Page 268 of The Doctors Will See You Now

“Okay,” she relented. “I got permission.”

I furrowed my brow in confusion. “Just now?”

“Yep. I’m the inside source.”

“How the fuck are you the inside source? I’ve never met you.”

“Ah, see, that isn’t something my source is comfortable divulging.”

“Your source, meaning you.” My temples throbbed with my now heavy pulse.

“Exactly.”

“Harlow—”

“Listen, Scott, I’ve really gotta go. But it was nice chatting, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay—”

“Talk to you soon.”

Click.

I stared down at the screen of my phone, a deep, piercing frustration making my eye twitch.

Goddamn this infuriating woman. I was half tempted to track this columnist down and give her a piece of my mind in person.

Because seriously… Who in the fuck is this Harlow Paige?

“Tell me you’re excited, Low.”

Internally, I sighed. “I’m excited, Dad.”

He scrutinized me with his gaze and one heavy brow slanted in disapproval.

“What?” I questioned. “I said I’m excited.”

“You’re not acting excited.”

“How many times do you think we’ve said excited in the past two minutes?” I asked, hoping that I could redirect the focus away from my lack of excitement to see yet another Broadway show with my father. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved them, but this was the third show in the span of three weeks that he’d begged—and all but forced—me to see with him.

And since my mother and Jean-Pierre had never been big fans of musicals, I was my Dad’s go-to gal for everything bright lights and show tunes.

My mother and father—a complete anomaly—were literally the happiest divorced couple on the planet. They’d thrown in the towel on their marriage when I was eight years old, and they’d been best buds ever since.

Hell, my father often tagged along on trips with my mother and her second husband of sixteen years.

My stepdad, Jean-Pierre, was an American transplant from Paris and the apple of my mother’s eye. Yes, he did have an accent. And, yes, it probably did sound extremely sexy to any American woman who wasn’t his stepdaughter.

The only downfall of my parents’ divorce and my mother’s marriage to Jean-Pierre was that they weren’t fans of musicals.

Thanks for nothing, guys.

“Don’t act so crabby, Low,” my dad remarked. “Kinky Boots has won every major Best Musical award, including a Tony. Anyone sitting in your seat right now would be excited.”

“Don’t forget the Laurence Olivier Award,” I added sarcastically. I’d heard more about Kinky Boots from Dad over the past week than most of the cast probably even knew, and they acted out the show six nights a fucking week.

“Exactly,” he agreed with a giant grin. It was safe to say his sarcasm radar was off-kilter. Blame it on the Kinky Boots, I guessed.