Chapter 8

"I hate to admit it,"Zoe said, "But I don't really feel up to going to a restaurant."

"I'm not surprised in the least," Colt said, putting his hand at the small of her back to lead her across the street. "You did a great job with the makeup, by the way. I can hardly see any of the bruising. Maybe if you'd picked a different color shirt. Something that wasn't the same color as the bruise."

"Chewy picked out my shirt," she said. "Turns out he has opinions about fashion."

"He also has opinions about lunch," Colt said.

Chewy woofed and pulled the leash toward The Lampstand. There was outdoor seating, and several people had their dogs with them. Colt took the leash from Zoe just in case Chewy was thinking of doing a repeat of the previous week.

"Why don't we head to my place and I can make us lunch there?" Colt said. "I've got more patients to see in an hour, so it'll save some time."

Zoe looked at him curiously and he wondered what she was thinking because color flooded her cheeks.

"You cook?" she asked.

He took that as a yes to his lunch invitation, so he headed toward his clinic.

"Of course," he said. "I'm a thirty-five-year-old man. If I want to eat, I cook. My mother taught all of us our way around a kitchen. She said her job in life was to train up her sons so their wives wouldn't want to send them back to her."

Zoe chuckled at that. "Sounds reasonable to me. I never learned to cook. But truth be told I never wanted to learn. I'm terrified of kitchens."

"Maybe you just need someone to teach you," he said simply.

"I don't know," she said, looking up at him and laughing. "I think it's just that I don't want to learn. I can slap peanut butter on bread or make a bowl of cereal, but anything more complicated than that and I'll order takeout. There's something to be said for convenience when you work weird hours."

"You don't take time to eat when you're working?" he asked.

"When I'm in the middle of a story and things are really flowing I might not look up from the screen for twenty-four hours. I forget to eat and sleep for as long as my brain is functioning in the creative zone."

Colt grunted and said, "That sounds like my brother, Duncan, when he's in the middle of painting. And heaven help the person who interrupts him. The artistic temperament is real it turns out."

Zoe just hmmed and looked at him sideways.

"I take it you know what I'm talking about?" Colt asked.

"Let's just say if you see any artist at work I would recommend turning around and walking away as quickly and quietly as you can. Otherwise it's a health hazard."

"Good thing I'm a doctor, huh?"

He led her around to the back of the clinic and he unlocked the door. She was surprised to see a small elevator next to the stairs that led to the second floor.

"I'm not lazy," he said. "I promise. I had it installed when my nana was still alive. Nana was my dad's grandmother. I never knew when she was going to drop by for a visit, and I was afraid she'd fall on the stairs. She died just last year. She was a hundred and two. O'Haras are long lived."

"I'm sorry," Zoe said softly. "It sounds like you were close."

"Very," he said. "She was just as active and bullheaded at a hundred and two as she's always been. Her heart just couldn't keep up with the rest of her. She lived a great life, and she got to meet all of her great-grandkids and some of her great-great grandkids."

"I'd say that's pretty special," she said. "Your family is special. I hope you don't take that for granted."

Colt led her up the stairs and let Chewy sniff around his new environment. And then he unlocked the door of his apartment and stepped aside so she could go in first.

"Wow," she said.

"Why the surprise?" he asked.

"You made it sound like you lived in some college apartment above your clinic," she said. "This place is nice. And you have a view almost as good as mine."

He tried to see it through her eyes. He'd designed it so it would feel as if were part of the mountain—like a comfortable lodge—and he'd wanted it to have a masculine feel. After all, he was building it for himself. The ceiling was vaulted with heavy beams and there was a fireplace made of the river rock that was so prominent in the area. His furniture was brown leather and the rug on the floor a Navajo pattern. The kitchen was almost as large as the living area with commercial appliances and a big island for extra counter space.

"Hank and I renovated it after we finished the clinic," he said. "I'm too old to live in a college dorm and I like my comforts, especially where the kitchen is concerned. Have a seat. I've got some sample packs of some stronger stuff for that headache downstairs. I'll be right back. Make yourself at home."

By the time he got back upstairs she was taking the orange juice out of his refrigerator and pouring herself a glass. "Want any?"

"I'll just drink water," he said, handing her the pills. She looked at him questioningly and he said, "It's just a higher milligram ibuprofen. It won't make you sleepy or anything like that. But it should take the edge off pretty quickly. I can tell you're hurting. Have a seat and relax. I'll make us sandwiches."

