Bad Cruz(71)

Cruz came, too.

This time inside me.

When he rolled off of me, he kissed my temple and said, “And no, you’re not pregnant.”

I shuddered. “You know me nauseatingly well.”

He placed his lips on my hairline, mulling it over. “I do, don’t I?”

“Since kindergarten.”

“Nursery,” he corrected me.

“Ugh,” I groaned. “We’re old.”

“Better than staying young forever. The implications are not so great.”

“What really happened today?” I asked into his hard chest, my fingers once again tangled in his chest hair. “Has Bear really broken his skateboard?”

Because I was going to have to break a few piggy banks to buy him a new one. It was his favorite form of transportation.

“Yes.”

There was a brief silence.

“With my encouragement, I suppose.” He propped himself on one elbow, studying me with his confident, quiet gaze that made me feel like a seed blossoming into a flower in the sun.

“You tricked me.”

His chest rumbled with a chuckle that quaked against my ear.

“We needed a good excuse.”

“You could’ve found a cheaper excuse,” I protested.

“It’s just a small chip. He said his grandpa can superglue it back together. If not, I’ll give him my old skateboard that I have lying around in my basement. I’m in no risk of ever using it again. Kids are into vintage stuff like that these days.”

“Leave some room for Rob to try to win his son’s affections.” I giggled, marveling at how good Cruz and Bear were together.

That made Cruz tense.

My nose twitched, and I tried hard not to look embarrassed. What kind of weird thing to say to the man you’d sworn off (to your sister) who was currently inside your bed.

I truly was a piece of work.

“I’ll tread carefully,” Cruz said, finally.

I knew he meant with Rob, but I so very wished he’d take mercy on me, too.





“There he is, the man of the hour, the town’s beloved.” Mrs. Underwood, who was approximately a thousand years old, wobbled her way toward me outside the clinic after I closed shop.

I stilled, inwardly punching my own face for forgetting to check the windows before I got out of work. There was always someone wandering past wanting a favor. A ride, a quick medical diagnosis, some life advice.

“Heard you’re treating Beau Duggar’s pregnant wife under the table ’cause she’s got no insurance. That’s kind of you.” She waved her walking cane in my direction, flashing her blindingly white dentures at me.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

And then, because it was still ingrained in me, because I was so deeply and acutely attached to the role this place designated to me, I forced myself to add, “Can I take you anywhere, Mrs. Underwood? Home, maybe?”

“Oh!” She put her hand to her chest. “Are you sure?”

No.

“Absolutely.”

“How nice of you to offer. I was actually on my way to your mother’s, if you can believe it. We’re working on the next luncheon.”

“It’d be my pleasure.”

It would also be my hell.

Mom lived on the other side of town, which meant a longer drive in the opposite direction of my destination, in the presence of the town’s biggest gossip. But I couldn’t backtrack, could I?

“Lovely. She’s telling me you are going to help her with the seating arrangements at the rehearsal dinner next week. You must be excited to see Wyatt getting married again.”

“Bursting at the seams.”

“You next?”

“Unfortunately for the future Mrs. Costello,” I jested mildly.

“Ah, c’mon. Anyone would love to have you, Cruzy.”

Not the town’s most infamous and gloriously scandalous waitress, so it seemed.

After I dropped Mrs. Underwood off—and walked her to my mother’s doorstep, arm-in-arm—I went back into town to take some promotional pictures for the Wellness Awareness Program I was taking part in.

I was going to run a marathon with a few more folks to raise money for a foundation designed to help children suffering from obesity. When I was done with the promotional stuff, I checked my watch to see if I had a moment to check in on Tennessee at the diner.

I had about three minutes before I needed to go back home and get ready for Wyatt’s bachelor party in the city.

My showers, my snacks, my coffee breaks—everything was timed perfectly with a stopwatch to ensure the utmost time efficiency.

I was about to open the door to Jerry & Sons—could almost spot her through the windows—when a small figure reeking of flowers blocked my way.

“Dr. Costello! How nice to see you. I’ve been hopin’ to run into you, actually.”

Mrs. Holland threw herself in front of me, in a pastel cardigan, designer jeans, and a Chanel purse. Her brunette bob was sharp, her eyes shrewd and cold. You could tell Gabriella was her spawn, because they both looked perpetually put-together and hungry.

“Ma’am.” I smiled patiently, peppering the gesture with a brief kiss on her cheek. “How’re you feeling today?”