He tossed the gauze pads on the stainless steel examining table. “Fine,” he said before he yanked his coat off the hook by the door and dug his truck keys out of the pocket. “Let’s go.”
“Finally.”
“There’s only one plastic surgeon who’ll be on call at the hospital.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“He’ll charge you a thousand bucks for something I was going to do for free.”
“I have excellent insurance.”
Tom continued on like they were two sane people having a normal conversation. “He charges so much because he’s got a few malpractice claims to pay out. None of it was his fault, of course. And surprisingly, his defense attorney was right. There’s no medical reason why patients need to blink. Or chew.”
Claire fixed him with her queenly stare. God, she would be beautiful if it wasn’t for the black hole where her heart should be. “Why are you trying to talk me out of seeing another doctor? Is someone jealous?”
Tom grinned. “Insanely. I’ll probably cry when I see you go off with another man.”
The curl of her lip told him she didn’t like that he was smiling, so he widened the expression just for her. “Be prepared, though—someone will probably ask for your autograph.”
“What?”
“They’ll want all the wedding details. Maybe you can take pictures with them. They’ll post them on the internet. Laurel’s Bloody Bridesmaid.” Tom cocked his head. “Actually, that headline’s pretty damn accurate.”
“No one is going to know who I am.”
This time Tom laughed for real at her denial. “With that spread Laurel did in People? And that dress? Trust me, Claire, they’ll know within five seconds of you walking in the door where you’re supposed to be tonight.”
Claire stopped and Tom knew he’d hit a nerve. But why? Why was he trying to talk Claire out of going to the hospital? He didn’t give a damn about her head or whether she was hounded by the press.
He sighed. She sighed. He knew why and what they were both thinking: Laurel. Even though Claire and Tom hated each other, Laurel had been a good friend to them both, and even American princesses deserved some privacy on their wedding day.
Claire lifted her chin. “Looks like you’re getting your wish.”
Tom frowned. What was she talking about?
“After all these years, you’re finally getting to put your hands on me.”
His cell phone rang, and he picked up even though it said it was a blocked number. He recognized Laurel’s voice immediately. “Tom, do you have her? Oh my God, is she all right?
Tom walked across the room and looked over at the pathetic figure in the bloodstained dress huddled on the old wooden pew. “Oh yes, Mrs. Schmidt, Trixie’s doing much better.”
“Who’s Trixie? Tom, are you talking about Claire?
“Of course you’re concerned. I would be too, but excessive flatulence is actually quite common in bulldog bitches.” Even though he was talking quite loudly, Claire didn’t so much as glance up, but freezing him out had always been her specialty.
“Stop! You two are awful.”
“You’re very welcome, Mrs. Schmidt. Perhaps one of these days we can talk about finally putting this bitch down.”
“Tom!” Laurel shrieked, and even Claire looked up at his awful joke. “You better not be saying this to her face. I swear, it’s hard enough to keep her calm when she’s in normal Claire mode.”
“What’s that? You want me to keep Trixie here for a few extra days so you can prepare for the new, more snuggly, more loveable puppy?”
Claire’s eyes narrowed across the room. The word “bastard” was written all over her face, and Tom wasn’t sure if he cared. She’d thought the worst of him for so long; maybe it was time to stop trying to prove her wrong.
“Another alternative is, of course, putting her in the dogfighting ring. With three legs and most of her teeth gone, she wouldn’t last long.”
Laurel groaned. “I don’t understand you. When are you going to understand that there are consequences to teasing Claire?”
When indeed. ”Are you sure, Mrs. Schmidt? It’s really expensive to have a dog-skin rug made.”
“I really appreciate you taking care of her. You’re a good guy. I’ve always told Claire that.”
Tom saw the wisdom of Laurel’s advice. He was too old to play these kinds of games, to poke Claire Portelli just to see how she was going to go off this time.
