Page 24 of Bad Blood

An honest-to-god chill runs down my spine at the shadow that crosses her face.

People cannot read minds.

My voice falters, “I’m sorry, I, um . . .” I’m at a loss for words. That’s a first. “What?”

She closes her eyes and lets out a slow, audible breath.

My lip quirks, and I do my best to school it back into place.

She gestures toward her lab coat, and my eyes follow—across the pocket is Dr. B. Fields—how did I miss it?

“Patience—it’s a virtue. Thanks for the vote of confidence, by the way.” She continues to peruse the forms as her brow creases in confusion. “D, as in D-E-E? Is that what you prefer to be called?”

She takes a form and hands it to me. It’s a signed waiver from Liam permitting me, D. Blakely, to have all access to his charts and any information about his treatment. One he signed at Dr. Gibbons’ office. I read over the fine print, ignoring most of it until I make it to the bottom of the page, and a few words jump out at me.

Next. Of. Kin.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

I tear my eyes from the form and find her messing with her wild hair. She pulls the elastic out, sticks it between her teeth, and combs through the strands with her fingers. I daydream about wrapping my fist through the wavy tendrils and—fuck me.

No, Dax. Off-limits. Here. For. Liam.

I need to stop trying to deal with my problems and insecurities by burying myself in women. Liam’s mentioned this in the past. And Bree did so in a round-a-bout way. And they’re right. Why am I such a dick?

When she catches me watching, she clears her throat. With one hand holding her hair in a ponytail and the other pointing at the sheet of paper in front of me, she mumbles past the elastic band in her mouth, “I need a signature there.”

She finishes adjusting her ponytail and offers me the pen from off the counter.

“No,” I say, recovering my place in the conversation as I slide the paper back to her after signing.

Confusion spreads across her face. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t go by Dee. It’s D as in D-A-X, but only friends and family call me that.” I try to make this come across as friendly, but it errs dangerously close to flirting. And I should definitely not be flirting with her.

Her look says, “Wipe that smirk off your face, you’re not that cute,” but the tiniest shred of a grin hides in the corner of her mouth.

She leans against the counter opposite me and crosses her arms over her chest, giving me a tight-lipped smile. “Good to know, Mr. Blakely.”

The friction is palpable between us. I can appreciate her need to be professional, but I haven’t given her any reason to be cold.

She doesn’t know what you’re thinking. Chill.

Her defenses are up, and I’m not sure what I did to put her on edge. I smile at her, trying to reconcile, but my efforts are useless.

I can only assume it’s difficult for a woman who looks like this to be taken seriously in this profession. But I’m not the bad guy here. It’s not like I’m here to mar her persona of perfection and make her dirty. She doesn’t know I objectified her, and it’s not like I don’t know what it feels like.

I’m here for answers. Nothing else. I go to inform her of this when I get a scowl of annoyance.

She grabs the form before clearing her throat and making her tone neutral. “All that persistence, and now we’re dawdling. I’m busy, and I’m running late. You had some questions, right?”

8

First Impressions

Brighton

Tuesday, May 9 th

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