Page 8 of A Prescription to My Heart

But there’s another voice too—smooth, rich, amused.

Talia.

I stop midstride, my grip tightening on my briefcase. I’ve had a long day. Six hours of back-to-back surgeries, three emergency consults, and exactly one cup of coffee. I amnotin the mood for surprises.

Yet, as I round the patio, I find exactly that.

Talia is atmytable.

And my daughter is beside her, pink straw in her mouth, grinning like she’s known Talia for years. A pitcher of lemonade sits between them, sweating in the late afternoon heat. Two glasses.

Like this isnormal.

I drop my briefcase on the patio with a sharp thud.

Marigold turns, her eyes lighting up. “Daddy!”

The delighted cry makes Talia glance up, but she doesn’t jolt, doesn’t look embarrassed or apologetic. If anything, she looksamused.

“Dr. Calloway,” she says, tilting her glass toward me. “Rough day?”

I don’t answer immediately. I’m too busy staring atmydaughter, inmybackyard, laughing. I drop my keys on the table with a little more force than necessary.

“Apparently,” I snap.

Marigold hops down, rushing to me. I crouch, catching her as she collides into my chest. Her little arms wrap around my neck, her scent—vanilla and something sugary from her favorite bubble bath soap—filling my nose.

“You’re late,” she says, pulling back with a pout. “You missed lemonade.”

I glance at the table, at the half-empty pitcher sweating in the heat. “You made lemonade?”

Talia taps her glass. “We did. She’s got an excellent stirring technique.”

Marigold giggles. “I only spilled a little bit.”

I arch a brow. “Definea little bit.”

She bites her lip, clearly debating whether to confess.

Talia beats her to it. “There was a minor flood situation. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

I exhale slowly, setting Marigold down. “So, now you’re hosting lemonade parties in my backyard and talking to strangers?”

She frowns. “But, Daddy—”

“Marigold,” I say, voice low, measured. “Inside.”

Marigold huffs, turning away from me. She doesn’t argue, but does linger for a second, shooting Talia a hesitant glance before walking inside.

I wait until the door clicks shut before turning to Talia.

She takes a slow sip of lemonade, watching me over the rim of her glass.

“What are you doing here?” My voice is sharper than I intend, but I don’t care. “Where is the nanny?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Nice to see you too.”

I don’t respond. I want answers.

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