back into the waiting room. Nora was fishing through her handbag, looking for tissues. “Let’s go for milkshakes.”
While she was sipping her shake, he could grill her about concussion symptoms. He would look up a complete list of them on his iPad while waiting in line. There was always a line at the Moo Factory on Saturday.
She looked stubborn. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have to make a decision about the iguana.”
“I’ve already made it,” he said. He picked up the cage and put it on the receptionist’s desk.
Nora bristled, balled up a tissue in her fist. “You made the decision? But you can’t!”
It wasn’t exactly an outburst, but it certainly seemed as if she might be on the edge of one.
Patiently, Brendan told her, “I told Doc I’d pay for the operation. Let’s go have ice cream.”
“I didn’t tell you about Iggy because I needed you to fix it!” she said.
“Whatever.”
“No! It’s not whatever! I told you because I needed a little tiny bit of feedback. I needed to not feel so alone. I trusted you. I didn’t tell you because I needed the decision made for me.”
She looked as if she wanted to stick her fist in her mouth after she admitted that. About not wanting to make the decision by herself. She had let it slip how alone she felt in the world.
He looked at her lips.
Well, that shouldn’t last long. Her being alone. At the moment, she was the best kept secret in Hansen. When word got out, every unattached guy for a hundred miles would be beating a path to her doorstep. Brendan didn’t even want to question the hollow feeling that realization caused in the pit of his stomach.
But only, he told himself, because he knew she’d made a bad choice once. Only because he knew it would destroy that kid up there slaving away in his grandmother’s garden if Nora did it again.
Why was he worried about her? She claimed not to like attachments. On the other hand, she was already attached to the iguana, and God knew there were lots of lizards around.
“My paying for the procedure is no big deal,” he explained patiently. “You could be having cognitive difficulties, postconcussion, that were making it hard for you to make a decision.”
“I don’t like iguanas. But that doesn’t mean I want to have the decision whether he lives or dies in my hands.”
“Well, now it’s not. There. Solved.”
“Oh!”
“Irritability,” he said sagely. He knew it would be wiser to keep that observation to himself, but he was surprised to find a part of him was actually enjoying this little interchange.
“I am not having cognitive difficulties! And I’m not irritable.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It’s justified irritability, not knocked-over-the-head irritability!”
“It just seems a teensy bit out of proportion. I mean, I thought you’d be—” he considered saying grateful, and then said “—happy. I just don’t see that it’s a big deal.”
“You paying is a big deal. I’ll pay you back,” she said stubbornly.
“Consider it a donation.”
“No.”
“You really need a board of directors to answer to.”
“And it’s you making the decision that’s a big deal.”
“Wouldn’t it be forgivable if I made the decision based on the presumption you might be having cognitive difficulties? Even if you weren’t?”
He blinked at her. He happened to know he had eyelashes women found irresistible. He wasn’t opposed to using them as a weapon when backed into a corner.
She stared at him. Blinked herself. Looked away.
“Talk about cognitive difficulties,” she muttered. He was pleased that she suddenly lost her desire to argue with him. Still, she couldn’t just give in! Let him have the last word!
“I will pay you back.”
“Fine. I’ll take it out in milkshakes. A lifetime supply. I like licorice.”
“A lifetime supply? How much is the procedure going to cost?”
Seeing the worry creasing her brow, he cut the amount in half and was rewarded for his little lie when she looked relieved.
“There is no such thing as a licorice milkshake,” she said.
“That just shows you’ve never been to the Moo Factory.”
“Besides, if you think other people making decisions for you is no big deal, I’ll pick the flavor of your lifetime supply.”
It was all turning lighter. He could tell it was against her will. Maybe she was experiencing cognitive impairment!
“Have at it,” he said drily. “I’ve never met a flavor of ice cream I didn’t like.”
“Apparently,” she muttered. “Licorice? Yuck!”
He held open the clinic door for her and she went outside to the parking lot, eyed his vehicle suspiciously. “Where’s Luke?”
“At the last minute, he said he didn’t want to come. He asked us to bring something back for him so he could keep working. And he asked me to bring something back for Deedee, too. And Ranger. He said he’d pay for theirs.”
“My nephew, Luke Caviletti, said he’d pay?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure? He’s the kind of gangly kid with red hair.”
But her attempt at humor was meant to cover something else and it failed. Her face crinkled up. She did a funny thing with her nose and squinched her eyes hard.
The facial contortions didn’t help her gain control. He could tell she was making a valiant, valiant effort not to cry again. The tears squeezed out anyway.
He wanted to just shove his hands in his pockets and wait it out. But he was helpless against what he did next.
“Maybe…I…am…having…just…a…little…bit…of…cognitive…impairment.” She was scrubbing at her eyes with that balled up tissue.
He went to her and pulled her against him, wrapped his arms around the small of her back and held on tight.
He could feel the wetness soaking into his shirt. And the warmth oozing out of her body.
And her heart beating below his.
Now,
