Page 9 of Fool Me

Her eyes crawl over me lazily. “Some of the people here can be . . .” She considers her words. “A little stuck in their ways. But I like the scrubs, don’t change those. Maybe reconsider the checks—they’ll never let you live that down. Marcy tried that over at Powderline Donuts, and they almost ran her out of town.”

“I'll take it under advisement.”

She yawns. “Sorry, it was a long day and I’m crashing fast. I’m afraid I’m about to become incredibly boring company.”

“Did you come straight here?” It’s a dumb question because in the hour I’ve known Harlowe, that answer is already obvious. Grace and the nurse weren’t lying; this dog means everything to her.

“Yeah.”

“I was just going to order some food. If you’re going to stick around, you should probably eat.”

Her gaze shifts to Echo, who’s sleeping soundly. “I could eat.”

“Is there any place here that delivers?”

“Just Gondoughla Pizzeria,” she says.

“Pizza it is.” I pull out my phone, finding their website.

“Actually, can I order?” She lifts her chin, giving me those blue eyes that make me momentarily forget what I’m supposed to be doing. “I’m allergic to mushrooms.”

“Yeah, of course.” I hand her my phone.

She looks at me, her brows knitting together before she takes it. “You’re just going to hand me, a total stranger, your phone?”

“Judging by the stake you claimed on my clinic for the night, I doubt you’re going to run off with it.”

She sucks on her cheek. “No, but I might snoop through your pictures and see if I can find anything incriminating.”

“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. My life is pretty uneventful these days.”

“Not many guys just hand over their phone, even when they know a woman.”

“Doesn’t sound like you hang out with men who deserve to know you.”

“Ouch. That one hurts.”

“Too close to the truth?”

“You have no idea. I have terrible taste in men. Call it . . . reverse daddy issues. Mine is so great that I know no one can live up to the hype, so I pick losers because you can’t be disappointed if the bar is already on the ground.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

Harlowe pulls the long arm of the flannel over her hands and lifts the phone to her ear. She must be cold; those clothes have to be sweat-soaked, and now she’s sitting here in the air conditioning. I cross the room, opening a drawer where I store some spare scrubs.

“Any requests for the pizza?”

“No black olives. Not allergic, just hate them.”

“Are you a picky eater, Doctor?”

Damn, I like the sound of that nickname coming out of her mouth. It’s never really been a thing for me before, but in her warm, teasing voice, with sleep rough at its edges, it’s intoxicating.

“Not at all.” I lick my lips.

She places the order for one large pepperoni pizza with onions and green peppers, giving the server information on her allergy. “Oh, and extra pepperoncini, please.”

She hangs up, handing my phone back to me.

“You’ve got to be cold. Do you want to change?” I hold out the scrubs.

---