Page 9 of So Wrong It's Right

Iescort Dr. Andersonto the waiting car, reassuring her that everything will be fine.

Though I have some serious doubts that Stella can handle putting stamps on envelopes efficiently, much less run the office on her own.

She is so...quirky. As a rule, I don’t like quirky. I never know how to deal with people like her. I prefer women who are serious and don’t draw unnecessary attention. Even in high school, I didn’t have patience for the girls who smacked their gum and giggled. I’ve always been more attracted to the quiet ones who studied hard...and who most of the time were not interested in dating high school boys who got picked on by the jocks any more than the gum-smackers were. I was bullied for many years.

Luckily, I found an ally in an unlikely source—my PE teacher.

Rather than single me out for not being athletic, Mr. Smith brought me into his office and told me some facts of life. Fact one: Physical education was a required course that carried a letter grade. A letter grade that could affect my transcripts. Fact two: scrawny boys get more swirlies than muscular boys. Fact three: Muscular boys get more girls than scrawny boys do. Fact four: Training the body is not just a physical endeavor—the mind is a huge component to fitness. And a healthy body learns better and faster. Fact five: Muscular boys get more girls than scrawny boys do—in case I hadn’t heard that one the first time.

Together, Mr. Smith and I developed a training program that brought up my PE grade, kept me off the bully radar, really did improve my mental health, and sadly, didn’t do as much for my love life as I’d hoped. I got more attention from the giggly girls—but those quiet ones eluded me until college.

And then...well, that hadn’t worked out well, either. But I still enjoy being fit.

In any case, Stella Stone is definitely a gum-smacking giggler.

Which confuses me when I think of the way my body reacted to her abundant curves and that intoxicating cherry scent of her hair or perfume, or probably both. She is nothing like my usual type, and the idea of dating her is ludicrous, no matter what pheromones she’s putting out.

I don’t have to date her, but I do have to work with her, and she is going to drive me crazy with all that color and sparkle and the way she talks in circles. My temples throb in agitation and I’ve barely been in the same room with her this morning.

Perhaps it is the other throbbing that is causing my agitation

After the morning surgeries, Carlita, the vet tech, leaves for lunch and I’m hoping Stella will go, too. I open the fridge in the break room to grab the salad Dr. Anderson told me was in there for me.

There must be twenty or thirty salads...and all of them in Mason jars.

What the hell? Who cans salad?

“Oh, hi,” comes a voice from behind me.

Of course.

Stella cans salad. Of course she does.

“Staying for lunch?” she asks as she reaches around me to grab a jar. A jar of salad. “There are three kinds this week. Each one is labeled. I make them all on Sundays. There are always extra in case someone stays late for emergencies.” She keeps rambling as she pulls out a bowl. “I get the recipes on Pinterest. Anyway, if I didn’t have something ready to eat in there, Doc would starve or exist on Cheetos, so I try to keep her stocked on healthy lunches and snacks.”

She moves easily through the kitchen, and I am uncharacteristically mesmerized by her hips. The skirt of her cherry dress hugs them tightly like a showcase. Like the round shape of her is expertly packaged for inspection. Her curves make me slightly uneasy and I have no idea why.

It doesn’t occur to her to mind that I’m not participating in her conversation. “Once a month, I cook a bunch of freezer meals for her also. You’re staying in her house, right?” Without waiting for my answer, she continues, “They are all labeled, and there is a binder on her kitchen counter that has instructions for heating each meal. They are in alphabetical order. The ingredients are on each page, too, in case you are allergic to anything.”

She shakes her jar, opens it, and dumps the contents into a bowl. “The dressing is already on the bottom of the jar, so they really are ready to eat—and much better than the MREs—Meals Ready to Eat—my cousin tells me about. He’s Army. Well, he’s not really my cousin. It’s complicated. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

I’m still standing in front of the open fridge, the edges of my frown cutting into my forehead. She asked me something...what was it? “No. I am an only child.”

She rambles on about a sister and a brother who is a captain at the fire department who is getting married to a girl he met sexting. I decide I’m not ready for a jar of salad and opt for just coffee. The cupboard reveals even more brightly colored mugs. None of them match each other. Which is kind of a pet peeve of mine. All my dishes at home are white.

I glance at Stella and notice her mug is red and turquoise blue. “Stella, do you always match your crockery to your outfit?”

“Just my coffee cups. Whenever I buy a new dress, I try to find a mug that matches.”

Of course she does.

She smiles at me and damn if my eyes aren’t drawn to those red lips again. She’s left traces of her lipstick on the mug and I think about where else she might leave traces of her lipstick on my body and I know deep in the marrow of my bones that this woman is going to be trouble.

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