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“If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll get Dr. West.”

“Take your time, dear. According to the Farmer’s Almanac, it’s not a good day to do anything but go to the doctor.”

“All right, then.”

I text Dr. West that Bessy’s X-rays are ready for him, and he asks me to take her to one of the exam rooms. This would probably be a good time to warn him she’s not wearing panties, but I can’t imagine typing that in a text.

“He wants me to take you to room three. I can get a wheelchair for you if it’s more comfortable.”

“You’re sweet.”

I unfold the wheelchair we keep in the corner of the room and help her onto it. My eyes are glued to a spot on the wall above her head in case she tries to show off any acrobatic skills getting in the chair.

Out of impulse, I pull a blanket from the closet. “Here. Your legs may be cold.” I drape it over her lap. Cold or not, I don’t want her flashing anyone on the ride down the hall.

“Just one second.” I file the X-rays in her chart to show Dr. West. Then I tuck them under my arm and wheel her to room three. “He will be here as soon as he finishes up with his other patient.”

She half smiles, and I exit before anything else gets odd.

I close the door and shove her files in the pocket on the wall. Unless Easton needs more images, I can move on with my day.

I turn and bump into something hard. “Oomph.” Hard as in a muscular chest.

My eyes trail a tight athletic shirt to a neatly trimmed beard. It’s Nate. Again! I jump back, banging my head against the door.

“Are you okay?” He reaches for my head, and I flinch.

“Yeah, uh, weird morning. That’s all.” More like weird week, thanks to him moving back.

His big hand cups the back of my head. It’s warm and kind, and I try not to enjoy his gentle touch. After what feels like both a short second and a lifetime, he removes his hand, brushing my hair slightly to the side.

I suck in a breath and think of an exit strategy. Which is hard when something his size is blocking my path and the only alternative is retreating to a room with a backwoods witch doctor who doesn’t wear shoes . . . or panties.

“You’re wearing scrubs, so I guess you’re not a patient.”

“Nope.” I cross my arms, hoping he will back up at least enough so I can’t smell his cologne.

“I thought you were in college for teaching.”

“That was before—” I stop myself. Now’s not the time to let the cat out of the bag on him being Timothy’s father. “When I got pregnant with Timothy, I moved back here and went to the radiology school.”

He lifts his chin. “But you always wanted to be a kindergarten teacher.”

“It was easier to be with my parents and finish college sooner. Besides, I’ve raised my own kindergartener.” I laugh nervously.

“That you have.” He smiles. “What grade is he in now?”

“Second.”

“Cool.” He scratches the back of his head and fumbles with his cap.

A telltale sign he’s a little nervous. At least it’s not just me.

“I’ll let you get to work. I need to head out anyway.”

“Good seeing you.” I clamp my mouth shut.

Is it though? Maybe it felt good to see him, but it’s not exactly good for me to see him.