The Reunion(14)

“Palmer,” I say in a soothing tone, “I’m Dr. Beau, and I’m here to help.”

Her eyes dart to me, and she gives me a quick once-over, her eyes landing on my chest for longer than I think she would care to admit. “I knew a guy named Beau, but you look nothing like him, and I’m sorry to inform you, but you don’t look like a doctor either.”

That one perusal from Palmer Chance sets my nerves on fire.

And her comment . . . it makes me inwardly chuckle. I knew a guy named Beau . . .

“If I don’t look like a doctor, then what do I look like?”

With her good hand, she reaches out and pokes me in the arm. “Just what I thought.” She motions for Ford to come to her. “He’s an actor,” she whispers loudly. “Watch this.” Facing me again, she holds her chin high, dried blood crusted along the side of her face. “Okay, Dr. Beau, quick, what’s this?” She holds up her index finger.

“That is your index phalange.”

She nods. “Well, any Friends viewer knows what a phalange is, thanks to Phoebe Buffay. What about this?” She opens her mouth and points.

I sigh. “Your uvula.”

“Uh-huh. Good guess.” She shifts and winces, probably from the break in her wrist I was trying to fix before she woke up. “Okay, I’m suffering from nausea, can’t stop eating, and am irritable when people breathe. What’s wrong with me?”

“Other than being your normal self?” Ford mutters, pulling a smile from me.

“You’re probably pregnant,” I say, still taking her questions seriously.

“Are you pregnant?” Ford asks in disbelief.

“What? No.” She shakes her head. “I’m quizzing him, Ford,” she whispers.

“Palmer, I’m sure Dr. Beau has better things—”

“There’s a suspicious mole on my knee—go.” Palmer stares me down.

I play along. “I would check it out and then probably refer you to a dermatologist, depending on the size and coloration.”

Her eyes narrow. “Diarrhea, pain in my abdomen, gas.”

“Irritable bowel syndrome.”

She huffs. “Who married McDreamy?”

“Dr. Meredith Grey.”

She perks up, gives me another once-over, and then rests her head on the exam table. “He checks out.”

“Jesus,” Ford grumbles and offers me an apologetic look. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine.” I take some wet gauze and bring it to her head, where I wipe away the blood to take a look at her cut. Even though she’s drunk and her eyes are slightly bloodshot, I still find myself getting sucked into her green irises. “Looks like you won’t need stitches, but I’ll do a butterfly bandage to close off the gash, just in case.”

“Gash?” Palmer asks, confused. “Who gashed me?”

“Your friend, the wine bottle,” Ford says, clearly irritated.

“You know, you think you know someone,” Palmer huffs, making me chuckle. “Wait until Laramie hears about this. He will never believe that we could be double-crossed by wine, but the world is always changing, you know, Doc?”

“Oh yeah, always have to be on your toes.” I smirk.

She hasn’t changed, not one bit.

“Precisely. Because next thing you know, bam, your parents are selling your childhood home, ruining all memories and future plans.”

Brow pinched, I turn to Ford. “Your parents are moving?”

“We have yet to determine that,” Ford says, expressionless.

“Really?” Palmer asks, her eyes full of hope. “Did you speak to them?”

“Let’s not worry about that right now. You have a broken wrist and a gash in your head—focus on that,” I say.

“A broken wrist? Huh.” Palmer examines her wrist carefully. “That would make sense, given the screaming pain that’s pulsing up and down my arm.”

“Yes, we’ll have to cast it so it sets right. While I fix your gash, maybe you can start thinking about what color cast you want.”

“Just when you think the world is peeing on your parade, you get to pick out a cast color. Please tell me you have teal—it would complement my hair and eyes.”

“Surprisingly, I do.”

“You know what that means, Ford.” She pokes her brother. “My Instagram is about to be lit.”

Palmer has always been the free spirit, and that spirit is shining through right now, as warm and tempting as sunlight as I finish the bandage and clean up, preparing for the cast.

“What happened to Dr. Weazleton?” she asks. “Don’t tell me Marina Island is big enough to have two doctors now.” Her eyebrows shoot up. “Talk about a spicy competition. How could anyone even choose? GQ Dr. Beau or cranky, bald, and snarly Dr. Weazleton?”

“GQ, huh?” I ask as I pick up a stock net, cotton roll, and fiberglass casting tape.

She tilts her head and studies me. “Yes, GQ. Stylish hair, gelled just perfectly. Gray, flat-front chinos and a forest-green polo that makes the green in your hazel eyes pop. Square jaw, scruff, clearly works out . . . yes, very GQ, if you ask me. Don’t you think, Ford?”

Ford is smiling like a fool. “You’re so going to regret this in the morning.”