Page 25 of Physical Therapy

FOURTEEN

Edith

The best memories come from ideas executed on a whim. Or so I’m told.

I’ve never been the type to do anything on an impulse. I have set days for cleaning set parts of my house. I follow the same schedule every week for when I do my shopping, exercise, and what days I allow myself a treat.

Pre-planning equals stability. And stability is the antidote to chaos.

I like my days in order. I like the security.

Boe is the epitome of chaos.

A plastic bag of take-out in one hand, a bottle of whiskey in the other, I arrive on his floor. If the swirling pattern in the carpet and abstract artworks don’t make me feel like a hooker in a hotel, then the revealing attire beneath my overcoat sure does.

I knock on his door with the side of my high heel, my stomach twisting in knots from both hunger and nerves. Quite the combination, I tell you.

“Forty-five, Edith,” the smartass answers as he opens the door. “Your punctuality is slipping.”

“Just let me in.” I give him a wan smile and nudge past to set the heavy bag down on his kitchen counter.

Boe appears relaxed in grey sweatpants and a Black Sabbath T-shirt, yet the lack of spirit in his eyes reveals the truth. He’s drained, mentally. Tired and worn down after an emotional day.

Most people underestimate the tax a day stuck in your head can take. Physical exhaustion is a legitimate side effect of mental fatigue.

“I bought four options, so hopefully I have one of your preferred dishes.”

His gaze roams the length of me, lingering on my bare legs. “I’m certain you will.”

“How are you?” I busy myself retrieving plates and utensils for us both.

He leans his elbows on the counter island, watching me move around the space. “I’ve had better days.”

His admission surprises me somewhat. We’re already so far from the defensive man I first met. “I figured you could use a pick me up.”

Boe hides his amusement behind linked hands. “How did you know I wouldn’t have company?”

I set the knives and forks down beside him, and then unpack the meals. “Because if you did, I imagine I would have had some lewd invitation to a threesome or the like.”

He chuckles, settling on one of the two stools. “You do know me, Dr. Potts.”

“Edith, please.” Otherwise, things will feel seriously strange when I drop this coat.

“Edith, then.” He reaches for one of the take out dishes.

I slide it from his reach. “We can eat later. I’ll pop these in the oven to keep warm.”

“I don’t know about you,” Boe says, sliding from the stool, “but I’m pretty damn hungry.” He rounds the counter, stalking me as I shove the polystyrene containers onto the oven rack.

“Well, I’m not.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Edith.” Firm hands settle on the sides of my ass while I bend to figure out the damn heat settings. “You came here with dinner.”

“I did.” That should do.

“Then why aren’t we eating?”

I straighten in his hold, wedged between Boe and the only excuse I could think of to get myself over here without giving it all away. “Because—” I unclasp the top button of my coat. “—I’m not hungry yet.”

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