Page 34 of Stone Vows

“Hi, Abby. I thought I’d save our patient from meatloaf night,” I say, holding up the bag of food.

“Is that so?” she says, giving me a look. A look of disapproval. A look that says I should be home sleeping. Or hanging out with the guys. Or paging Gina.

A look that says I’m crossing the line.

“I think I went a little overboard,” I tell her, nodding to the large Sal’s bag. “You want to join us?”

“No, thank you,” she says. “In my experience, three’s a crowd.” Then she looks into Elizabeth’s room with raised brows. “And with thosetwoin there, things are already looking a bit crowded, don’t you think, Dr. Stone?”

I lower my eyes to the floor and nod like a dog with my tail between my legs. What the hell was I thinking?

“Dr. Stone?” Elizabeth calls out from behind me.

I could pull out my pager and fake a 911 call. I could just walk over to her and hand her the food and walk back out. No harm. No foul. I could man up and tell her this was a mistake and doctors shouldn’t be bringing dinner to their patients. I could do all that.

But I don’t.

“See you tomorrow, Abby,” I say, crossing into Elizabeth’s room.

“That you will, Dr. Stone,” Abby says, before I close the door on her.

I don’t need anyone else looking in on me and judging me. I’m only helping out a patient. I’ve done that dozens of times before. I’ve even brought food to some. It’s not uncommon for interns or even second-years to sit and socialize with patients. It’s all part of the job. Just because thisonepatient happens to be my age, young and attractive, and, I don’t know, mysterious . . . just because she’s all those things doesn’t mean I can’t sit with her like I have some others. Right?

“Oh, my gosh. Is that what I think it is?” Elizabeth squeals.

I smile at her as I walk across the room. She holds out her arms, her hands beckoning me closer. Or beckoning thefoodcloser.

I laugh. “Patience,” I say.

“Screw patience,” she says with a giggle. “I’m starving. And maybe salivating.”

I roll her tray table over to the side of her bed and unload the bag, her eyes going wide at the smorgasbord I’ve brought her. I have Lo Mein, Chow Mein, Kung Pao chicken, shrimp and broccoli, white rice, fried rice, and of course, egg rolls.

She leans over as far as she can with a thirty-four-week belly and inhales the aromas coming from the little white boxes.

“Oh my God, I love you,” she says. “You are my favorite human being that is not currently residing inside my body.”

I laugh, mesmerized by her sheer joy over Chinese food.

I reach inside to pull something else from the bag. I get all serious. “I have a question to ask you,” I say. “And your answer will tell me a lot about you as a person.”

She sits upright and looks taken aback. It’s the same look she gave me when I brought up marriage in the ‘never’ game. I hold up some forks in one hand and chopsticks in the other. “Which do you want?”

The sigh that comes from her practically echoes throughout the room. The smile that follows lights it up.

“What self-respecting American would eat Chinese food with a fork?” she asks.

I toss the plastic forks over my shoulder, hearing them bounce off the floor as I hand her a pair of chopsticks. “My kind of woman,” I say.

She takes the chopsticks from me and when our hands touch, she blushes. I made her blush. Women don’t blush unless . . . hell, I don’t know.My kind of woman—did I actually just say that to her?

I look at her as she tears open the paper package and removes the chopsticks from it. She breaks them apart and rubs them together as I take in her appearance. Her chin-length hair is pulled back in a clip with wisps of tendrils falling around her ears. Her blue eyes stand out even more with the makeup that she’s used to highlight them. Her cheeks and her lips are pink, matching her nightgown.

Even her toenails are painted pink, as I see them peek out from under her bed sheet. Have they always been painted? Maybe I’ve just never noticed before.

This woman—she looks anything but homeless.

She looks dangerous.

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