Page 83 of The Homemaker

“I think the effects of your minor blood loss could last for a while.”

“I’ll be fine. If I pass out,” she sighs like she might do just that, “I’ll eventually come to. Besides, he’s out of town. I don’t think he needs to get on a plane for my finger.”

After a quick knock on the door, a young woman in a white coat steps inside. “Hi, Alice. I’m Dr. Friedman.”

The nurse follows her.

“I’m sorry. Blood makes me queasy. Well, my own blood,” Alice says.

The doctor smiles while donning a pair of gloves. “That’s okay. Feel free to look away or close your eyes.”

As the nurse unwraps Alice’s hand, the doctor inspects the finger, and Alice tips her chin up, looking at the ceiling.

“Alice, I think we’re going to clean that up and just use a little glue. No stitches. How does that sound?”

Alice swallows and returns a tiny nod while keeping her focus on the ceiling. The doctor gives me a brief glance and a tiny grin.

It’s a quick procedure and we’re back in the car and on our way home in no time.

“The color in your face looks better,” I say, shooting her a sidelong glance.

“Thanks for the compliment.” She stares out the window.

I chuckle. “Anytime.”

“I overheard Vera telling Mr. Morrison that she and Blair found an apartment. That must be exciting,” she murmurs.

“I heard that too.”

Alice turns toward me, but I keep my eyes trained on the road. I overheard something, too, and now I can’t stop thinking about kissing Alice Yates and whispering “hi” before our lips touch.

“Can I ask if you’re better now? Fourteen months of intensive therapy seems like a lot. And if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”

“I love the way you refer to a psychiatric hospital as ‘intensive therapy.’”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I think I’m going to useintensive therapyfrom now on. It’s a little less scary than a psychiatric hospital. And yes, I’m better now. You don’t have to tiptoe around me like everyone else.”

“Does Callen tiptoe around you?”

“No, because he doesn’t know about that part of my life.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want him to tiptoe around me. Geesh, Murph. I thought you were following the conversation better than this.”

I grin. She hasn’t called me “Murph” since she stayed at my rental.

When we reach the house, I pull the white SUV into the drive closest to the guesthouse and hop out, jogging around the front then opening her door.

“I’ve got it,” she says, reaching for the seat belt at the same time I do.

I retreat a step to let her slide out of the vehicle. Then, with my hand cupping her elbow, I gently guide her to the door.

“The quiche,” she says as I open the door.

“I’ll clean it up and suggest everyone go to brunch in the morning.”