be in there questioning her so soon?” I ask in that same hushed murmur.

“Shouldn’t that make you happy, Slade? Her answers to their questions are what might get you back in that coat permanently.”

“Of course that’s important to me, but her well-being is what’s paramount.”

He nods as he stares at me, those dark eyes of his studying me intently. “By looking at the notes in her chart, she seems to be doing as well as can be expected after being out for a month. She’s apt to be a little fuzzy on some things, stiff muscles, you know the drill”—he waves his hand in my direction—“but she’s young, and her arm still having to be in a cast, her body has healed during the time. For the most part, it seems all signs are hinting that she’s going to make a full recovery.”

A similar sense of relief to the one I felt when I’d heard she’d woken up floods me. She’s talking, her vitals are strong, and it seems as if there’s no long-term damage. Thank god.

“That’s great news, sir. The outcome could have been so much worse.” A silence settles between us as a nurse walks by, and he steps backward into a small alcove off the main floor. I follow. “Is there something else?”

“Ivy is busy telling the police about how her father did this to her. And not just this once, but numerous times. For a little girl, she has quite an incredible memory.”

My stomach churns, but this isn’t news to me. I knew it in my gut the minute that son of a bitch strolled in here that night with his arrogant attitude, indifference to his own child, and the blood caked on his knuckles.