Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
I can’t stare at this screen a minute longer. With a few clicks, I have my laptop shutdown and close the lid. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scroll though pictures. I delete screenshots that are no longer needed, and when my phone vibrates in my hand, I just about drop it. I fumble with the device and glance at the door to my office to make sure no one was walking by to bear witness to my nerves.
Blakely: I’m headed out.
Me: I’ll meet you at my car.
Blakely: I can just follow you wherever we’re going.
Me: I’ll drive us both.
Blakely: Bossy.
Me: Thank you.
I’m grinning down at the phone at our exchange. In a matter of weeks, she’s broken down walls that I never thought would fall. Standing, I shove my phone into my pocket, grab my keys, slip into my coat, and, with a wave over my shoulder to the staff and my peers, I make my way outside to her.
I’m leaning against my car, arms crossed over my chest and legs crossed at my ankles, when she approaches. Damn, she’s beautiful.
“Hey.” She smiles sweetly. “How was your day?”
“Good,” I answer gruffly. “Yours?” I pull open the door for her.
“Good.” She grins as she climbs into the passenger seat of my SUV. I close the door to block out the cold and rush around to the driver’s side.
“Buckle up.”
“Bossy, bossy,” she says, shaking her head. However, she reaches for her seat belt and buckles up just as I asked.
“You know, precious cargo and all that.”
“Did you just refer to me as precious?” Her cheeks turn a light shade of pink, which has nothing to do with the weather.
I point to my chest. “I do save lives, after all.”
“You’re an orthopedic doctor, not a heart surgeon,” she goads.
“Still a physician.” I wink, and she laughs. The sound fills the car, and damn, if I could bottle that sound, I would.
“Fine,” she concedes.
“What sounds good for dinner?” I already have something in the Crock-Pot at home, but if she wants something specific I can make that happen.
“Honestly, anything. I’m pretty easy.”
“We have to be back at the hospital at seven to meet with Jerry, right? We’ve got a couple of hours?”
“Around seven. He’s working until midnight, so if we run a little late, I can just text him.”
“Do you and Jerry text often?” I ask.
“Just when necessary.”
I bet Jerry looks for reasons to speak to and meet with her. If I were him, I would. Fucking Jerry. I have to push those jealous thoughts out of my mind. I don’t even have a right to feel this way, but those feelings are right there sitting on the surface all the same.
“What do you do for fun?” she asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“I don’t have much of a life outside of the office,” I admit. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that I used to, but I stop myself from speaking the words.
“Come on. There has to be something?”
“My best friend, Brad, comes over and we watch the games. Sometimes I go to his place.”
“Hobbies?”
“I golf some, go to the gym, and work.”
“Ollie, Ollie, Ollie, what am I going to do with you? No wonder you’re grumpy all the time.”
“I’m not grumpy,” I grump, making her laugh.
“See!” She turns in her seat as much as her seat belt will allow and points her manicured nail at me. “You’re Mr. Grump. In fact, I should get you a stocking that says that.”
“I don’t hang stockings.”
“What do you mean? It’s a holiday tradition.”
“I live alone, Blake,” I remind her. “Brad, his wife and kids, and my parents don’t care if I have a stocking hanging over the mantel.”
“Fine,” she concedes. “When are you going to put your tree up? I noticed last night it wasn’t up yet. I know some wait until after Thanksgiving, but that’s just next week,” she says, with so much damn excitement in her voice. I hate that my answer is going to dim her enthusiasm.
“I don’t actually have a tree.”
“What?” she gasps. “You don’t have a tree? As in, you get a real one and have not bought one yet, or you don’t own a tree at all?”
“The second one.”
“You don’t put up a Christmas tree?” she asks, appalled.
“I don’t.”
“Why?”
I can feel her stare, but I keep my eyes on the road. “It’s just me. My parents go over the top every year, but I can’t see the point of all the decorating when it’s just me. Besides, as you know, I’m not a fan of the holiday.”
“What did Christmas do to you?” I can hear the disbelief in her tone. She’s having a hard time with this, just as I knew she would.
“It wasn’t exactly the holiday itself, but this time of year,” I confess. I don’t know why I admitted that to her. I don’t talk about my past. I left it there, buried deep. I expect more questions. What I don’t expect is her hand to land on my arm in silent support. “It’s in the past,” I tell her. Unable to help myself, I take one hand off the wheel and place it over hers. Her hands are chilled, so I change hands on the wheel and turn the heat up, pointing it toward her.