Page 57 of Paging Dr. Summers

It was probably a good thing. Our connection was stronger than I’d expected it would be, and it frankly felt like a disruption of mass proportions. And I either couldn’t or wouldn’t face it, knowing it would disappoint Erica. So, I did my best to brush it off and reminded myself that this was a fling, even though I hated the connotation of the word.

“We better go inside before I kiss your face off and ruin my lipstick for that sweet comment,” Brooke quipped.

“I want a rain check on that lipstick-ruining kiss.”

“Rain check granted.” She smiled and grabbed my hand. “Let’s go be fancy.”

I followed her into Literary Haven, the eclectic bookstore in town with a famous reputation. It had a knack for bringing in the most popular authors of the day for book signings. People from all over the country, and even the world, would flock to these events. This night would be no different.

The owner, Martha Percival, had personally decorated the place. I knew this from previous visits to the store. She loved to tell everyone about it. Vintage framed book covers hung on the store’s walls. And she’d placed several reading nooks with armchairs and comfy couches throughout. A large stone fireplace sat in the middle of the store, and that was where most of the action was.

A sizable crowd gathered around Josie Cavanaugh, the guest of honor, and her husband Reece. He was obviously the inspiration for Josie’s pirate books, as he wore an eye patch.

“Oh, my gosh, I can’t believe that’s her,” Brooke squealed in my ear. “I’m going to play it cool and not word vomit tonight.” She laughed.

I wasn’t sure if she could accomplish that, but I didn’t mention it. Little did she know how much I’d come to enjoy her ramblings.

As we walked toward the crowd, a voice called out for Brooke. We turned to find Lola Harrington waving. Her boyfriend and parents accompanied her.

“Brooke, wait up.”

My attention immediately shifted to Maxwell Harrington. Something about him still rubbed me the wrong way. Brooke hadmentioned a few days before that he’d once again offered to help her with monetizing her podcast or putting out some feelers for contacts in the top radio markets around the country if she wanted him to.

It felt untoward. Why would he take an interest in Brooke like that? He hardly knew her. My gut told me it was more than just him being protective of his daughter’s social life. I’d told Brooke what my dad used to say to me:“If someone offers to help your business, it’s never free. Always find out what it’s going to cost you in the long run.”That had thankfully resonated with Brooke.

I tried to covertly study how Maxwell behaved around Brooke as they approached. He seemed to purposely not look directly at her; instead, he gave her side glances as he draped his arm around his wife. That didn’t bring me any comfort.

I put my arm around Brooke’s waist and drew her as close as possible. This wasn’t an attempt to stake my claim on her—I didn’t believe women were a commodity. It was a warning to Maxwell that he would have to go through me if he had any thoughts of making a move on her. Sick bastard.

Lola pranced up to Brooke and kissed her cheek. “Look at you, gorgeous.”

“You’re the gorgeous one,” Brooke gushed back.

Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, along with Alejandro, weren’t far behind Lola.

“Logan, I’m not sure if you’ve met Lola’s parents. This is Camila and Maxwell Harrington. And you remember Alejandro, right?” Brooke made the introductions.

I’d briefly met Alejandro a few days earlier when he and Lola had dropped by to see Brooke. He seemed like a decent guy. I gave him a nod to acknowledge him before holding out my hand to Camila.

“I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced. It’s nice to meet you.” I tried to sound cordial even though I was suspicious of her husband.

“It’s a pleasure.” Camila placed her hand, sporting two large diamond-encrusted rings, in mine and gave it a good shake. “Any friend of Brooke’s is a friend of ours. We have become quite fond of her this summer.”

Unfortunately, I had a feeling her husband might be more than fond of Brooke.

“Maxwell Harrington.” He shoved his hand out to capture mine before I’d even let go of his wife’s, as if he were anxious to meet me.

I took his hand, and he gripped it harder than necessary while eyeing me carefully. Did he see me as his competition? The thought made me sick.

“Brooke says you’re an ER doctor.” He reluctantly let go of my hand.

“I am.”

“It’s a worthy profession. Where did you go to medical school?”

“Stanford,” I said dryly.

Maxwell seemed taken aback. “Impressive. I’m more of a Harvard man myself—that’s where I received my MBA. But Stanford is nothing to sneeze at.”

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