Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow she had at least one patient, and if no one else came in she would spend her morning poring over all the records the clinic had on Noelle LaVigne. Paraplegics had unique issues and she wanted to be ready to deal with them. The young woman said she wanted to talk about lady stuff? They would spend the afternoon on it. She’d thought she would be incredibly busy, rushing from one patient to another. Well, maybe this would be better. Maybe she would lavish her patients with attention, getting to know each one and being able to be thoughtful about the approach she would use to each problem.

It was exactly what she and Maryanne had always said was wrong with the hospital they’d worked at. Everything moved at breakneck speed and the doctors had to go from one patient to another, often without ever learning their names or histories.

Their practice would be different, they’d promised themselves. Their practice would be about patients.

She shook off the memories. If she didn’t have any patients, she couldn’t practice at all, so she would follow Lisa’s plan.

She would make an appointment with Marcelle Martine, who was apparently also known as Miss Marcelle or Madame Marcelle, depending on whether she was doing nails or working a love spell. Lila would definitely be calling the woman Miss.

Because she didn’t need a love spell, though she might be able to use a get-that-man-out-of-her-head spell.

She filled the kettle. All afternoon she’d thought about him. His big manly arms. Those ridiculously blue eyes. That accent. That Cajun accent that rumbled out of his mouth and seemed to come from somewhere deep in his soul.

Why should she want Armie out of her head? It was nice to think about him. The other things in her head were pretty terrible. Armie was merely annoying. And attractive. That wasn’t the word. Attractive was a word to describe blandly handsome men. Armie was sexy. Armie was disconcerting and distracting.

He wasn’t for her.

Except Remy thought he was. Remy and Lisa had argued about her never-going-to-happen fake boyfriend. Lisa believed the well-educated super-rich Rene Darois was the only way to go, but Remy had said it was obvious that Armie was the only man in town who could handle another Daley sister.

She was the only Daley sister left. Laurel was a Bradford now. Lisa was a Guidry. It was funny that she’d once been desperate to not be a Daley because that name meant white trash and prison records. She’d prayed her father would realize she was alive and come get her, give her a name she could be proud of. None of them had the same fathers but they had the same name.

Daley was a good name. She’d made it that way. Or she had until that day. Did Daley now mean coward?