Page 62 of Deprived No More

“Oh, Kat. I don’t know why, but you’ve been on my mind lately. I’m leaving for New York on Sunday and wanted to see if you could meet for brunch before I go. I have a feeling I’m going to be gone for several months with this show.”

“I’d love that. Thank you for fitting me in before you go. I’m going to miss you. How’s tomorrow?”

“Hehe. Afraid to chance it?”

“No, I just really want to see you. I have to come back to town tomorrow to finish typing my charts. I couldn’t concentrate on doing it tonight. I could meet you after I get the kids off to school.”

“Okay. Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you tomorrow at Mother Goose around 9:30, Kit Kat.”

Disconnecting the call, I feel a little better. Part of me feels as if I should say something to Nick about the text, but I don’t know for sure this is anything for him to get all worked up about. And worked up he will certainly be. He’s staunchly overprotective. As much as I love knowing he’d do anything for the kids and me, it comes with some challenges. I can’t let him do anything that could bring on more chaos.

Would he go to the rehab facility and confront Mark? If this is even Mark’s doing. Out of the blue, a thought comes to mind. What if he thinks this is Holden? I guess it’s not beyond reason that it could be. The way he was looking at me today. Our recent conversations. And he has my number after consulting him recently. But that’s completely nuts.

As I continue the drive, I attempt to replay the few interactions Holden and I have had together. It’s hard to describe them, really. For the most part, they were pleasant. There was always something mysterious about him. I don’t know a thing about him beyond what Nick has shared. He’s not married and has no children. He’s an ivy league scholar the likes the hospital administration hasn’t been privy to in some time, apparently. He’s incredibly skilled with his patients, in and out of the operating room, and unlike most of the surgeons I know, he’s been quite approachable. My husband being the most friendly and accommodating, of course.

The night sky is clear, and there are loads of stars illuminating my way home. It reminds me of the night I returned after enjoying wine, cheese, bluesy music, and cryptic conversation. I recall telling Holden he’d have better luck trolling for women if he wasn’t at my table, to which he responded by saying he was right where he wanted to be. His parting words have also lingered. “Just ask him, Kat. If you were mine, I’d never be able to tell you no.”

My mouth goes dry, remembering the conversation. His deep blue eyes so penetrating. Is all of this a game to him? Just a way to get under Nick’s skin? Or is he genuinely an overly charismatic flirt, like Sebastian?

This is absurd. There has to be a logical explanation for this. There’s no way this could be happening again. As I pull into my drive, I look up at the house and decide I should be smart about this. I’m getting all worked up, and it’s probably just a wrong number. Whoever is sending these could have a burner phone or a fake number, but I should at least rule out a wrong number first.Right?

Grabbing my phone, I decide to clear this up once and for all.

10:35 p.m.

Kat: I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number.

Waiting a few moments, I exhale in relief when no text is returned. Dropping my phone in my bag I head inside.

“Hey,” Nick greets at the door as I come up the stairs.

“Hey, yourself.”

“I’m going to heat up your dinner while you’re in the shower,” he says, kissing my temple as I come inside.

“How do you know I didn’t already eat?” I tease, popping my hip.

He doesn’t bother responding with anything other than his right brow lifted in question.

“Okay, smarty pants. What am I having?”

“I made lemon noodles.” Poor Nick has never been much of a chef. He manages with the grill but is happy to leave the cooking to me. However, tonight, lemon butter noodles sound perfect.

“Thank you. I’ll be quick.”

I had no idea how hungry I was until I started lifting the fork to my mouth. “These are good,” I tell my sweet husband. “How were the kids tonight?”

“Good. Missing their mom almost as much as Daddy did.”

Giving him a lemony kiss, I continue to devour the rest of my meal and share the trials and tribulations of the day in the emergency room. Minus one. I’m not ready to mention this text until I know more.

“Oh, I’m meeting Olivia for brunch in the morning after I drop off the kids. She’s headed back to New York, and it could be the last chance to see her until the new year.”

“Kat, I don’t know how Mac and Liberty manage for so long without her. Can I tell you how glad I am you can’t carry a tune in a bucket?”

“Hey!” I laugh, knowing it’s true. I lip-sync because I care. My voice is like nails on a chalkboard. “I’m going to clean this up and go to bed,” I say, trying to act wounded.

Loading the plate, glass, and utensils in the dishwasher, I reach for some detergent. I turn to the Cadillac coffee station and notice he’s placed a travel mug alongside my regular cup and his coffee mug for the morning. Some days we’re like a well-oiled machine. As the thrum of the dishwasher starts to rumble, I walk to the front room to turn off the light and grab my phone. I tend to be paranoid about sleeping through my alarm when I work late into the evening. My sleep cycle has been terrible for years, and even though Nick is up before me, he often lets me sleep in. I’d appreciate that if I didn’t have four wiggly little ones to get to school each morning.

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