“I rotate with a handful of physicians who offer care, free of charge, at shelters around the city on weeknights. This past week was my rotation.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh. Wow.”

I hold my breath, waiting for some backhanded compliment about my moral superiority. But nothing comes. When I glance up at Bea, she’s staring at me curiously. She pops the last of the bagel in her mouth and dusts off her hands. I brush away the poppy seeds that land on my jeans.

“My bad,” she says, wetting her finger, then using it to catch errant crumbs on her chest.

I force myself to look away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she says. “About the medical moonlighting? Seems like one of the essential facts you should have shared over cupcakes.”

I thread the laces quickly up the hooks on her first boot, setting it down, then alternating the other foot onto my thigh. “It didn’t seem pertinent to our arrangement.”

My hand curves around her ankle, sliding along the tight stretch of her Achilles tendon as I straighten her boot.

She sucks in a breath. “Getting handsy there, Doc. I’m not here to be examined.”

“Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea,” I tell her as I lace her up. “As I said, you might have sustained podiatric trauma when you slammed your feet repeatedly into a boot that wasn’t open wide enough to take it.” I curve my fingers further, circling her ankle. “Posterior malleolus feels intact. Fibula. Medial malleolus as well. Lateral malleolus.” My thumb presses the tender front of her foot and slides up to her shin. “Talus. All right as rain.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Show-off. I bet that’s how you rope all the ladies, with that Dr. McDreamy act.”

I finish her laces with tight double knots. And before I can tell her I’ve never touched a woman this way, never wanted to feel the paradoxical strength and fragility of the bones that make her being, my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket and check the notification.

“Taxi’s here,” I tell her.

Bea slides her foot off my thigh. “C’mon, James,” she calls, stomping toward the door and flipping off the switch to her speakers. She sweeps up a black moto jacket and then a canary-yellow purse as I follow her out. “Let’s go kick some matchmaker ass.”

—

The Alley is thankfully one of those old-timey establishments, not the glow-in-the-dark techno-bowling variety. I couldn’t take one of those. I don’t have the bandwidth for spaces like that. They’re a trip wire for my anxiety.

“Remember,” Bea whispers, shoulder to shoulder with me. “Stick to the truth as much as possible. Keep answers short. We’re both annoyed with them.”

“That won’t take any acting,” I mutter.