Her lips twitched. "I thought you were cooking. Even I can make a sandwich."

"Not like one of my sandwiches," he said. "But I did promise you a cooking lesson. I can swing by your place tonight after my last patient."

"Is it an O'Hara trait to bulldoze their way into any situation?" she asked, taking a seat on the barstool.

"Pretty much," he said. "In a family as big as ours if you don't make your wishes and wants known, and at top volume, you have a tendency to get drowned out."

"Well, in that case you're welcome to come over for dinner," she said. "Chewy and I will happily be your test dummies."

Chewy barked and then jumped up on the couch and made himself at home.

"Should I turn the TV on for him?" Colt asked. "Or maybe get him a magazine?"

"I'm sure he's fine. Chewy is a day sleeper. We've had a lot of activity so he's probably tired."

"I hear you, buddy," Colt said. "Shopping is hard work. I went one time with my mother when she was renovating the barn and it took me a week to recover."

Colt took thin sliced roast beef and fresh bell peppers and onions from the fridge and then got out his frying pan. His movement around the kitchen was easy and familiar, and he loved the aroma as he started to fry the vegetables in olive oil.

"You have a well-stocked fridge," she said. "But I don't see any junk food."

"What kind of doctor would I be if I lived on junk food?" he asked, arching a brow. "In the spring and summer Laurel Valley has a weekly farmer's market. Fresh produce and vegetables. Fresh eggs and homemade bread. You should check it out."

"So it can rot in my fridge?" she asked. "This is why I eat takeout most of the time."

"It's a good thing you met me when you did," he said. "Your cholesterol will thank me later. Restaurant food is filled with salt and preservatives. It's hard to eat out and eat healthy."

"Says the man whose aunt owns the most popular restaurant in town," she retorted.

He grinned and flipped the veggies in the pan with a flick of his wrist. "The Lampstand is farm to table. Everything is fresh. It's the exception to the rule. You're not a vegetarian are you?"

"No, I'm a carnivore," she said.

He added the meat to the pan and then he went to mix up his special sauce and slice the bread.

"Raven said your mom was on Broadway," she said to fill the silence.

"A long time ago," Colt said. "My brothers and I grew up listening to show tunes. Used to drive my dad crazy. We'd be doing chores around the ranch and break into a chorus of Sweeney Todd. He always told us if we were going to sing while we worked we could at least have the decency to learn some Creedence Clearwater Revival or Rolling Stones. But somehow the show tunes stuck."

"You've got good memories of your childhood and parents," she said, watching him closely.

The way she said it sounded almost accusatory in tone, but he kept his voice light.

"Great memories," he said. "My parents are a solid unit. It was love at first sight for them and they've never looked back. They put down roots here just like my grandparents and great-grandparents, and they raised us all to believe if we worked hard enough we could accomplish whatever dreams we had. I take it you experienced something of the opposite. Are your parents still alive?"

He got out plates and arranged the bread before adding the sautéed vegetables and meat, and then he spooned the sauce on top.

"As far as I know," she said, accepting the plate and a bottle of water. "I'm not sure they'd tell me if something did happen to one of them. We don't communicate often."

"When was the last time you saw them?"

"I saw my father about six years ago," she said. "We happened to be in London at the same time. I was on a book tour and he was there for business, and we saw each other in the lobby of our hotel. We had no idea we were staying in the same place. He was with his mistress, of course, so that was fun."

He felt a pang to his heart for the little girl who'd grown up with parents like that.

"And your mother?"

"Three years ago. The was an article about my marriage in the New York Times and it gave her a bit of status, so she called me up and we had tea at The Ritz. She'd called the newspaper ahead of time so there were reporters taking photos during our visit. It was a very short visit, and I got stuck with the check."

"They sound like lovely people," Colt said dryly.

She laughed, much to his surprise. "Lovely they are not. Selfish and self-absorbed, yes. They care about money and status and what makes them feel good. Which is why they've kept the sham of their marriage all these years, but have always had various lovers."

"Writing was how you escaped?" he asked, knowing intuitively that it was true.

"Always," she said, finishing half of her sandwich. "Even as a young child I was writing stories about a prince who'd come rescue the poor orphan girl and then they'd live happily ever after. I went to an all-girls boarding school with very fierce nuns, so you can imagine how well those stories went over."

He chuckled, easily imagining her with ink-stained fingers clutching a diary, while using that sharp wit of hers on a bunch of nuns.

"I'm sure you were a delightful student," he said.

