Page 134 of Josephine and Clay

“I want to know,” I say. “Whatever it is.” Her eyes flicker. “I just have to handle this first.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, Josie.”

Her throat moves as she swallows. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you again as soon as I can.”

She looks at our hands, then turns hers under mine, just enough that our palms touch. “Okay.”

The realization hits harder than it should. I don’t want to leave this booth, this café, or this woman who somehow makes me feel like a version of myself I haven’t wrecked yet.

But Nash is waiting.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Josephine

JULY 3RD

By ten seventeen in the morning, I’ve misplaced the same thermometer twice.

This is concerning for three reasons.

One, I’m not a person who misplaces medical equipment.

Two, the exam room has exactly six surfaces, which means there are only so many places a thermometer can realistically hide.

Three, I find it in my own pocket both times.

I stand beside the stainless steel table, staring down at the offending object like it has betrayed me personally, while Mrs. Wilcox’s elderly spaniel pants patiently at my elbow.

“Right,” I say, far too brightly. “Temperature.”

Mrs. Wilcox tilts her head. “You already took it, dear.”

I freeze.

The spaniel blinks at me.

I look at the chart.

Temperature: 101.4.

In my handwriting.

Of course.

“Yes,” I say, because professional women do not combust in exam rooms. “I was confirming.”

“Very thorough.”

“Always.”

That’s a lie today.

Today, I’m many things. Nauseous. Exhausted. Too warm under my veterinary coat. Painfully aware of every tiny pull in my abdomen. Still replaying the barn dance night in a highly inappropriate loop. Still replaying Clay’s phone call interruption from breakfast two days ago when I’d almost told him.