Page 30 of Stone Vows

“How I passed my intern exams. I used to sit here on this bench every chance I got to study for them.”

She laughs. “How did a plant that makes you sleepy help you pass your tests?”

“You said yourself it helps with stress.”

“By making you sleepy,” she says with an eye roll.

“Oh, well whatever it was, it worked because I rocked my exams.”

She smiles. “I can see that about you. You look like you are very dedicated to becoming a great doctor. I’ll bet you’ll be one of the best male obstetricians at this hospital.”

I guffaw loudly. “Oh, hell, no. While I want to learn everything I can about delivering babies, I’ve no intention of doing it for my career. And thank God for that because my attending hates me, or rather, she hates my father.”

She shakes her head. “What? Why does she hate your dad, and why are you working on the OB floor if you aren’t going to be an obstetrician?”

“First, my dad slept with my attending—over thirty years ago, mind you. Then he left her for my mother. Guess she holds a long damn grudge. Second, my specialty is emergency medicine. The first time you came to the hospital, I was on an ER rotation. That is where I’ll spend more than half of this year. When you came back, earlier this week, I was starting my OB rotation where I’ll be for the next several weeks. I’ll also do rotations in pediatric intensive care, trauma, and critical care.”

“So, you’ll only be babysitting me for a few weeks?” She sighs and looks down at the sidewalk, biting the nail of her pinky finger.

“Three and a half more weeks, to be exact. I think you’ll more than likely deliver before I’m done with my rotation. Thirty-seven weeks is when we’ll schedule you for a C-section if it doesn’t happen before then.”

She rubs her belly protectively. “I hope it doesn’t happen before then. He or she needs more time in there.”

“He or she is getting the very best care possible, Elizabeth. Don’t you worry.”

I reach over and take the cups of Jell-O from her. “I believe it’s still my turn,” I say, handing her one of the spoons.

She looks at me wearily, with trepidation. I know she thinks I’m going to ask her the same question we ended on yesterday.

“So, Ms. Smith, never have I ever read a romance novel. And if you knew who my friends were, that might surprise you, because one of them is an author.”

Elizabeth picks up the purple container. “I’m only taking one bite, even though I’ve read about a thousand of them. What’s your friend’s name? Has she written anything good?”

“She’s pretty successful,” I say. “Some of her books have been made into movies. Her name is Baylor McBride, but she writes under the name Baylor Mitchell. My sister-in-law, Charlie, was practically raised with her and her two sisters.”

She swallows her Jell-O before her jaw hits her lap. “Shut up!” she says. “You know Baylor Mitchell?”

“You’ve heard of her?”

“Heard of her? I have several signed copies of her books.” She frowns. “Well, I used to. But, yes, she’s one of my favorite authors. Wait . . .” She looks at me all wide-eyed before bouncing around in her chair. “Don’t tell me she’s one of the sisters you were telling me about who you wanted to come visit me.”

I nod in amusement at her giddiness.

“No way.” She looks down at her robe, smoothing it onto her legs. “I mean, I don’t have any clothes. I can’t meet her. Oh, my God, Kyle. Really?”

I laugh. “Yes, really. And believe me when I tell you she won’t give a shit what you wear, Elizabeth.” I hold up my unused spoon. “Now, come on, it’s your turn.”

She tries to tamp down her ear-to-ear smile but doesn’t do a very good job of it. Damn, I love pleasing this woman.

“Um . . .” She bites down on her lower lip in thought. And, Christ Almighty, if watching her do that doesn’t do something to me. “Never have I ever written my name in the snow with pee,” she says.

I laugh, grabbing the purple Jell-O cup. “That was way too easy,” I say, before taking a bite. Then I take my turn. “Never have I ever eaten oysters.”

She looks like she swallowed a bug before she picks up the red cup and takes a bite.

“Not an oyster fan?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I never developed a taste for them, not even after having them dozens of times.”

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