The Trouble With Quarterbacks - R.S. Grey Page 0,116

dozen identical ones lined up in my closet, but I convince myself that one was my favorite. She ruined my favorite suit sounds much more dramatic than she ruined my suit.

I’m good at holding a grudge.

I brought that with me from Chicago too. That city knows how to really hang on to something. Just take the weather—eight months of winter just to spite the other four. Here in Texas, it’s late spring and it’s sunny and I wanted to enjoy a nice stroll to work, but she ruined that too.

I add that to my growing grudge as I finish changing and head back out the door. I’ve already notified the staff that I’ll be running late, but it’s still going to throw off the entire day. I wish I could have told that to the brunette, but I settled on berating her about dog training instead—not my most dignified moment, but it’s hard to stay composed when a dog is trying to play hockey with your tonsils. I managed to suppress the obscenities that were filling my head. Just because I’m from Chicago doesn’t mean I have to be a stereotype.

My car is waiting for me outside, so black and shiny. I apologize for thinking I could leave it behind. I learned my lesson the hard way.

The parking lot at work is full when I pull in, which means I’m running even later than I thought I was. I whip into my reserved spot and run through the back entrance. I hate tardiness, and I hate being behind on my schedule. I’ll have to work fast to catch up.

My white coat is hanging on the back of my desk chair; I snatch it as I nod to a few of the office staff and offer up my lame apologies for being late. It’s only my third week on the job, so I haven’t been here long enough to prove how timely I am. I have the brunette to thank for that as well. I swear, if I ever see her again, I’ll let her have it.

“Dr. Foxe, you have quite a few patients lined up this morning,” one of the assistants says when I step out into the hallway. I’m adjusting the collar on my white coat before she hands me the first file.

I nod. “Right, well, I don’t want to keep them waiting any longer. Who’s the first up?”

“Looks like it’s Ms. Thatcher and her dog,” she squints at the scribbled paperwork. “Moose, I think.”

A half step later, I turn the corner to find the infamous brunette standing at the reception desk, regaling half the office staff with a story.

About me.

She’s telling them about the incident and they’re all laughing, enraptured by her words. Her dog—the one I am now intimately acquainted with—has his front paws up on the counter, begging for a treat.

“And you guys, I wish you could have seen the mud. I mean, I really did feel bad for the guy, but he just took off—poof—and now I swear to god, somewhere in Hamilton, there’s some hot guy tromping around with my dog’s paw prints all over his fancy suit.”

Everyone erupts in laughter.

“Did you catch who he was?” my receptionist asks as she passes over a Band-Aid to the brunette. Apparently my suit wasn’t the only casualty of the morning.

She shakes her head, her back still facing me. “He definitely isn’t from around here. I’d have recognized him.”

“Maybe he’s traveling for business?” the receptionist offers.

“Yeah, he had that look about him.”

“That has to be it. I haven’t heard of any newcomers in town. Well, except for—”

I clear my throat. “Madeleine Thatcher and…Mouse.”

What kind of dog name is Mouse? Moose would have been more appropriate. No wonder he didn’t listen to her earlier when she was trying to rein him in.

She turns at the sound of her name and when she zeroes in on me, her jaw drops and her brown eyes widen in shock.

“You.”

Mouse whines and tugs on the leash, trying desperately to get to me. Round two is seconds away from happening. I walk up to Madeleine and extract the leash from her hand while she still tries to recover from shock. She probably thought she’d never see me again. I expected the same, but somehow this is better. I’ll get the last word, just the way I like it.

I hold Mouse’s collar close by my side and walk him into the first exam room. He tolerates having to heel, but I can tell his