Page 39 of The Potter

He barely spares me a glance. The only way I know he heard me is the slight twitch of his lips. “They don’t have burgers,” he says unhelpfully. “Or fries. You’ll have to order something lessHappy Meal.”

Sucking in a breath, I control my temper. This is Vance’s happy place. Rage and irritation are his catnip, and I refuse to feed his need. “What do you suggest then, Dr. Potter?” He cocks his head and pauses.

“I’m serious, what’s good here? Surely, you have a preference.”

The waiter appears before Vance can answer. He orders both of our meals—steak—adding a bourbon to his order and water to mine.

“Am I not allowed to have a drink?” I fold my arms across my chest, my mood tanking by the minute.

“Did you want a drink?” The way he asks me all-knowingly is enough to cause me to clench my fists so tight my nails leave marks in my skin.

“Well, no, but I would like to have been asked.”

The waiter brings his drink out and sets it on a napkin in front of him. He picks it up, downs the whole thing, and hands it back to the server, ordering another. “Would you like a drink, Ms. Belle?”

I hate him, I really do. “No, Dr. Potter. It seems like one of us might need to stay sober, just in case this ends up with jail time.” I smirk. “The jury will be more swayed with the sober testimony.”

Vance’s fists clench, his entire body rigid.

“It was a joke,” I amend. “I don’t want anything to drink. Perhaps next time, you could be polite and ask me, though.” I offer him a grin as a peace offering. “Just in case I’m feeling frisky.”

His eyes drift to the table, and he nods. “Of course.”

And now, I feel like an asshole. Fortunately, the waiter comes back with his drink, and he quickly disposes of it like last time, barking for another.

“Should you be drinking so much before dinner?”

He seems a little more relaxed than a few minutes ago, which I can only attribute to the alcohol. “Shouldn’t you be telling me about this new caregiver of yours?” He leans back in his chair, his body relaxed as he turns his attention to me.

“What’s there to tell? He’s available and can help me redress the wounds as needed.” I shrug. He’s not getting anything else. Well, I don’t necessarily have anything else to say since, technically, said caregiver doesn’t know he’s going to be—or at least pretend to be—a caregiver.

Vance’s jaw clenches. “This caregiver better not be the same one who inflicted these wounds in the first place.”

I suck in a breath. “No,” I finally say after a few minutes. “It’s not him.”

“Is he still in the picture?” His jaw is tight enough it could crack nuts.

“No. I haven’t seen him since it happened.”

Vance stares at me, angry and broody across the table. Neither of us is willing to say more as dinner is served, eaten, and cleared away. It isn’t until we leave that things turn interesting.

Vance

I’m drunk. Terribly drunk. Asking her to dinner was my first mistake. Getting hard while arguing with her in the car, my second. My third came when I couldn’t control the thoughts swirling through my head.

Juries.

Hit and runs.

Her beautiful body crushed under a tire.

The images in her file were like crime scene photos. This determined Georgia Peach, sweet and supple, crushed by a man and his anger. Yet, here she is, enduring blow after blow from me. All for a fresh start and refined scars, so that she’s not reminded of her past.

But that’s the problem for both of us. Nothing we do will ever change our past. It’s shaped us—molded us into the people we’ve become. For her, she became more determined and passionate about her dreams. For me, I caved under the weight. I lost sight of the man before the tragedy. And yet, every day, I go into the office and lie to patients. I promise them hope I can’t seem to deliver.

But I didn’t want to do that to Halle.

When she came to my office, looking at me like I was the one who was going to change her world… I just couldn’t put her through more pain. She’d suffered enough.

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