Page 29 of Set on You

Pixie Woman glares at us, lips pursed. “This place is a zoo. Run by incompetent floozies.” She’s hoping Grandma and I will join her on the soapbox and air our grievances too.

I flash her a sympathetic smile of solidarity in an effort to ensure our safety. Her scowl and twitchy eye tell me she’s a loose cannon, ready to cause bodily harm to anyone who dares step in her way. I turn back to Grandma. “I really don’t mind taking you home. It would save Martin the trip.”

She shakes her head again, catching the September 2019edition ofOprahmagazine before it slips off her lap. “He wants to bring me to the craft store afterward to pick up that wool—”

The little bell hanging above the entrance behind us chimes, alerting the receptionist that someone has entered. The scowl all but disappears from Pixie Woman’s face. When I dare look at who has turned her into a swooning teenage girl at a One Direction concert, I meet a familiar pair of green eyes.

“Oh. Hey, Crystal.” Scott waves. He’s wearing a casual navy-blue T-shirt that readsBoston Fire Departmentin bold letters. His jeans hug him so perfectly that I’m convinced mere mortal eyes aren’t worthy of this view.

Grandma Flo beams. If I didn’t already know she was seventy-seven years old, I wouldn’t believe it after witnessing her spring out of her seat like a jack-in-the-box to pull him into the throes of her embrace. I can’t help but smile at how massive he is compared to her tiny five-foot-two frame. “Scotty, thank you so much for coming.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, casting an accusatory glare at a mischievous-looking Flo.

Scott’s gaze flickers to Grandma Flo as he unknowingly sits next to Pixie Woman, who is shamelessly gawking at him like he’s a Magnum ice cream bar. “You called yesterday and said you’d need someone to take you home from the clinic.”

“Oh, did I?” Grandma Flo places her palm on her cheek.

I nearly crack my neck whipping my head in her direction. “I thought Martin was picking you up?”

She shrugs, unable to stop grinning. Her acting skills are appalling. “You know me, I get a little mixed up in my old age,” shesays, as if she isn’t of sound mind and doesn’t know the answers to eighty percent of the clues onJeopardy!

“Florence McCarthy,” Brandy, the nurse, calls from the doorway leading to the examination rooms.

Grandma clasps her hands and stands, gleefully exiting the awkward situation that is entirely of her own making.

I roll my eyes, making a concerted effort not to give her a piece of my mind ten seconds before she’s about to undergo a cholesterol and heart test. “Want me to come in with you?”

She nods, glancing at a very confused Scott. “Both of you should come. It could take a while.”

The nurse leads us down the stark white hallway into an equally sterile examination room.

I can tell by the furrow of Scott’s brow that he hadn’t the slightest idea about this little “run-in” Grandma Flo orchestrated. I feel guilty she’s wasted his time. I wonder if he’s had to rearrange his entire schedule to drive in from downtown. It also feels awkward, given I turned him down via text only yesterday.

Brandy gets Grandma set up in the chair and begins to roll up her sleeve. “Remember what I told you last time? We’re going to do some routine bloodwork to check those cholesterol levels.”

Scott and I stand near the wall side by side as Grandma and Brandy chat about this morning’s episode ofLive with Kelly and Ryan.When his arm nearly grazes mine, I internally scream, unable to still my fidgeting. I keep bouncing back and forth between adjusting my shirt and my hair, and picking my nails to stubs, all of which do little to dull my anxiety. Must he stand so close to me? Is personal space a foreign concept to him?

My body is in turmoil, unable to decide what it wants to do. Part of me is dying to get half an inch closer, to feel even just a fraction of the electricity of our changing room encounter. But I’m still bothered. Just because Scott Ritchie turned out not to be a vicious cheater doesn’t take away the fact that I don’t do hookups anymore, especially not with my gym nemesis—a guy who waltzes around the gym like he’s the second coming of Christ himself. That kind of arrogance doesn’t sit well with me.

“I can’t believe her,” I mutter in displeasure.

Scott chuckles, arms folded against his broad chest. “She thinks she’s so smooth.”

“Feel free to leave if you want. I can just bring her home.”

He shakes his head, meeting my gaze. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Well, there’s no point in both of us hanging around.” Realistically, him leaving is better for the both of us, as well as the state of my makeup, which is melting off my face like the Wicked Witch of the West when doused with water.

His expression remains unbothered. In fact, his lips are curled up ever so slightly. I think he might be enjoying this. That makes one of us, at least. I seriously wish I’d doubled up on the deodorant this morning. I try to sneak a look at my armpits, but I’m directly in Scott’s peripherals. There’s no way to do this discreetly.

We’re standing in identical crossed-arm poses, listening to Grandma rattle off her diet and exercise routine over the past month.

Scott’s easy smile doesn’t leave his face. Until Brandy brings out the needles. When she wraps the little rubber band just above Grandma’s elbow, Scott sucks in a deep breath, loud enough forme to hear. As Brandy raises the needle, he immediately sways, turning to face me. His complexion has turned unusually pale. In fact, it’s ghostly white.

“You alright?” I ask, elbowing him in the ribs.

He nods, averting his gaze upward as she begins to insert the needle. “I, uh, just really hate needles.”

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