Page 4 of Careless Hope

“They both said, in their own uppity, full-of-themselves ways, that they would not be seeing Dr. Cressley’s daughter and will be needing to transfer their files to the family practice out in Bradford.”

I knew it was coming. Those were the fourth and fifth record transfer requests this week. A long, loud sigh escaped my chest.

“Screw them, honey. If they wanna drive the thirty miles all the way to Bradford, let ‘em.”

“It’s really quite a way to go just to get out of seeing me.”

Lisa snorted. “Yeah, but I don’t want you to worry. We’ve got a couple of new patients too for next week. And your books are still busier than most practices in the county. Trust me, this is an adjustment period.”

“Right.” I did my best to push my fears and frustration down. Or at least not show them to Lisa. “You said I have some time?”

“Yep. Nothing else until 1:30.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll grab a bite at Sutton’s bakery. Her cupcakes are about the only thing in this town that’s changed less than my reputation.”

So much for hiding my frustration from Lisa.

“Oh honey, nothin’ in this town has changed, including your reputation,” she said with a grin. “And that’s a good thing.”

Lisa had worked for my dad since I was in high school, and I knew that coming in to take over the practice would only be possible if she stayed. Luckily, she had no plans on leaving and continued to run the day to day operations like a tight ship.

“I don’t know about that. ‘Nerdy shy bookworm’ doesn’t exactly scream confidence.”

“Maybe not, but imagine the opposite. Poor Lila Hanson went from a goody-two-shoes preacher’s daughter to being known for working the street corner.”

“I think she just has an OnlyFans.” That’s what I’d heard, at least. And who was I to judge someone for making money with what the good Lord gave her? That’s what I’d done with the smarter-than-average brain he’d blessed me with.

“I don’t even want to know what that is,” Lisa said, “but the way I hear it, Kyle Miller sure was a fan of hers, and that’s why his wife just left him.” She crossed her arms across her ample bosom and lowered her voice. “And old Mr. Crawford, who is pushing seventy years, mind you, was caught by the sheriff getting a handy in his car from her.”

“Wait. Really?”

Lisa pursed her lips and nodded. I shuddered at the thought of Lila touching old Mr. Crawford’s penis. If it was even true.

Okay, maybe I was judging. A little. Lord, forgive me.

“You know, I haven’t been on a date in years. I can’t imagine what it’s like to keep up with all those men Lila must be charming.”

“It ain’t about charm, honey.”

“Still . . . ”

“You know what you need? A good romance novel. Book boyfriends are way better than the real life ones, anyway.”

I glanced down at the book she had placed on her desk. The cover featured an aesthetically-pleasing couple in the midst of a heated kiss. The shirtless man had his arms wrapped around the woman’s waist and the way his mouth covered hers, it looked like he was about to devour her.

Was that passion?

I don’t think I’d ever experienced a kiss like that. I hadn’t ever really read about it, either. I’d grown up reading the classics and fantasy, but most of my early adulthood was spent reading for school. Even now, I usually fell asleep each night reading medical journals. When was the last time I’d read for fun? And that book certainly looked fun. Maybe I should branch out.

“Do you have any recommendations?”

She smirked. “Oh, honey, I’ve got a whole darn spreadsheet.”

Ten minutes later, after perusing Lisa’s shockingly organized and color-coded romance book spreadsheet, I’d had the titles of a few books that piqued my interest. One was about a motorcycle club president who, according to Lisa, has a sexy encounter in the woods with a stranger and then when she runs away, he decides she’s his. Just like that. He needs to have her. The idea of suchraw possessiveness sent a tingle down my spine as I made my way to get a treat from Sutton.

The midday sun cast a honeyed glow through the tinted glass windows of Campfire Bakery and the bell above the door jingled as it closed behind me. These were little details I noticed here in Whittier Falls, but I couldn’t remember ever noticing stuff like that back in Chicago. Life was too fast—too full—there.

A girl was taking the order of a balding man at the counter and a young couple I didn’t recognized were sharing an oversized slice of carrot cake at a table by the window. I looked at the large glass display case, in awe of Sutton’s creations. Rows of decadent pastries, cupcakes, and cookies called out to me, each one more tempting than the last.

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