Page 69 of Bad Blood

“Don’t forget the crunchy strips.”

“Got it.” I hang up before she can make her escape. “July,” I say, not ready for our time together to end. I want to cement us in this moment.

“What?” She stops at the door, and I get a frown of confusion.

“I was in a calendar. The month of July. Maybe that’s why you recognize me.”

“Like a firefighter calendar?” Bits of laughter break each word. She takes a long draw of her tea.

“But with less clothes.”

“July. Wow. Okay. Thanks again.” The corner of her mouth twerks up, my new favorite shade spreading across her cheeks.

There’s something about a woman deep in thought.

Could be trouble.

Could be fun.

How her face scrunches in disapproval makes me curious about which one it is.

She doesn’t give me time to figure it out before she pushes against the door. “Have a good night.”

“It was nice running into you, Dr. Fields. Let me know when you figure it out.”

She gives me a grin and a dismissive nod.

My heart seizes.

“I’d let you call me Brighton.” She juts out her chin. “But only friends and family call me that.”

Her play on my words stings, and I chuckle. “Got it. And what do your enemies call you?”

“Dangerous.” She doesn’t skip a beat.

“Interesting. I don’t find anything about you to be dangerous.” I stop beside her at the door and reach forward, trying to brush a loose strand of hair out of her face.

She leans away from my touch, her brow creasing as she goes rigid. The tension from earlier returns. Her knuckles turn a shade of white as she tightens her fist on the plastic bag, taking a step through the open door. “You don’t know me.”

“Yet.”

Confusion would be an excellent way to describe her expression.

It’s there, and it’s gone.

She replaces it with hesitancy. And curiosity.

“Is that a threat?” She lifts her drink to her mouth, sucking on the straw, her eyes softening as they meet mine.

“I’d like to think of it as a promise,” I say, taking her words as a challenge. I wasn’t expecting this side of her, and I enjoy watching her squirm.

She contemplates what this could imply, pulling another sip from the straw. “And what if I’m not interested?”

“No one said you had that option.”

She gurgles and chokes on her tea, her eyes the size of golf balls. She hunches over, trying to catch her breath. She sets her cup and bagged plastic container on the floor.

My panic sets in as I glance around the restaurant. Everyone’s eyes are on us. I pat her on the back as she coughs. And coughs. And coughs.

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