Ten years ago, he’d lived for their skirmishes. Something about going toe to toe with Claire always got his juices up. But now? He was thirty years old. He had his own practice in the nice, laid-back town he’d grown up in. Day in, day out, he examined dogs and cats, an occasional bird, a horse and cow here and there. It was steady, fulfilling…maybe a little boring.
Maybe that’s why he was playing the role of evil veterinarian, designed specifically to goad the she-devil across the room. He needed a night of sparring, brutal quips, and suffering Claire Portelli’s interminable insufferableness to remind himself to appreciate his quiet, peaceful life.
He said goodbye to Laurel, and when he looked back up at Claire, he was not shocked at all to find that she was shooting daggers at him. “What?” he asked.
“Dog-skin rug? You’re awful. Does the licensing board know about that?”
“Shit. Don’t tell me I need a license.”
“You don’t.”
Not sure if Claire would actually call someone to report that he was skinning little Trixies and turning them into throw rugs, Tom had to apologize. “It was a joke.”
“Does Mrs. Schmidt know that?”
“That wasn’t Mrs. Schmidt. That was…” Not Laurel Ramsey. “My girlfriend.”
“You’re so predictable.”
“Excuse me?”
“Making up a fake girlfriend. Don’t you think you’ve outgrown that by now?”
“I’m not lying.” He heard the words come out of his mouth knowing that was a lie, and wanted to strangle Claire’s pretty little neck. This was how crazy she made him.
Then she looked at him, with that dead-on challenge in her eye that always got him going. “You haven’t invented this person?”
“Nope.”
“Your girlfriend is named Mrs. Schmidt?” Tom opened his mouth to answer her, but she bulldozed over him. “She wants to put down her elderly dog? Send it to a dogfight? Have a dog-skin rug made?”
Damn it all to hell. She had him in a corner. If he said yes, he sounded crazy, and worse, that he had an insane, dog-hating girlfriend. If he said no, he was admitting that he’d lied—twice! He couldn’t even think straight. He was losing his edge. No, he just hadn’t sparred with Claire in a while. The edge would come back to him. It always did.
In a few quick strides, he popped a pair of gloves on and grabbed a bottle of saline, hoping the sight of it would distract her long enough for him to come up with some way out of his Mrs. Schmidt fabrication.
It worked. Claire held up a hand as if to protect herself. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Tom so wanted to smile and say, “Trust me, I’m a veterinarian,” but knew that would just be opening himself up for more mockery. Instead, he said, “Yes,” and approached her slowly.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Claire stilled. “Fine. Why?”
“Just checking. You need anything to eat?”
“You make one move toward a Milk-Bone and I swear to God I will have you neutered.”
Tom bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He wished he’d thought of the Milk-Bone thing first.
“Do I have permission to treat you now?” he asked very formally, because his usual clients didn’t understand English. Or words beyond “sit,” “stay,” or “bad dog,” for that matter.
Claire closed her eyes tight and lifted her face to him. “Do it quick and get it over with.”
“That’s what she said.” She bit her
lip at his stupid joke. Perfect. He had distracted her. “Now stay still.”
He placed one steadying hand on the back of her skull. With the other hand he brushed back the sticky, bloody hair from her forehead. With a gentle touch, he cleaned the wound and inspected it.
“How bad is it?” Claire asked, keeping her eyes clamped shut. He saw the stress in her forehead, the clutch of her fingers wound tightly around each other as if in prayer.
He made a soothing sound and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s not that bad. You don’t need stitches.”
“But…all the blood?”
Tom dampened another gauze pad with saline and wiped it along the cut and down her temple, cleaning her up. “Head wounds do that. Especially when there’s so much screaming.” A little crease formed between her eyes and Tom fought the temptation to stroke it away, too. “I’m going to put some butterfly bandages on it, just to help it heal right.”
Claire shook her head slightly. “This is so not a good look for wedding pictures.”
