The Reunion(30)

Today was no different.

Holding back my tears, I turn to the right and run smack into a strong, tall statue.

“Hey there, you okay?”

Oh God, I know that voice all too well now.

Slowly my eyes travel up until they meet a pair of hazel ones.

Dr. Beau. Why, oh why does he have to be here, right now, while I tear up on the sidewalk?

“Fine,” I say, tilting my head down. “I, uh, was just heading to, uh, lunch.”

He tucks his index finger under my chin and lifts my eyes so I’m looking at him. “Going to lunch with tears in your eyes. Doesn’t seem like everything is fine.” He nods toward Pickles and Cheese, the local sandwich shop that serves the best roast beef sandwich I’ve ever eaten. “Join me.”





CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DR. BEAU

Her eyes skirt over to the shop, and I can practically see her mind whirling, silently debating what to do. I have a feeling she’s going to say no, and I wouldn’t blame her if she did. I’m probably the last person she wants to have lunch with, given our few previous interactions, but seeing her upset on the sidewalk, looking distraught and then catching the tears in her eyes . . . yeah, I couldn’t just leave her by herself.

“I’m looking for someone to split a roast beef sandwich with me,” I say, knowing she probably needs the encouragement. “Come on, we can sit outside, and you don’t even have to talk.”

“Your expectations for a lunch partner are low,” her shaky voice jokes.

“Better than eating with the skeleton in the office I normally eat with.”

“Barely a step up if you compare the two.” With a deep breath, she nods. “Okay, I’ll join you for lunch.”

“Perfect.” Together, we walk across the street and step up to the outdoor counter. I order a large roast beef sandwich to split, extra horseradish sauce, a fruit cup, and two waters. I pay despite Palmer putting up a fight, and then we both take a seat outside under a red and white umbrella. We’re off in the corner to grant us some privacy, which seems like what Palmer needs right now.

Instead of talking, I fold my hands together, lean back in my chair, and wait for our sandwich to be delivered—despite all the questions I’d like to ask her, starting with, How long are you here for? Followed up by, Would you like to go on a date with me?

But as promised, I don’t talk. We sit in silence. Awkward, uncomfortable, agonizing silence. What I wouldn’t give to be in her brain right now, to hear her thoughts.

Does she regret all the things she said to me?

Did she really not remember who I was?

Does she ever think about me?

Yeah, that last one is wishful thinking.

But hell, I’ve never stopped thinking about her.

Our sandwich is dropped off, along with another basket. I take one half of the sandwich and place it in the basket with some fruit and a fork and hand it over to her.

She shoots me a shy glance. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” I say before picking up my sandwich and taking a massive bite. I feel her eyes on me, so when I make eye contact with her, I say, “What?” my mouth full of roast beef.

She chuckles quietly. “Take a big enough bite?”

I chew. Swallow. “It’s better that I take big bites to silence myself.”

“Oh.” She smirks, and I’m relieved to see the tears that were present on the sidewalk are gone, which means my work here is done. “Well, you don’t have to be quiet if you don’t want to.”

“Just respecting your privacy. Seemed like you were upset back there. I won’t pry.”

With her good hand, she picks up the sandwich and struggles to keep it together. Roast beef falls out the side, the bread starts to slide up, and there’s no chance she’s getting that in her mouth in one piece. She sets it down with a frustrated groan. “How long do I have to keep this cast on?”

“Up to eight weeks.”

“Eight weeks?” she says, her voice rising. “Seriously?”

“Which is why you need to come up with a better story than falling off a picnic table, because after eight weeks of having a cast on your arm, you’re going to want to impress people.”

She spears a piece of fruit with her fork. “You don’t think falling off a picnic table while clutching a bottle of wine is going to impress people?”

I shake my head in humor. “I’m not sure it would speak to your brand of jet-setting around the world and eating the finer things.”

“Especially since it was the seven-dollar wine from the Liquor General,” she whispers.

A hearty laugh pops out of me. “Yeah, that might set you back a few followers.”

“You’re probably right.” She attempts to pick up her sandwich, but all the meat falls out again and she grows even more frustrated. Not sure she wants my help, I step in anyway and pick up the sandwich for her, nodding for her to take a bite. “Oh God, you don’t have to feed me,” she says in horror.

“Just take a bite. Once it’s smaller, you can probably grip it yourself.”

“This is humiliating,” she mutters as she leans in and takes a bite.

“More humiliating than asking to press my chin dimple?” I raise a challenging brow.