Read Online Crazy for You by Juliet Rosetti - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Juliet Rosetti
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chair.
My, what lovely manners! I looked around. All my customers were temporarily taken care of, so I sat down.
“Why haven’t I noticed you here before?” Jared asked.
“This is my first day. Are you a regular here?”
“Yup. Pretty girls, great coffee, and it’s only a five-minute drive away. My office is on East Mason—the Kennison Clinic—maybe you’re familiar with it?”
“A clinic? You’re a doctor?”
He smiled. “Why? Don’t I fit the stereotype?”
“Not really.” I would have guessed model for Jockey brand underwear.
“I do cosmetic surgery,” Jared said. “Also reconstructive surgery for accident victims, burns, melanomas—that kind of thing.”
“That must be very intercour —interesting —work.”
One black eyebrow rose. “Oh, it is,” he said, grinning.
I was grateful to be rescued from more Freudian slippage by the arrival of a crew of noisy fraternity boys. For the next half hour, all of us were frantically busy, then the college guys blew out and things got quiet.
“Your shift was over ten minutes ago,” Juju told me. “Go home, girl, get some rest, be back here at seven tomorrow morning.”
I dumped my tips into my purse and changed back into my regular clothes. Sliding my beat-up old sneakers onto my whimpering feet felt like salving a wound. When I got home I was going to climb into my bathtub and soak until I turned into a big, pink raisin.
But that’s not how my evening was destined to end. I walked out of the café’s steamy warmth into a light snow, got into my car, and turned the ignition. Pig made astatic-electricity noise, the dashboard panel went into a flash-bang light show, and then everything died.
The alternator, I thought, clunking my head against the steering wheel. Eddie Arguello, a friend who knows cars the way I know chocolate, had told me I needed to replace Pig’s alternator. I had no idea what an alternator was, but I was pretty sure garages didn’t deliver them at ten o’clock at night.
I’d take a taxi home tonight and call a garage tomorrow, I decided. The prospect of sitting here in my cold, lifeless car, trying to excavate my cellphone from the garbage heap in my purse, was too overwhelming. I trudged back to the café, explained my problem to Juju, and asked to use the store phone to call a cab.
“Sure,” Juju said. “But if you wait around an hour I’ll give you a ride home.”
“I can give you a lift,” said Jared Kennison, looking up from his newspaper.
I hesitated, trying to decide. True, the guy was hot, but then, Ted Bundy’s victims probably thought the same thing about him.
He seemed to read my mind. “I promise I’m not a serial killer. I only kill my patients.”
“Are you crazy?” Juju said, practically shoving me toward him. “Go!”
Kennison held the door for me and we walked out together. The snow had changed to sneet—stinging particles the texture of sno-cones that made driving an adventure in brakesmanship. He was parked right out front, the kind of person for whom life obligingly opens up parking slots. I’d figured him for a doctorish Cadillac or Lexus, but his ride was a Jeep Grand Cherokee SUV in shiny black. He held the door for me and I got in. I hadn’t been in a vehicle this high above the road since I’d ridden in my dad’s old farm truck.
“Like my wheels?” he asked.
“She’s a beaut.” Immediately I felt guilty for admiring a two-ton, testosterone-injected monster that emitted six swimming pools’ worth of hydrocarbons every time it was driven to the supermarket.
As if sensing my thoughts, Kennison said, “I know. Not the greenest ride on the planet, but it’s good in rough terrain. I drive out to Wyoming for deer and elk every fall.”
“I don’t get the connection. Do you use the SUV to run over the deer?”
He laughed, not sounding at all offended. “It’s a guy thing, Mazie. I take it you’re not into hunting?”
“No. I hate the idea of shooting things. I
My, what lovely manners! I looked around. All my customers were temporarily taken care of, so I sat down.
“Why haven’t I noticed you here before?” Jared asked.
“This is my first day. Are you a regular here?”
“Yup. Pretty girls, great coffee, and it’s only a five-minute drive away. My office is on East Mason—the Kennison Clinic—maybe you’re familiar with it?”
“A clinic? You’re a doctor?”
He smiled. “Why? Don’t I fit the stereotype?”
“Not really.” I would have guessed model for Jockey brand underwear.
“I do cosmetic surgery,” Jared said. “Also reconstructive surgery for accident victims, burns, melanomas—that kind of thing.”
“That must be very intercour —interesting —work.”
One black eyebrow rose. “Oh, it is,” he said, grinning.
I was grateful to be rescued from more Freudian slippage by the arrival of a crew of noisy fraternity boys. For the next half hour, all of us were frantically busy, then the college guys blew out and things got quiet.
“Your shift was over ten minutes ago,” Juju told me. “Go home, girl, get some rest, be back here at seven tomorrow morning.”
I dumped my tips into my purse and changed back into my regular clothes. Sliding my beat-up old sneakers onto my whimpering feet felt like salving a wound. When I got home I was going to climb into my bathtub and soak until I turned into a big, pink raisin.
But that’s not how my evening was destined to end. I walked out of the café’s steamy warmth into a light snow, got into my car, and turned the ignition. Pig made astatic-electricity noise, the dashboard panel went into a flash-bang light show, and then everything died.
The alternator, I thought, clunking my head against the steering wheel. Eddie Arguello, a friend who knows cars the way I know chocolate, had told me I needed to replace Pig’s alternator. I had no idea what an alternator was, but I was pretty sure garages didn’t deliver them at ten o’clock at night.
I’d take a taxi home tonight and call a garage tomorrow, I decided. The prospect of sitting here in my cold, lifeless car, trying to excavate my cellphone from the garbage heap in my purse, was too overwhelming. I trudged back to the café, explained my problem to Juju, and asked to use the store phone to call a cab.
“Sure,” Juju said. “But if you wait around an hour I’ll give you a ride home.”
“I can give you a lift,” said Jared Kennison, looking up from his newspaper.
I hesitated, trying to decide. True, the guy was hot, but then, Ted Bundy’s victims probably thought the same thing about him.
He seemed to read my mind. “I promise I’m not a serial killer. I only kill my patients.”
“Are you crazy?” Juju said, practically shoving me toward him. “Go!”
Kennison held the door for me and we walked out together. The snow had changed to sneet—stinging particles the texture of sno-cones that made driving an adventure in brakesmanship. He was parked right out front, the kind of person for whom life obligingly opens up parking slots. I’d figured him for a doctorish Cadillac or Lexus, but his ride was a Jeep Grand Cherokee SUV in shiny black. He held the door for me and I got in. I hadn’t been in a vehicle this high above the road since I’d ridden in my dad’s old farm truck.
“Like my wheels?” he asked.
“She’s a beaut.” Immediately I felt guilty for admiring a two-ton, testosterone-injected monster that emitted six swimming pools’ worth of hydrocarbons every time it was driven to the supermarket.
As if sensing my thoughts, Kennison said, “I know. Not the greenest ride on the planet, but it’s good in rough terrain. I drive out to Wyoming for deer and elk every fall.”
“I don’t get the connection. Do you use the SUV to run over the deer?”
He laughed, not sounding at all offended. “It’s a guy thing, Mazie. I take it you’re not into hunting?”
“No. I hate the idea of shooting things. I
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