Page 13 of Goalie Secrets
“No. I don’t drink with patients.”
“Not even coffee?” She rolls her eyes before turning away. I rush my next plea. “I was a complete ass today. Let me grab you a coffee and we can start over.”
“You’ve apologized numerous times, Jeremy.” Her brow twitches slightly, like she’s trying not to roll her eyes in exasperation. “Please don’t mention it again.”
I open the door for her. Dr. Kapur strolls past me and swears under her breath. It’s raining hard. We’re watching andfeelingthe downpour while under the Drexel overhang because the heavy raindrops are bouncing off the pavement.
“You know what they say about Columbus…” I offer.
“What?” She’s zipping up her hoodless jacket and assessing the streets.
“If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes.”
“Is that so?” She shrugs. “Then I’ll wait it out or call a cab.”
“I’ve got a better idea. Let’s get some shelter. If in ten minutes it gets worse instead of better, I’ll lend you my umbrella from my car or drive you home.” Before she can object, I add, “Today’s my birthday. You don’t really want to deny me my birthday wish, now do you, doc?”
I’ve gotten used to her rejection all day, but her silence surprises me. She hesitates, which I’m taking as an opening to make good on my peace offering.
“You moved here recently, right? I’m going to assume you haven’t been to Modern Morsels.”
“You make a lot of assumptions, Jeremy,” she says, pushing her hair away from her face.
It was in a neat, low ponytail earlier today, so I hadn’t noticed how long and thick it is, with large curls at the ends. They fall over her breasts, which I am definitely not looking at.
“Well? Have you?” I double down on my invitation.
“No. What is it?” she asks curiously.
“It’s a cookie shop. They’re open till midnight, mostly for the college kids. Nothing like a warm cookie to get you through a study session.”
“That sounds good, actually,” she mutters, eyes lighting up.
Well, look at that. It turns out this cold doctor can’t resist a warm cookie. She’s human after all.
“It’s half a block away,” I point down the street. I remove my jacket and hold it over her head, trying to be all chivalrous and shit, but she’s already walking briskly.
We get to the Modern Morsels window that offers a glimpse of the simple decor inside. The owners renovated it from an old ice cream parlor and kept the basic elements of a glass counter and sparse seating. When we push through the glass doors, the smell of vanilla and chocolate and cinnamon overwhelms the senses. It’s like being smacked in the forehead with domestic bliss.
“Do you have a favorite?” she asks.
“I love them all. I’ll grab us a sample dozen. Want a coffee or hot chocolate?”
“A dozen? Are you crazy?”
“How are we going to decide your favorite if we don’t try at least a dozen?” This is a sound argument she can’t deny.
“Just one to go with a decaf coffee, please. You choose. Anything but oatmeal raisin, which is the devil’s baked mush.”
I gasp incredulously, hamming up my reaction to her harsh words.
“I’ll have you know they are famous for their oatmeal raisin cookie. Are you trying to get us kicked out?”
She snorts, not giving my indignation any mind. “I’ll grab the booth that freed up.”
When I bring a half dozen cookies with her coffee, Vanya opens the box like a kid on Christmas morning. Her eyes sparkle while she links her fingers in front of her chest and wiggles herself on the chair. It’s adorably unexpected. I bet not everyone gets to see this serious doctor’s candid delight over cookies. The sense that I’m catching a glimpse of something rare is weirdly pleasurable.
For a record number of times today, my body reacts inappropriately. I get a flash memory of Dr. Vanya Kapur pressed against me. Her eyes had been wide with surprise and her full mouth slightly parted. My fingers tingle, recalling her supple curves in my grip.