“Not that you’ve managed to do that anyway. When did you see him?”
“Monday.” Sloane rested her arm on the examining table and gripped the exerciser’s palm bar, tensing her fingers and squeezing against the springs. She frowned, irked by the distance differential between what her trigger finger could accomplish and what the rest of her fingers could do. “And before you ask, he looks good. Better than good. My chest literally clenched when he walked in. Butterflies in my stomach. Roaring in my ears. The works. Just like when we were together. Except for the anger. That wasn’t there until the end, when all hell broke loose. But it’s there now, and it’s as strong as ever. So’s the resentment. I can’t get past them. I doubt I ever will.”
“Never’s a long time,” Connie noted. “Not to mention that there are two sides to every story. And that things aren’t always what they seem.”
Sloane gave a half groan, half sigh, and put
down the exercise tool. “What is this—platitude hour? If so, it’s not working.”
“Fine. Then I’ll just point out the obvious. You might not be able to get over the anger, but you sure as hell can’t get over him. I call that a major snag, and an official catch-22.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I might get over him faster now that I have to deal with him again. Maybe the fantasies will be drowned out by the glaring reminder of what an insensitive, judgmental bastard he is.”
At that moment, there was a brief knock on the door.
Connie looked surprised. “Yes?” she called out.
The door opened and Dr. Houghton stepped inside. He was a tall, lanky man, with salt-and-pepper hair, angular features, and dark eyes that bore right through you. He carried himself with an air of self-confidence that bordered on arrogance but stopped just short of it.
“Constance, before you go home, I need that file on—” He stopped, visibly surprised to see Sloane there, and glanced down at his watch. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I thought Constance’s last appointment was at four.”
“It was,” Sloane replied drily. “Unfortunately, I held her up. I was running late, and I hit tons of city-bound traffic.” She resumed her work with the spring-loaded exerciser, intent on regaining her fine motor skills. “How are you, Dr. Houghton?”
He glanced at her for a moment, then stared at the exercise she was performing, eyes narrowed, clearly making a quantitative assessment of her progress. He might just as well have come out and said that her question was superfluous and not worth addressing. His one and only interest was her hand.
Sloane wasn’t offended. During one of their follow-up visits, Dr. Houghton had bluntly said that after all these years, he often didn’t remember a patient’s face, but he never forgot a hand. It wasn’t rudeness; it was professional dedication.
She responded by providing him with what he wanted to know. “The healing process is coming along,” she reported. “Connie’s a miracle worker. I feel some definite improvement in my grip and strength in my index finger. I’m waiting for my radial nerve to catch on and catch up.”
“It will—in time.” Connie turned to Dr. Houghton. “Sloane is determined to rejoin the FBI.”
Connie’s gentle reminder found its mark, and Dr. Houghton’s attention expanded to a more holistic view of Sloane. “You’ll need the coordination and fine motor skills to qualify with your weapon. That’s a tall order. Plus, the scars from your three surgeries will have to heal enough for you to manage the grip, and you’ll need to be able to exert enough pressure to pull the trigger. When is our next follow-up appointment?”
“In three weeks,” Sloane supplied.
“Good. We’ll see the extent of your recuperation then.” He turned back to Connie. “Call my office when you’re finished. I have a few quick notes to pass on to you for tomorrow’s patients. I have an evening engagement, so I’ll be leaving within the hour.”
“As will I,” Connie replied. “My babysitter has a date and needs me home by seven. So Sloane and I will be wrapping up soon. I’ll check in with you before I head off to catch the train.”
“Fine. I’ll be expecting your call shortly.” His gaze flickered over to Sloane. “Good night.”
“Good night, Dr. Houghton.” Once the door shut behind him, Sloane released the exerciser and gave her hand a rest. “He’s tough.”
“The toughest,” Connie agreed. “And the most brilliant.”
“Meanwhile, tough or not, he has evening plans.” Sloane blew out her breath. “My surgeon, your babysitter—it’s date night in the tristate area.”
“Not for me. It’s time-to-be-mom night at my place.”
“Yes, but Saturday you’re having dinner with Ken the lawyer. That relationship seems to be heating up.” Sloane’s eyes twinkled. “So your date night could be a scorcher.” A mock sigh. “While you’re having the time of your life, think of me recouping from a two-day seminar by working round the clock.”
“If you’re looking for pity, forget it,” Connie retorted. “You’ve passed up more dates than I care to count. You’re married to your work.” A pause. “And maybe to the past.”
“I’ll cop to the former, but not the latter. If anything, what happened between me and Derek is what made me swear off relationships. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
Connie shot her a who-are-you-kidding look. “If you say so.”
“I do.”