It was pretty crowded; maybe this wasn’t such a good idea today. I’d call when I got back—
“May I help you?” A voice coated in southern charm pierced through my waffling, and I approached the desk. And saw quite possibly the brightest polyester pantsuit ever created. An almost electrically charged aquamarine blue, it was something Sally O’Malley would kick—and streeetch—and kick to get her hands on. An actual beehive, at least four inches of teased and twirled brunette fluff, was stacked on top of her head, a head that had eyelids full of an iridescent blue eye shadow almost exactly the same shade as the pantsuit. Stripes of what can only be called rouge (I’d blush to call it blush) accented plump cheeks, pointing down to a cherry-red glossy mouth curved in a welcoming smile. And on her ample bosom? A rhinestone-bedazzled name tag proclaiming her to be Marge.
“Hi there, sugar, step right up. I don’t bite,” she cooed.
A disembodied voice from behind a row of filing cabinets shouted, “That’s not true!”
“Shush!” she ordered, then waved me forward. “You pay him no attention, sweetheart. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Well, I don’t have an appointment, but—”
“Or an animal,” she said, looking over the counter to peer down and make sure that I did in fact not have a pet. She couldn’t be more than five feet tall, so it was quite a lot for her to lean, and as she did, I marveled at the beehive. It didn’t move, not even when she was half upside down. She righted herself, then looked at me expectantly, still with the friendliest smile I’d ever seen.
“No, ma’am, no pet. I wanted to see if Dr. Campbell might be available?”
“Which one did you want? What is this about?” she asked.
“My friend Lou mentioned that Dr. Campbell would be a good person to talk to about pit bulls. Or rather, rescuing them. I probably should have called—”
“Wait, Lou. You mean Lou Fiorello?” she asked.
“Yes, Lou Fiorello mentioned that Dr. Campbell would be a good person to speak to about a shelter for rescued pit bulls in the area,” I finished, my pageant training taking over and slowing down my speech so I enunciated each word. My tummy had automatically pulled in as well.
She giggled. “Oh yes. Lou called this morning.” She sighed dreamily and an actual blush began to bloom around the rouge stripes. Interesting. “So you’re Chloe, right?” she asked, and I nodded. “Lou told me he was sending some pretty young thing in here to talk to the doc—something about picking his brains about opening up a gang here in town?”
“Well, kind of, yes. Is he in? It looks really busy; I can come back.”
Marge got a different look in her eye—one that appeared much more like problem solving than dream weaving.
“It’s busy, but I know he’ll be glad to meet you. Why don’t you come with me, sugar, and we’ll get you all fixed up. Amy, take over the desk for a moment, won’t you?” Marge called.
As a young woman in scrubs took her place, Marge led me through the waiting room and down a corridor filled with exam rooms.
“You just go right on in here to exam room six and I’ll send the doctor in to see you, okay? Here’s some pamphlets about heartworms while you wait; make yourself comfortable,” she cooed, her voice literally dripping Spanish moss and tall lemonade.
Spying a stool in the corner, I took a perch, waiting for Dr. Campbell. And I did in fact do my assigned reading. I was so engrossed that when the door opened, it took me a second to register who had just come in the room.
Blue-eyed guy with the Prince Harry hair.
Well, hello.
His gaze was down on his clipboard and medical charts, and he came through the door saying, “Okay Mrs. Winkle, it says here that our pal Stanley swallowed an entire roll of quarters. Has he passed them yet?”
When he looked up at me and I caught the full force of those ice-blue eyes, the impact was a thousand times more lethal than the reflection in the bar mirror.
Gingers are my kryptonite. Always have been, always will be. Show me a hot redheaded guy and my pulse will start a’racing. And this guy? At least six feet three, sun-kissed skin, freckles scattered across his nose, his hair swept back from his chiseled features. Cheekbones that could cut glass. And those eyes, currently giving me the three-second inventory. I drew myself up to my full seated height and took another two seconds to catalog the strong forearms, also splashed with a few freckles, the long and tapered fingers holding the charts. Oh yes, a very good-looking man. And did I mention the scrubs? Oh my yes, he was all wrapped up in dark navy blue surgical scrubs, which accented the eyes magnificently. I finished my perusal, and met those eyes on the return trip.
“You’re not Mrs. Winkle,” he said, one corner of his mouth turning up, then looking behind him to make sure he came into the right room. That’s when I noticed the name tag. Dr. Lucas Campbell.