Tom got the bandages out from the cabinet and carefully placed them on Claire’s pale skin. Too pale, he noted. He’d have to get something in her. “Just wear your hair curly like you used to. It will be less obvious that way.”
Her big green eyes peeked open at him. “I don’t want to detract from Laurel’s big day.”
She was a loyal, devoted friend. Tom had always respected that about Claire. “You won’t,” he assured her. “Everyone’s going to be looking at the bride and not the bridesmaid bearing a remarkable resemblance to Frankenstein’s monster.”
Curiously, he didn’t get snapped at for calling her a monster. Claire smiled in relief instead. The smile wasn’t for him, obviously, but it unlocked something warm and gooey inside him, the same as a Golden Retriever’s wagging tail.
This was bad. Very, very bad. He pulled away from Claire and focused on putting his supplies away. He would take her back to Virtue Cove, the Ramsey compound, and spend the next forty-eight hours girding his loins for more battles with Claire—and the buried parts of himself that apparently enjoyed them.
He let her sit in the front seat this time, and was backing out of the parking lot when he got a text and turned the opposite direction from Virtue Cove. “I have to make one stop before I take you back.”
Chapter 3
Poppy was 1500 pounds, writhing on the hay of the barn floor, and dilated about ten inches. Everything was moving along fine. For a horse birth.
Tom checked his watch and noted the time. Poppy’s owners were new to horse ownership and had called him to come out to supervise the labor, but it looked like Poppy knew what she was doing. Twenty minutes from now, more or less, a foal would be testing out its new legs on this earth. Since it was nearing midnight, Tom had sent an overly anxious Mrs. LeRoy and her sleepy toddlers back into the house and offered to call them when the new baby was out. If someone wasn’t used to seeing a huge animal in labor, it could be traumatic.
Speaking of which… He glanced at Claire gripping the stall door, her eyes frozen to the pretty beast snorting and pushing in front of them. In the fluorescent lights of the barn, Claire’s lavender dress was pale, as pale as her skin… Crap. He hadn’t gotten her anything to eat yet. “Are you doing okay?”
She nodded distractedly, her fingernails glittery silver against the rough barn wood.
It was the sight of that silver that snapped him back to reality. Claire Portelli, spoiled fashion-plate New Yorker, was as out of place in a Maine barn in the middle of night as this laboring horse would in the middle of Times Square. She had always been the sophisticated one, the glamorous one in college, sneering at his practical flannel and L.L.Bean boots, while her glossy curls bounced and mocked the backwoods boy.
“Is she…okay?” Claire asked in a trembling voice, which irritated Tom as much as the perfect silver manicure. Anyone who’d spent any time around a farm would see that Poppy’s labor was normal, that Poppy was just doing what nature told her to do. The fact that Claire was worried about the horse further proved how different they were.
Tom rubbed his chin. “No.” Claire gasped. “She’s not.”
This was mean. And wrong. But the shock on her face satisfied some deep, dark place inside him that still hurt for all the angst she’d caused him over the years. He stepped forward and lifted one of Claire’s hands. They were small and smooth and soft. “These are perfect,” he said seriously. Half of him was alarmed at the coolness of her skin; the other half went along for the ride when he said, “I need your help.”
“What? What can I do?” Her eyes were wide, she bit her lips, and a warning went off inside Tom’s brain even as he led her toward Poppy and told Claire what she had to do.
He waited for her to explode with the bitchy comeback, with the venomous insult, but instead she knelt on the ground, pulling up her skirts, and settled behind Poppy. Was she calling his bluff? She was going to do this. He knelt next to Poppy’s flank as the horse took a break, her shallow breaths causing dust to shoot across the wood floor.
Tom gave Claire directions for how to insert her hand into Poppy’s birth canal. It wasn’t going to hurt Poppy. Claire’s hand was smaller than an ear of the 150-pound foal currently inching its way out. He’d have her slide her hand a few inches, scratch the foal’s nose, and he’d finally have the ultimate humiliating revenge on Claire Portelli. Claire took a deep breath and paused. This was it. This was where she turned to him and said something sharp and possibly nasty about his sexual experience. Instead, she patted Poppy’s flank and whispered something he couldn’t hear.
