Page 61 of Moonshot

“Uh, Ava. Do you have a second?” Joanie asks, peeking her head into my open doorway.

“I think so. What’s going on now? Has Jason Momoa called and wants to take you to lunch?”

“I wish,” she blurts as I follow her down the hallway to her desk.

“Oh my gosh. What’s this?” There’s a large wicker basket full of spa essentials, relaxing candles, oils, lotions, and bath salts. The aroma is mild but smells fresh and clean as I lean forward to take a luxurious whiff.

“Open the card, Ava. You know who it’s from.”

My cheeks hurt from the strain of the excited smile I’m wearing as I delicately open the envelope.

Dearest Elsa,

I hope you enjoy the Big Summer Spa Blow Out.

To relax you when my hands can’t do the trick.

xoxo, Mick

An immediate burst of heat floods my already sore face. I’m not sure how he was planning to use his hands to relax me, but I vote for finishing what he started the other night.

“What’s it say?”

I hesitate to give it to her. Thinking maybe I should just read it. But there’s nothing overtly risqué about this note. Handing it over, I watch her light up as she reads it. Yet she doesn’t seem surprised.Hmm. All of these items are delivered to work. Is she somehow in on this?

“Ava Kennedy. If you don’t put that poor guy out of his misery soon.”

“It’s only two more weeks.” If I keep telling myself that, maybe it won’t seem so long.

* * *

By the week’s end, things have taken a complete 180-degree turn. The kindness Dr. Stark displayed Monday is long gone. The week has been a bear. I’ve developed one of the worst migraines ever. Initially, it felt like a typical headache, brought on by too much work. But as Dr. Stark has become even worse than his former rude-assed self, this migraine has moved into unrelenting torture chamber mode.

“I don’t care what she wants, that’s never going to happen!”Slam!Sounds like things are getting worse by the minute down the hall. My money is on Joanie’s prediction. I think things are going south in the Stark household.

There are only a few more patients to see before I can head home. I’m sure after that phone call, I’ll probably be the only provider left seeing patients, as I’m sure he’s already stormed off. Grabbing my lab coat, I slide it on and lift my chin. I can do this. Only a few more and then I can head home and take something strong before I curl into bed.

Arriving home, I put on a pot of herbal tea and open a peppermint candy to drop inside once it’s hot. I have no appetite for food but decide to pop some bread into the toaster. I didn’t eat any lunch, and sometimes the nausea is made worse with not having anything in my stomach with my pain medication.

Preparing a small cup of chicken soup, I reach for my dry toast, flick off the kitchen light, and sit at the kitchen island. I can’t manage cooking in the dark, but any bright light intensifies this awful feeling. Massaging my temples briefly, I gingerly take a sip of soup. Once I’ve managed to eat a little something, I can take a pain pill and sip my tea. That, and a long soak, will hopefully abate this vice-like grip on my head.

It’s so lonely here. When you live with chronic pain, you don’t always notice. You’re too uncomfortable to care about anything but the hug of the blankets around you. But knowing there’s someone out there that cares about me is pulling at my heart. If only this could work out.

He now knows about the migraines, but I need to be careful how I let him in. Everything about this relationship is so new. I believe, deep down, Mick’s a handsome, sexy man with the heart of a giant. If anyone would stand by me and help when I’m not well, I think it could be him. Yet my father couldn’t do it. Any man could snap if their patience was tested beyond their limit.

Taking a few sips of peppermint tea, I drop my head in my hands.

Ding. Dong.

What on earth? Who’d be coming by here at this hour? I frequently order items on Amazon, but I wouldn’t think they’d be delivering at 8:00 p.m. Glad I hadn’t already gotten in the bath.

Heading for the door, I hear what sounds like music playing. Carefully cracking the door in case there is some nutjob, I peek outside. Holy crow. That’smynutjob.

Standing in the center of my meager yard is one hot as hell ex-ballplayer wearing a long black trench coat, gloves, a scarf, and a hat. It’s got to be almost eighty degrees outside. He has his arms held up over his head, holding a Bluetooth speaker in both hands like a scene from the eighties John Cusack rom-com,Say Anything. I notice there are three baseballs stacked on top of each other on the ground beside him with sticks extending from the sides like makeshift arms. It’s honestly hard to wrap my head around what I’m seeing. Probably would be even without this horrific headache. But suddenly, the chorus of the song playing on the Bluetooth rings out about wanting to build a snowman, and it’s all becoming clearer.

Oh. My. God. He’s lost it. Looking closer still, I see a pile of something white beside him. What is that? It appears to be some type ofsnow? I can’t help myself any longer. I step out onto the porch and strain to look at it, still coming up short.

Mick continues to hold the Bluetooth, not making eye contact with me like one of those human statue street artists in Times Square. As I look down at the mountain of white flakes, I dip my finger in.

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