“It’s not that, I just—”
“And actually, caring for patients is my job,” he continued huffily. “Although you’d be amazed how helpful it is when they do what I tell them. To take a wild example, when I’ve wrangled an appointment with one of the most respected surgeons in Washington, it’s helpful when my patients bother to show up. As opposed to, say, embarrassing me, ignoring my medical advice, and carrying on in a way that is, frankly, reckless.”
I held up my hands. “Touché.”
“To answer your original question, I don’t see patients on Fridays. It’s my writing day. I don’t see patients after lunch on Thursdays, either. But thanks for your concern about my practice.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry.”
He stepped back, crossed his arms on his chest, and regarded me with an expression that was half-angry, half-sheepish. “Another thing I don’t usually do is fly around the country chasing down disobedient patients. But you . . . you sounded like you were in trouble. I feel responsible.”
“Responsible? Why? What does all this—”
“I screwed up. I told you to slap on a wrist brace and you’d be fine. I should have taken your wrist pain more seriously, should have ordered an MRI months ago. I wouldn’t blame you if you sued me for mal-practice. But I’m trying to put things right, so here I am.”
“So here you are.”
We stood facing each other awkwardly. Did he expect me to thank him? To reach out and shake his hand? Lean in for an embrace? This encounter was clearly beyond the remit of the typical doctor-patient relationship. But what otherwise was our relationship? Unspoken words hung in the air.
“Hungry?”
“God, yes,” I said, grateful to have the silence broken. And I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since Ethan Sinclare had bought me breakfast this morning. “I could do with a drink, too.”
He glanced around. “Where’s the bar?”
“I’m not actually sure. There’s a restaurant upstairs, but . . . you know, I don’t think I’ve eaten anywhere besides this hotel in three days. I keep ordering room service. Would you mind if we went out?”
It didn’t take long for the concierge to size us up. He recommended two places nearby; one was high-end sushi and the other, a steak house. He probably got a cut for every reservation he steered their way. When I insisted we didn’t need fancy, that my primary concern was an icy pitcher of margaritas, he relented and directed us to a place called the Georgia Grille.
“Order the jalape?o poppers,” he said. “Trust me on this.”
Fifteen minutes later, it seemed that trusting him might have been a mistake.
The Georgia Grille was one of the least inviting restaurants I’d ever seen. Set in the back corner of a bland strip mall, it was squashed between a dry cleaner’s and the parking lot. Neon letters spelled out the name across a grimy stucco wall. You couldn’t see inside; there were no windows. No way to tell if the place was even open.
“This can’t be right,” I said, checking the piece of paper where the concierge had scribbled the name. “What was he thinking? It looks awful.”
“It does,” agreed Will. “If it’s as bad inside as out here, let’s maybe try that steak house after all.”
He held open the door; we stood squinting on the threshold. Once our eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, we decided to stay. The place was packed. An old wormwood bar slouched across one wall. The walls were painted tawny butterscotch, and candles glowed on every surface. The scents of roasted pork and fresh tortillas hung in the air. It was hard to imagine a starker contrast with the dingy exterior.
We slid onto two seats at the bar. I peeled off my jacket and looked around.
“Y’all look like you wouldn’t say no to a couple of margaritas.” The bartender peered at us.
“You read my mind.”
“Y’all plannin’ to eat, too? Want to look at a menu or just let me tell you what’s good?” He salted the rims of two glasses. “Lobster enchilada’s the best thing on the menu.”
“Sold,” said Will.
“I should clarify. It’s the best thing on the menu unless it’s a Thursday night. Which I believe you’ll find it is. In which case, what you want is the cowboy shrimp special.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not a big shrimp eater.”
“Fat, juicy babies grilled up on a bed of grits, with bacon and white beans and spinach—”
“I take it back. You had me at bacon.”
“Smart girl.”
“Oh, and the jalape?o—what was it we’re supposed to ask for?” I looked at Will. “The fritters?”
“The poppers.” The bartender set down our drinks. “That went without saying.”
I was beginning to feel better. Funny how a large margarita and the prospect of a good meal can do that. I downed my drink in two long swallows and signaled for another.
Will raised his eyebrows. “I guess you needed that.”
“Like I said. It’s been a hell of a day.”
“Just so long as you stay away from the rye. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy having to throw you over my shoulder and carry you home.”
I pretended to scowl. Will was tall and broad-shouldered; he would have no trouble slinging me over his shoulder and carting me off. Tonight he looked annoyingly good. He wore a camel-colored cashmere sweater and boot-cut Levi’s.
“May I ask you a personal question?” I asked.
“Uh, sure. Shoot.”
“Have you ever owned a pair of black, skinny jeans?”
“Skinny jeans? You mean like mall-rat teenage girls wear?”
I laughed. “I guess so.”
“Umm, no. I’m afraid that’s a glaring omission from my wardrobe. Why?”