"Not in the slightest," she said, the sadness on her face replaced with the first real smile he'd seen. "I was a terrible student. I hated school. But I love learning. I don't even know if that makes sense. But I think it's what makes me such a good writer. I can research for days. I love history and I love learning about people and studying different crafts. I just didn't like learning the things that seemed unessential—like calculus and chemistry. I have yet to use either on trips to the grocery store or while investing in my retirement account."

"So did you successfully keep your stories from the nuns?" Colt asked, watching as Chewy unfolded himself from the couch and padded over to them now that the food was done. He was tall enough to reach the top of the island and he laid his head inches from Zoe's plate and the second half of her sandwich.

"Not at all," she said. "I spent a lot of time in detention. But then I went off to college and tasted my first freedom from my parents and the nuns, and I got to write whatever stories I wanted without consequence."

"Did you study creative writing or literature?"

"God, no," she said, giving in and handing Chewy the rest of the sandwich. He took it delicately and then wolfed it down in one bite. "Chewy, we've talked about this. You have to chew your food. You'll get a stomachache again."

Chewy whined and then licked a stray bell pepper that had gotten caught in his beard so it disappeared into his mouth. And then he went and lay back on the couch.

"I was an art major," Zoe said.

"What?" Colt laughed and said, "Are you serious?"

"You have to remember that college was an escape for me, and I hated a normal classroom environment. So I chose a major where I'd have the most freedom and the most creative fun, and I drew and painted and then I'd go back to my dorm and write until the early hours of the morning. My college years were some of the best of my life, plus my parents paid for it because it was an Ivy League school and it made them look good to tell their friends their daughter went to Harvard."

Colt choked on his water and coughed until he saw little black spots in his eyes. "You went to Harvard?" he finally gasped out.

"Yeah, but I didn't graduate," she said.

"Just getting in is impressive," he said.

"Yeah, well I started submitting my books my junior year and I ended up with an agent in one of the top firms in New York. I was just about to start my senior year when I signed a three-book deal for enough money to buy an apartment in Manhattan. So I withdrew from my classes and didn't look back. I sent my parents an email about my success but they didn't bother to reply. Not until two years later when the movie came out for the book I'd sold."

"I hope you're not offended," Colt said, his hand tightening around his bottle of water. "But I don't think I like your parents all that much."

"I've had years to get over it and a lot of therapy," she said. "They are who they are. And maybe I wouldn't be who I am if they hadn't been the way they are."

"I guess that's one way to look at it," he said. "Just a small detour in the path can change our entire destiny. So for whatever you've been through to get you here to this place, I'm grateful."

Her cheeks colored with embarrassment, and he noticed not for the first time she didn't know what to do when people complimented her. If it was about her work, she had a smile and a patent answer. But anything else a look came on her face as if she wasn't entirely sure she believed the one who gave her the compliment.

She cleared her throat and went to take another bite of her sandwich, and her cell phone buzzed. Her expression changed in an instant. Gone was the woman who was fierce of wit and gentle of spirit, who was a little shy and unsure of herself outside of her comfort zone. And in her place was a woman filled with nervous tension and anxiety, and an undercurrent of anger.

"Chewy and I should get going," she said. "I know you've got to get back to work."

He wasn't going to let her off the hook that easy. "Do me a favor would you? I've got to change into some clean scrubs. Can you put everything in the dishwasher for me?"

He didn't give her a chance to respond but headed off to his bedroom to change clothes. When he came back a few minutes later she was closing the dishwasher and Chewy was standing by the door with his leash.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm running a few minutes behind."

"Do I want to know why you needed fresh scrubs?" she asked.

"Probably not," he said, grinning. "Which is why I changed into the extra jeans and t-shirt I keep in the office before I walked over to see you. But let's just say that Dale Beamis isn't having to worry about that boil anymore."

"You're right," she said, grimacing. "I didn't want to know."

Colt walked them down the stairs and opened up the back door. He'd lock it behind them after they left since he kept extra medication in the back room and Doc Wallis had a break-in several years before of kids looking for drugs.

"My last patient is at five," he told her. "I'll stop by and get groceries and then head to your place. It'll probably be around six by the time I get there."

She looked at him hesitantly and he wondered if she was rethinking their date. Before he could think better of it, he leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. He let it linger, enjoying her gasp of surprise and then the slightest pressure as she kissed him back.

He pulled back slowly, pleased to see she was slightly off balance. "I'll see you tonight." And then he looked down at Chewy. "Make sure she gets home safe."