He was too preoccupied with what she might have just said that he missed the signs. Poppy’s eyes would have rolled back in her head, her distended stomach would have tensed, but Tom saw none of this right before there was a sudden push and, with an equine moan, the head of Poppy’s foal burst out, spraying Claire with a sticky, clear fluid and sending her backward into a pile of straw.
Tom looked over the foal first, still covered in its membrane, its hooves folded up against its ears. It looked perfect, but Claire on the other hand… Her forearms and hands were now covered with barn dust and hay, her dress spotted with blood and horse placental fluid, the end of her dress hanging off in a jagged edge. And her face was paler than ever.
The verbal incineration would start right about now. Tom waited for it. Claire lifted her eyes to his, but they were shiny with tears. “Is she okay? Is the baby okay?”
Tom shut his mouth and could only nod. His stomach churned with guilt and regret. He was the world’s biggest asshole. If Claire was going to call him names, he would deserve every one. If she reported him to the state licensing board, he’d accept that, too.
They watched Poppy deliver the “baby,” as Claire called it, watched as the foal shook off its afterbirth and shakily stood for the first time. The LeRoy family returned, the children clapped and named the new member of the family, and Claire shook herself off and laughed along with them, the tears drying on her face.
Tom went through all the right veterinary motions. He checked on Poppy, looked over Elmo the foal, and gave the LeRoys instructions on what to expect the next few days. After promising to come back in a week, he and Claire walked back to his truck, where he noticed she had shrunk several inches since they’d gotten to the farm.
Claire was holding her shoes in her hand, walking barefoot over the lawn. Even with straw in her hair, her dress stained with bodily fluids—equine and human—she was more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. In the moonlight, the last seven years faded away and they were in college again—the night before graduation. The night he thought had changed everything between them.
Maybe he had been deluded; maybe there had been too much beer and too much stress from that final round of exams. But he really thought that the night they had shared had meant something. That they had a connection, that they could overcome the differences in their personalities, in their backgrounds. The morning after sh
e’d been like this—exhausted with all her walls down. She’d kissed him sweetly, promised to call.
She never did.
He had been wrong then and he’d be stupid to believe that a messy, earthy Claire who was currently curling her toes into cold, dewy Maine grass was a different woman from the self-absorbed, selfish brat he’d been infatuated with all those years ago.
Still. “I’m not taking you back to Virtue Cove,” he told her when they were both buckled in. “Not like this.”
Chapter 4
When Claire woke up this morning, in her lovely celadon-green guest room overlooking Virtue Cove’s private marina, she had never in her wildest dreams thought she would end up naked in Tom Harrington’s shower later that night.
It had seemed like a good suggestion. Of course, she couldn’t return to the Ramseys’ Maine house, during their daughter’s wedding weekend festivities, with horse amniotic fluid crusted in her hair, like she was the Pennsylvania farm girl that she had sworn she never would be. Because of Tom’s thoughtful invitation, she could get cleaned up and changed at his place before returning to Virtue Cove.
The longer she stood under the hot water in Tom’s shower, the more Claire suspected that some kind of trick was being played on her. This was a classic Tom Harrington move. Play the good guy, be selfless and nice and considerate, and no one would notice when he took his swipes and jabs at Claire’s expense.
She spun the single bottle of shampoo around to read the ingredients. Nothing but sulfates in the cheap drugstore product. And there was no conditioner to be found, which was just as well, as it would probably be filled with chemicals and silicones. The Portellis had been a solid working-class family, most of their necessities bought with coupons at Wal-Mart, but her mother had worked as a hairdresser for most of Claire’s life and had taught her the importance of buying the highest-quality hair care that one could afford. She lathered and rinsed and towel-dried and none of it made her unease disappear.
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