Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Mads pulled out her phone and did so. I saved her number, then walked her out. I watched my best friend drive away and felt a sense of peace I hadn’t in a long time, maybe ever. And strangely, my first thought was to pull out my phone and message my doctor to tell him. But then, how could I tell him that without the whole story? I just knew I liked sharing things about my day with him—good and bad. Maybe when we spoke tonight, I’d find a way to tell him.
I was the one to message him first.
GoodWithHisHands: What was for dinner tonight?
TheDoctorIsIn: I haven’t cooked yet. It was a crazy day.
GoodWithHisHands: Me neither…though a good crazy. I was a little behind at work afterward.
Part of me really wanted to tell my doc what happened, but I couldn’t make him understand how big this was for me without telling him everything, and honestly, I was embarrassed by it. I hated that I hadn’t known myself and that I’d dragged Mads into it.
TheDoctorIsIn: Good crazy is the best kind. I’m glad you had a good day, which I’m sure is even better now that you’re talking to me.
I grinned. Cocky fucker. Damned if he wasn’t right, though.
GoodWithHisHands: Hmm… Maybe. Maybe not. Cook dinner with me, and then I’ll tell you.
TheDoctorIsIn: I already know the answer, but I’ll cook with you anyway.
I loved that he knew what I meant without me having to tell him, that he figured I meant cooking while we talked and not meeting. We were always on the same wavelength.
GoodWithHisHands: What do you have in your fridge? I’ll look, and maybe we can make the same thing.
It was cheesy as fuck, but I didn’t care.
We decided on salmon and mashed potatoes. We cooked while we spoke, then ate while we messaged too. When we got off the app later that night, I admitted what we both already knew.
GoodWithHisHands: Yeah, it was even better after talking with you.
7
Hutch
I spent Monday morning trying to ride the high from talking with my mechanic the night before instead of wondering if I was going to see Ryder at the hospital this afternoon. I didn’t know why it mattered. It shouldn’t, at least not really. Seeing him there wasn’t a big deal. I wasn’t betraying my sister because the man who broke her heart happened to volunteer where I did, but seeing Ryder put me on edge in a way I couldn’t describe. It was driving me crazy because I didn’t typically let much bother me in life—not outside of my parents and doing a good job at the hospital.
But seeing Ryder had thrown me for a loop—clearly, since I was thinking about it all fucking day. I groaned at myself. I’d been off lately in many ways.
I went for a jog, then back home to shower and get ready. For a moment, I thought about taking the south elevator, tempting fate to see if I’d run into my mechanic, if we’d recognize each other and smile and ask how dinner had been the night before, and then… Do you want to suck my dick? Yeah, sure, me too.
I rolled my eyes and headed for the north one.
I showered and wasted time around my condo before going to Children’s Hospital. Layla was waiting for me inside. I grinned, warmth in my chest at the sight of her, but then my eyes browsed the room. Ryder was there with Luke and Colton—one of the younger boys. Colton looked a little more worn down than usual, his skin more pale. They were talking, Ryder acting something out, his arms flailing around before the three of them laughed. Luke winced slightly, as if he wasn’t on top of his game either.
Ryder was good with them. I’d noticed it right away the week before. He was good with kids; this wasn’t something new for him.
As if sensing me looking at him, his gaze darted my way. Our eyes connected for a moment across the room, both of us just…looking. He gave a small smile, lifted his hand in an easy wave, then turned to Luke again.
“Huuuuuuutch. Why are you spacing off? And is that for me?” Layla pointed to the gift in my hand.
I jerked my attention from places it didn’t need to be to the one it did. “What makes you think this is for you?”
“Because you always bring me something…and look, I made something for you too!” She handed me a drawing. She really was a great artist for being seven years old. It was the two of us, holding hands, her in the dress she’d worn last week. I’d been able to take her to the courtyard, where we’d played, and she’d brought it to life, the sun shining down on us, smiles on our faces. It was perfect.