Page 67 of If All Else Sails
Wyatt shrugs. “Not really. Sometimes biographies or history books.”
“I thought you said you were into wolf-shifter romances,” I tease.
“Only during Halloween.”
“And then you switch to Hallmark-style Christmas romances in December?”
“Nah. I prefer abominable snowman rom-coms during winter.”
I’m still laughing over this minutes later. Who knew Wyatt had wit buried under thick layers of grump? I’ve seen the occasional signs of life from him this week, though most don’t count since they came from Fever Wyatt. Still. My strongly held assumptions about who he is are crumbling like dust. Or— melting like romantic abominable snowmen.
It’s like the bargain I struck with him helped him find his will to live.
Whatever the reason, I’m glad.
I head to the desk to return my books, and I lose him in the stacks. We’re not likely to cross paths if he’s looking for biographies or books on history. To appease Toni, I do pick up a few romance novels to go along with my all-female author list and a women’s fiction beach read about sailing.
I’m passing the children’s area when I hear a deep, familiar voice. Wyatt is standing at the help desk, talking to a woman wearing a red hat with a colorful feather sticking out of the top. Based on her clothing and the children gathered around the rug, she’s probably about to start story time.
“I don’t know the name,” Wyatt is saying, “but it’s about a crocodile with a toothache.”
Chapter16
Sayonara, Dr. Dimples
Wyatt
“When Wyatt mentioned his injury, I thought he was talking about a person.” Josie grins from her perch on a stool near where my physical therapist stretches my bare foot. “And I wondered,Who is this Liz Frank, and why is she so mean?”
Dr. Parminder laughs, louder than he needs to, in my opinion. Not that Josie isn’t funny. Or charming. She’s both.
And yeah, I get it. I have the stupidest injury known to man with the absolute dumbest name.
But the PT is overdoing it, and it’s no secret why. He almost did a double take when I walked in today with Josie, and he hasn’t stopped smiling at her since. With dimples. Because, of course, my physical therapist has dimples.
He also insists we call him doctor, though I’m pretty sure even if he has a doctorate, you don’t usually refer to physical therapists asdoctor. Unless they insist, like Dr. Dimples did.
I’m also pretty sure Josie knows this too. Because when heintroduced himself, smiling with those stupid dimples as he said, “You can call meDr.Parminder,” her eyes flew to mine.
I swear, I could see the knowledge on her face. Like,Do you believe this guy?
If it bothers her, though, she’s not showing it now.
I can’t tell whether Josie is into his flirtations or just being friendly, but they’ve been chatting almost nonstop. It’s been thirty minutes, though it feels like a whole month of my life has been drained away in this room.
That’s what happens when you become the third wheel at your own physical therapy appointment, all while having your foot and ankle manipulated into strange and mostly uncomfortable positions.
I grunt, and Dr. Parminder’s eyes snap up to mine. “Too much?” he asks.
“It’s fine.”
I hate physical limitations of any kind. It makes me furious each morning when I slide the boot on my foot. Every step with crutches makes me want to set something on fire.
It’s a total cliché, but my injury really did make me realize how much I took for granted, how much I wasn’t grateful for simple things. Like walking unassisted. Like not seeing pity in people’s eyes or having to answer the question “So, when do you think you’ll return to hockey?”
My slide into wallowing at the cottage—because I can call a spade a spade and I was totally wallowing—had very little to do with not wanting to get better and everything to do with other issues I’m still not ready to confront.
It’s like this injury shut down my trajectory and opened the floodgates of all the worries and concerns and wounds I’ve stuffed down over the years.
