How did he make it through medical school? Why did our educational institutions not require an ounce of common sense to receive a diploma? “Your level of ignorance knows no boundaries.”

“I graduated top in my class.”

“Good for you. I hope you find the cure for all cancers because your chances at finding success as a decent human are pretty slim.”

He chuckles like I’m joking.

I’m not joking. Clearing my throat, I thumb through some papers next to my computer. “Did she say yes?”

“I’m not sure. I think she needs to check her calendar, but she didn’t say calendar. She actually said ‘list.’ Do you suppose Dorothy Mayhem has a waiting list for dating?” Warren laughs, shaking his head.

“Maybe it’s a sex offender list.”

“Real funny.” He tips his chin, looking through the microscope.

“Did you…” I play it casual like it’s not bugging the hell out of me “…just ask her out this morning?”

“Yesterday. She only works Friday through Sunday. She’s a nursing student. Willow said she lives on a farm with emus. I’m not buying that rumor, but I’m sure as hell intrigued. It’s been a while since a woman really intrigued me. But she wouldn’t hand over her phone number, so now I have to wait until Friday to see where I fit on her list.”

“Who is Willow?”

Warren’s head snaps up. “Dude, she’s your nurse.”

“Willa. Not Willow.”

He shakes his head, enjoying some sort of laugh at my expense. “No one calls her Willa.”

My head jerks backward. “I call her Willa because that’s her name.”

“I stand corrected. No one except you calls her Willa.”

“Why not?”

“If you were a woman in your twenties named after your great grandmother Willa, would you actually go by that name?”

My lips twist, eyes squint. “Huh … how did I miss that? I’ll try to remember to call her Willow from now on.”

“No. Don’t. I’m pretty sure the only thing keeping her from jumping you is the fact that you call her Willa. If you call her Willow, she’ll probably start dry humping your leg.” Warren glances at his phone. “I have to check on Opal.”

“I want her lab results ASAP.”

“You got it.” He tucks his phone into the pocket of his coat and slips out of the lab.

My brain hurts more than my burnt ass. Warren and Dorothy. Dorothy and emus. Willa is Willow. Willow wants to hump my leg.

* * *

Thursday night, Julie picks up Roman. Her mom watches him while she works—because only his awful father sends him to daycare … which he happens to love.

Friday morning I arrive early to the hospital and park by the entrance where Dorothy gave me the bag of clothes. I may have pried a little to see what time her shift starts, and I may have been told that she usually arrives thirty minutes early for her twelve-hour shift that begins at 8:00 a.m. So I arrive by 7:15 to play it safe and not miss her.

At exactly 7:30 a.m., a white Audi Q5 zooms past my blue Tesla and makes a ninety-degree turn into a parking spot. How did it not crash into the car next to it? A miracle.

“Damn … didn’t see that coming,” I whisper to myself when Dorothy emerges from the vehicle—blue scrubs, pink undershirt, matching pink tennis shoes. She curls her dark hair behind her ears, hikes her bag onto her shoulder, and shuts the door.

Dorothy Mayhem drives a luxury car like a bat out of Hell. On all accounts, I’m in shock. It takes me a few seconds to close my gaping mouth and climb out of my vehicle.

“Good morning.”

She turns just before the entrance. “Oh, hey! Good morning.”

“That was quite the parking job.”

Her gaze flits to her car. “Thanks. I’ve had a few issues with parking. So once I got my Q5, I decided to slow it down a bit.”

I try not to react, but I feel my eyebrows inching up my forehead all on their own. That was her slowed-down version of parking? “Here. You really should not have done what you did last week. So the least I can do is give you this.” I hand her the thank-you card. “By the way, Roman loves the cape. Wears it all the time. You hit a home run with that gift.”

“What’s this?” She takes the card from me.

I feel stupid. Is the card a bad idea? Do people no longer give thank-you cards? Is everything communicated via text and email? “It’s uh…” I slip my hands into the pockets of my gray pants “…a thank-you card.”

“Oh.” She inspects it. “Should I open it now? Or do you want me to wait?”

I have no clue. Now, so she’ll see my number? (Thanks, Mom.) Or later, so she doesn’t have to acknowledge my phone number? Since common sense has a tradition of arriving late to the party, I want to pluck that thank-you card from her hand and buy a new one that doesn’t have my phone number scrawled on the inside of it.

Tags: Jewel E. Ann Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net