She looks exhausted from this whole ordeal. “Come on, tell me about your shoulder,” she says, passing by me, apparently done with the confrontation.
Oh, hell no.
“We are not done talking about this,” I yell at her retreating back.
“Later,” is all she says.
I can live with later if I have to.
I’m silent at dinner for the most part. Anniston prattles on about my stats and career like an over-affectionate parent. She fills me in on how she and Cade met and about the amazing carpenter he is. Apparently, they—meaning,together—have been repairing the back deck of the house that desperately needed it. She’s taken off from her part-time job at the hospital to acclimate Cade.
My stomach sours each time she smiles his way. Cade and I have resorted to only nods and grunts when she tries to engage us in conversation. Otherwise, we are staring daggers at one another, plotting deaths and inconspicuous burial prospects. I finish my pancakes in record time, only eating two instead of the ten I planned on—thanks to Anniston’s revelations.
Cade helps her with the dishes while I can’t keep myself from scowling and pouting at the table. She’s never asked me to help with the dishes. Granted, we always had a housekeeper when we lived together but still, she can’t ask me?
“Theo, go change and meet me in my office.”
I give her a look that can only be interpreted as a firm negative. There is no way I am leaving her alone with this guy.
She rolls her eyes, drying her hands on the dish towel. “Cade. I need to check Theo over in the office. Do you think you could finish these up for me?”
He nods and gives her a smile.
I get to my feet, ready to pounce, when Anniston grabs my arm and drags me down the hall. I let her pull me into her office, which basically is a small exam room. Her true office is what she calls the library.
The exam room is outfitted with all the latest and up-to-date technology money can buy, thanks to yours truly. The decor is, of course, various trophies, pictures, jerseys, etc. from me playing ball over the years. My girl is proud, and that makes my stomach do all kinds of weird things.
“Strip, Von Bremen, and hop up.” She pats the table like I’m some kind of puppy that needs direction.
I give her the stink eye but remove my shirt nevertheless. She doesn’t mean for me to strip naked. Not yet, anyway.
“So, what’s going on?” she asks, washing her hands in the nearby sink.
I climb onto the table and shrug. “Nothing much. I threw a few sloppy pitches today, but I was distracted.” By you, is what I want to say.
“So, you’re saying your shoulder is fine, and you lied to Bellamy so you could come down here and spy on me?”
Yep. Pretty much.
I nod, giving her a little smile. “Kind of.”
She shakes those blonde tresses and chuckles. “Tell me what I need to tell Bellamy. How many days do you need?”
Fuck yeah! That’s my girl! “I think I need at least a few days, Doc, for PT.”
Exasperated, she picks up the phone and calls Bellamy and proceeds to give him a shit-ton of medical jargon that I don’t understand. I hear him yelling on the line after she drops the bomb that she’s keeping me for PT for a week, maybe more. It’s apparent he does not agree with her assessment. She mouths, “You owe me.”
I nod. I do.
She hangs up after another minute, cutting off whatever rude thing Bellamy was saying.
Have I mentioned how much I love this girl?
“Face the wall. I want to take a look at your shoulder since I just lied to your coach.”
Fine by me. I turn, facing the opposite direction, while her soft fingers walk up and down the lines of muscles in my shoulder. I flinch when she presses on one spot in particular.
“That hurt?”
