G-string?”
I’d flushed. “Oh my God. You can see up my skirt?”
“Yeah. So can everyone else.”
I’d hopped down behind the bar and tugged my hem down. “You better put some ice on that hand.”
He stood back and watched me fashion a cold compress out of a dish towel and the cubed ice in the cooler. “So are you a doctor, or do you just have a lot of practice dealing with wounded bartenders?”
“I’m a med student,” I’d admitted sheepishly. “First year.Don’t tell my professors I’m administering treatment without a license, okay?”
“As long as you don’t tell my professors about the bartending gig.” He laughed at my expression. “I’m in the pharmacology program at Northeastern.”
“Then why are you…?”
“My fellowship doesn’t exactly cover rent prices in Boston. It’s either bartend or take a monthly allowance from my mother, so here I am.” He grinned. “You’d understand if you knew my mom.”
“And I just mangled the hands you use to do research.”
“Consider it karmic payback for all the jokes I’ve made about physicians’ handwriting.” He flinched as I pressed the makeshift ice pack against his swelling hand. “With any luck, I’ll be able to hold a beer again someday.”
“Is there anything I can do to ease your pain and suffering?”
He leaned forward, just inside the perimeters of what I considered my personal space. “You could give me your phone number. Just in case I need my lawyers to track you down for the huge malpractice suit.”
I scribbled down my name and number on a cocktail napkin.
He squinted at the writing. “I’m not even going to say anything about the penmanship.”
“Wise.” I struck a pose. “’Cause I have three-inch heels and I’m not afraid to use them.”
“No kidding.” He laughed again. “I’m David. I’d shake your hand, but I’m kind of scarred for life.”
And that was that. We’d been inseparable since that night, growing closer as we swapped the bar scene for nights at the opera, camouflage skirts for preppy blazers, torrid sex in our drafty Boston apartment for lukewarm cuddling in our fixer-upper starter home in Alden.
We were fated to be together, clearly. I mean, an ass-shaking pediatrician and a martini-shaking pharmacologist? What were the odds?
As the Toyota’s vents started coughing out heat, I dug my cell phone out of my purse and dialed our home number. One of us had to swallow our pride and take the first step. The situation with Renée could be worked out. David loved me, he would understand that we couldn’t let his mother invade our—
“Hello?” A familiar voice picked up on the other end of the line.
I grimaced.
“Hello?”
“Renée?” I strangled out.
“Erin.” From the tone of her voice, I knew she’d heard about yesterday’s fight.
“Yes, hi. Listen…is David there?”
She took a moment to let the full force of her disapproval sink in. “He’s still at the hospital.”
Then why are you in our house, answering our phone?
“I dropped by to make sure he got a decent meal,” she continued as if reading my mind. “Since you’re swamped with work. Again.”
“How thoughtful,” I oozed. “But as it happens, I’m actually on my way home from the office, so—”
“Perfect,” she oozed right back. “There’s plenty to go around. I’m making a chicken stir-fry. With peanut sauce.”
11
STELLA
Y ou have to help me,” I begged Casey, reaching across her pet supply shop’s counter to tug the sleeve of her flannel shirt. “Please. This dog—he’s wrecking my house. The chewing, the shedding, and drool…I had to clean off the ceiling in the mudroom the other day!”
She flashed a totally insincere smile and handed me a flyer advertising the dog trainer who held obedience classes at the store twice a week.
I let go of her sleeve and hung my head while the dog sat by my side doing his docile Best in Show routine. “Listen, I get it, adopting a pet is a
I’d flushed. “Oh my God. You can see up my skirt?”
“Yeah. So can everyone else.”
I’d hopped down behind the bar and tugged my hem down. “You better put some ice on that hand.”
He stood back and watched me fashion a cold compress out of a dish towel and the cubed ice in the cooler. “So are you a doctor, or do you just have a lot of practice dealing with wounded bartenders?”
“I’m a med student,” I’d admitted sheepishly. “First year.Don’t tell my professors I’m administering treatment without a license, okay?”
“As long as you don’t tell my professors about the bartending gig.” He laughed at my expression. “I’m in the pharmacology program at Northeastern.”
“Then why are you…?”
“My fellowship doesn’t exactly cover rent prices in Boston. It’s either bartend or take a monthly allowance from my mother, so here I am.” He grinned. “You’d understand if you knew my mom.”
“And I just mangled the hands you use to do research.”
“Consider it karmic payback for all the jokes I’ve made about physicians’ handwriting.” He flinched as I pressed the makeshift ice pack against his swelling hand. “With any luck, I’ll be able to hold a beer again someday.”
“Is there anything I can do to ease your pain and suffering?”
He leaned forward, just inside the perimeters of what I considered my personal space. “You could give me your phone number. Just in case I need my lawyers to track you down for the huge malpractice suit.”
I scribbled down my name and number on a cocktail napkin.
He squinted at the writing. “I’m not even going to say anything about the penmanship.”
“Wise.” I struck a pose. “’Cause I have three-inch heels and I’m not afraid to use them.”
“No kidding.” He laughed again. “I’m David. I’d shake your hand, but I’m kind of scarred for life.”
And that was that. We’d been inseparable since that night, growing closer as we swapped the bar scene for nights at the opera, camouflage skirts for preppy blazers, torrid sex in our drafty Boston apartment for lukewarm cuddling in our fixer-upper starter home in Alden.
We were fated to be together, clearly. I mean, an ass-shaking pediatrician and a martini-shaking pharmacologist? What were the odds?
As the Toyota’s vents started coughing out heat, I dug my cell phone out of my purse and dialed our home number. One of us had to swallow our pride and take the first step. The situation with Renée could be worked out. David loved me, he would understand that we couldn’t let his mother invade our—
“Hello?” A familiar voice picked up on the other end of the line.
I grimaced.
“Hello?”
“Renée?” I strangled out.
“Erin.” From the tone of her voice, I knew she’d heard about yesterday’s fight.
“Yes, hi. Listen…is David there?”
She took a moment to let the full force of her disapproval sink in. “He’s still at the hospital.”
Then why are you in our house, answering our phone?
“I dropped by to make sure he got a decent meal,” she continued as if reading my mind. “Since you’re swamped with work. Again.”
“How thoughtful,” I oozed. “But as it happens, I’m actually on my way home from the office, so—”
“Perfect,” she oozed right back. “There’s plenty to go around. I’m making a chicken stir-fry. With peanut sauce.”
11
STELLA
Y ou have to help me,” I begged Casey, reaching across her pet supply shop’s counter to tug the sleeve of her flannel shirt. “Please. This dog—he’s wrecking my house. The chewing, the shedding, and drool…I had to clean off the ceiling in the mudroom the other day!”
She flashed a totally insincere smile and handed me a flyer advertising the dog trainer who held obedience classes at the store twice a week.
I let go of her sleeve and hung my head while the dog sat by my side doing his docile Best in Show routine. “Listen, I get it, adopting a pet is a
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