Page 18 of Hale Yes
I pick up my phone to make a note of it when I notice an email from Nicolette Bell. She replied that she’s happy to meet with Abigail on Friday and completely understands about the scheduling conflict. Feeling better, I dig into some research on the biochemist.
Damn, her credentials are impressive. Dual doctorate degrees in biochem and medicine. Did her residency in dermatology. Also has a strong background in microbiology. And she’s only thirty-three years old, a year older than me.
I also note with interest that she was the keynote speaker at the recent American Academy of Clinical Biochemistry conference. I’m a member of the Academy as well—it’s by invitation only—but I hardly ever go to conferences or meetings, only enough to obtain some continuing education hours. I’m not exactly the social type.
I locate tons of photos of Dr. Bell, all with her hair in a prim bun and with black-rimmed glasses over her green eyes. She’s pretty enough, though she appears to be very straitlaced. Not surprising. The woman has more degrees than a thermometer, so it’s doubtful she has a secret wild side. Not that I care about that. All I’m concerned with is that she’s qualified to do her job.
Removing my own glasses, I set them aside and turn off the lamp, hoping Dr. Nicolette Bell will fit in well with me and the rest of the team.
CHAPTER FOUR
He’s probably a bit of a dud
Nicolette
“Hey, I just landed,” I say to my friend Lehra when I step onto the concourse in the Houston airport on Friday at ten in the morning.
“Switch to FaceTime so I can see how gorgeous you look,” she says. Changing the call over, I see my adorable friend with her blonde curls and wide smile.
“Here I am in all my professional glory,” I say dryly.
“Let me see the fit,” she demands. “My husband wants to see too.” Lehra and Cruz Estrada recently got married, and she loves to say the H-word every chance she gets.
Cruz’s handsome face squeezes in beside hers. He’s Cuban, with brown skin and brilliant blue eyes, and he’s an absolute dreamboat. After her prior relationship, Lehra deserves a man who treats her like she’s everything, and Cruz is most definitely that man.
“Me too! I wanna see,” a familiar voice says in the background before our crazy friend Artie seats himself on Cruz’s lap with a flourish. Cruz just shakes his head good-naturedly as they all jockey for position. “Okay, show us.”
Stepping into an alcove, I pull the phone back and drift it down my body, showing off the new black suit I’d treated myself to for this interview.
“I’m just wearing the tennis shoes until I get in the car,” I inform them. “I have my black heels in my bag.”
“Oh my god, you look stunning. That lipstick is the perfect shade of red,” Lehra says, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin like a mom watching her firstborn head off to kindergarten.
“Agreed,” Artie chimes in. “It looks very professional… and not in a sex worker kind of way.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Well that’s good since I was definitely not going for the hooker vibes.”
“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead,” Cruz says with a small smile.
“Because she’s a fucking queen,” Artie adds with a snappy hand gesture.
I swear, these people are good for my soul.
Another voice I recognize hits my ear. “What can I get y’all today?”
“Oh, you’re at the Butterfly?” I ask, referring to the Butterfly Martini Bar in Manhattan.
Charmaine, our favorite server, somehow manages to wedge her face in among the others from behind their table. “Hey, girl. You headed to your interview? You look great.”
“Thanks, and yes. They’re sending a car for me.”
“Good. Kick some interview ass.” She bops Artie on the head with her butterfly-shaped notepad. “What do you want to drink, you little freak?”
I fight a grin as I await his answer. Artie always gets the same drink, but he…embellisheshis order each time.
“Give me a dirty martini.”
“How dirty?” Charmaine asks, playing along like she always does. Last time we were there, he said he wanted a martini that wasanal sex with a hobolevel of dirty.
