“He hasn’t told you? You two talk about everything.”
“Not anymore,” I said with a twinge of regret. I knew that Fallen read my blog. He’d vehemently opposed the Manifesto. We’d been up half the night in game text chat arguing about it. Was he upset with me because of the auction? The thought of losing friends over this thing didn’t please me, so I hoped this wasn’t the case.
After we ended our call, I hopped out of bed and into the shower, then pulled on my scrubs and headed to the hospital. And I tried to keep my mind on what I was doing and not the issues that Heath had dug up—nor the end results of the auction. With any luck, things would be all taken care of before I had to retake the MCAT. I could only hope, anyway.
Chapter Two
I passed through the next week like an automaton, going through the motions at work, on my blog, getting various things done. I felt poised on the brink of something—something big. But I wouldn’t let myself entertain that idea. This had to be smaller than me. This had to be an insignificant moment in my overall timeline. Soon it would be over and I’d move on with the rest of my life.
But I couldn’t help wondering what person I would end up with. If I was lucky, I’d find him attractive, at least. Maybe he’d be good, gentle. He didn’t have to be amazing as I was hardly in a position to judge, given my lack of experience.
Ideas like these flickered through my mind and a couple times I caught myself fantasizing about this mystery guy and jumping every time the phone rang as I waited to hear back from Heath. Thus, when the phone finally did ring, it was no surprise that I was, again, in bed—this time for a quick nap after an overnight shift working in the ER.
“What?” I mumbled into the receiver, still mostly asleep.
“Were you sleeping?” Heath’s amused voice came over the line.
“Mm. Late shift last night, this morning.”
“Ah, okay. Well…get up and brew yourself a pot of coffee because I have your winner and he wants to meet you this afternoon.”
I groaned. “He can wait. I’m half dead, Heath. Can’t we do this tomorrow? It’s my day off and I need some warning—I haven’t done laundry for—”
“No can do, doll. He has to fly to the east coast on business first thing tomorrow. He won’t be back until the end of the week.”
“Heath…”
“Come on. I’ve reserved a private conference room at the Westin South Coast Plaza.”
I remembered my one serious skirt—a crisp business pencil skirt—was at the bottom of the clean laundry basket, wrinkled beyond recognition. And my iron was broken.
“I have to iron my skirt.”
“I’ll bring my iron when I pick you up.”
“I don’t have a board, either.”
“Then use the table, for chrissakes. Listen, I’m not here to solve your first-world, heterosexual female problems. Get up, get your makeup on and get with the program.”
I sighed and hung up, my heart racing. It occurred to me that he didn’t tell me whom he’d selected.
I followed his instructions, got up, showered, styled my hair and, surrendering to the inevitable, pulled it back into a ponytail because it wasn’t cooperating. My makeup went on satisfactorily and I was in my blouse—white, tailored button-down—and skivvies when Heath showed up. He didn’t have his iron.
“What the hell, Heath?”
“I couldn’t find it. I think that stupid little twerp swiped it when he packed his crap and left.” He referred to the recent demise of his two-year relationship. It had not been a good breakup and Heath was still nursing the broken heart from it.
I shot him a puzzled look. “Who steals an iron?”
“Spoiled little brats like Brian, that’s who.”
I sighed and glanced at my pathetic excuse for a skirt.
“Why don’t you hang it up in the shower and run the hot water?” he asked.
“Give my skirt a shower?”
“The steam will take some of the wrinkles out. A dryer works, too.”
“Well I don’t have a dryer, so I guess steam is going to have to do. Do you think it will work?”
“Hell no, but might as well try.”
I ran the shower until the hot water ran cold—which didn’t take long in my little studio. Since living here, I’d become the queen of the snappy shower. When I pulled the skirt off the hanger and tried to smooth out the damp cloth, it failed to cooperate.
Once dressed, I left the bathroom. Heath made a face and twirled his finger, signaling that I should turn around.
I complied. “That bad?”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t take a fashion expert to see that that thing is a hot mess—literally.”