Page 79 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

I press my lips together.

I want to be angry.

I am angry. I’m also scared, and that is inconvenient because anger is easier to hold.

Me: Are you going to be there?

A pause.

Dalton: Yes.

My stomach flips.

Me: As my doctor?

Dalton: As the physician overseeing your care.

I almost smile, but it hurts too much.

Me: That was a very careful answer.

Dalton: It’s the only one I can give right now.

Me: Right.

Dalton: Maggie.

I don’t answer.

The car pulls up outside a glass-fronted medical building. The entrance is quieter than the clinic’s, more private. A doorman opens the car door before I’ve fully gathered my bag.

My phone buzzes once more.

Dalton: I should have made sure you were told.

I sit there, reading it. Not an apology exactly. But close enough that my anger loses one of its handles.

I type: Yes. You should have.

Then, because I can’t help myself: I’m here.

His reply comes before I step out.

Dalton: I know.

A receptionist checks my name, smiles politely, and says, “Dr. Price is expecting you.”

Of course he is.

I’m still annoyed when I step into the exam room.

Then I see him. Dalton is standing near the counter, reading something on a tablet. White coat over his shirt now, sleeves neat, expression professional enough that for a second I can almost pretend the last time we were alone he didn’t have me pinned against his car outside Alester’s house.

Almost.

He looks up, and my heart does the stupid thing.

“You made it,” he says.