“It’s almost the other way around.” Zep put a glass of white wine in front of Lila. “They figured you were interested in Remy, so you wouldn’t reject them.”

“Reject them?” She was actively trying to recruit these people as patients. She was the one facing rejection. Tons and tons of rejection. “I need them.”

Zep set down Lisa’s beer. “I don’t know if you are aware, but this is small-town Louisiana. We are not known for being the most cosmopolitan of people. Tourists come through to enjoy the food and the bayou, and they often gawk at us like we’re some sort of freak show. Not me, of course. The tourists mostly view me as a lovely souvenir experience. The women, that is. But it’s not the same for my fellow Papillon residents.”

“There are a few stereotypes associated with the bayou and small towns in general,” Lisa admitted. “Of course, they have their own stereotypes about people from the big city. Most of which you reinforce.”

“What?” She thought about it for a second. She’d been a trailer park kid. She’d had every stereotype possible thrown her way. Maybe in the last few years she had gotten a bit snobby. It wasn’t that she’d meant to. She’d been separating herself from that time when she’d felt small. Did she want to make someone else feel small? Not at all. “That might be fair. Is it the shoes? Because I might have overestimated my love for them.”

They hurt. She’d thought that since it was her first full day in her own clinic, she should look the part. She owned the place. She was in charge. Those Louboutins showed the world that she was the boss.

They showed the world that she wasn’t some trailer park reject with a mom in and out of prison, barely holding on by her fingernails.

But if she’d been back in Dallas in the ER, she wouldn’t have thought twice about what to wear. She would have shoved on scrubs and her comfiest sneakers, put her hair in a ponytail, and gone to work. She wouldn’t have spent an hour in front of the mirror getting her makeup as close to perfect as she could in case the sheriff showed up. It wasn’t that she wanted to look nice for him. She was trying to look nice because they’d started on the wrong foot and he needed to understand that she was a professional. That’s what she’d told herself. Then her inner voice had mocked the hell out of her.

“Oh, we have some designer wear around here,” Lisa corrected. “The mayor of the town has a serious addiction to Chanel. But she also wears boots when the time is right, and not over-the-knee boots with five-inch heels. I’m talking serious work boots.”