Page 36 of Paging Dr. Summers

“Is it so bad you can’t say it?” She sounded deeply worried.

“No. It’s not bad at all. It’s the opposite,” I spluttered, knowing I was digging a hole I couldn’t—and maybe didn’t want to—dig myself out of.

I’d never felt so tortured by a woman before, and part of me just wanted to put an end to it and give in and ask her out. Maybe then I could work her out of my system.

She smiled that enigmatic smile of hers. “So, you’re saying I’m good?”

I dared to brush a loose strand of hair off her smooth shoulder. “Yes, you’re good. You probably just word vomited, and he didn’t know what to do with that.”

She shivered, as if my touch affected her, but then she laughed, so I couldn’t be sure. I hated how much I wanted a sign from her.

“Well, honestly, I didn’t word vomit. I mean, I told them all about why I was here and the money from my dad.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but that was probably unsettling to people like the Harringtons. A family like theirs is all about image.”

“Yeah, I could see that. They appear to be perfect. Not that I don’t like them. I do. But they obviously live much differently than I do. Okay, you’re making me feel better. Thanks, friend.”

I was beginning to dislike the wordfriend. “So why did Maxwell Harrington have the newspaper clippings and posters? Where did they come from?” I was curious.

“His daughter Lola didn’t lie when she said the Roxannes were her dad’s favorite band. Mr. Harrington said my mom’s band had a bit of a cult following with college kids, and he was part of it. His wife told me he’s a sentimental guy and likes to save things. I guess they were just fond college memories for him. He saw her play at UNLV as a student. UNLV’s school newspaper did a couple of articles about the band. He even met my mom at some meet and greets. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Yeah, that is.” I took the turn leading to the “other side” of the lake, as locals called it. I hated the connotation. Having more money or a certain zip code didn’t make you better than other people. I was just lucky.

My dad left our family with a fortune when he passed. I guess you could say I was a trust fund kid, though I never wanted that to get around. Although people probably suspected—while I made good money as a doctor, it was nowhere near enough to have bought my house or my first practice in Seattle.

“I loved seeing my mom so young and alive in those photos. I loved her wild curly hair. It was so sad when she lost it because of the chemo,” Brooke’s voice cracked. “Of course, she made the best of it, wearing the craziest wigs she could find in all sorts of loud colors.”

Instinctively, I reached over and took her hand to comfort her. As our fingers intertwined, a jolt of panic surged through me. It felt good—too good. I wanted to pull away, but she tightened her grip, cradling my hand in her soft skin, holding on, basking in the sympathy I offered.

“The Harringtons all thought I look a lot like her, but I never thought I was as beautiful as her.”

I highly doubted that. I could hardly imagine anyone more beautiful than Brooke—except Erica, of course. But their beauty was different. Erica possessed a classic elegance, while Brooke embodied wild abandon, the kind that drove a man mad. And she was driving me mad as her thumb skimmed my hand, back and forth, back and forth, making my heart race in a way it hadn’t since Erica.

“I wish you and Eden could have met her,” Brooke sighed.

“I would have liked to meet her.”

Brooke smiled over at me. “Thank you, Logan.”

“For what?”

“For helping me fulfill yet another item on my bucket list and for just being here and holding my hand. It means a lot to me, especially considering the unconventional way our friendship began.”

There was that word again. I should have been thankful for it. It kept me from pulling over and asking if being her fling was still on the table, and if she would like to see how far back these seats could go. In my head, I was already becoming one of those guys.

“You’re welcome,” I said lamely.

“Maybe you could help me with a few more of them. Maybe we could go zip-lining next week and paint a painting.”

Both actually sounded like a lot of fun, but ... I pulled my hand away, grateful I needed to make another turn. While I could have done it one handed, it gave me the perfect excuse to save myself from the torture of her touch.

“You should probably ask Dr. Everett. I assume he’ll be your summer fling.” I tried to keep the bite out of my tone.

Brooke’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, um, I don’t know if that’s true. We’ve only talked and texted a little bit. It’s too early to tell what kind of relationship we’ll have, if any.”

“You must like him if you’re going out with him tomorrow night.” Please tell me that didn’t sound as juvenile as I thought it did.

“Well, sure, but . . .”

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