Baby, Drive South. Stephanie BondЧитать онлайн книгу.
Armstrong’s stinging remark reverberated in her head, resurrecting old insecurities and self-doubt her ex-fiancé’s betrayal had reinforced.
It hurt to be rejected, darn it.
The women were settling into the rambling boardinghouse. Smiling faces passed by and happy feet skipped up and down the stairs. Chatter filled every corner, billowed by bursts of laughter and squeals of delight. But the merriment grated on Nikki’s raw nerves—everyone seemed so happy to be here…and she’d never felt more alone.
“Dr. Salinger,” called a shrill voice behind her. “Dr. Salinger!”
Rachel Hutchins. Nikki turned and forced a smile up at the towering blonde. “Yes?”
Rachel was holding her pug, Nigel. The wrinkly dark-faced pooch looked uncomfortable, as if he were being squeezed. “How is Porter?” the woman asked, her doe eyes welling with concern.
Nikki pursed her mouth. “He’ll live. It’s only a broken leg.”
“Will he be bedridden?” Rachel looked hopeful.
“Not unless he wants to be,” Nikki chirped. “When I left him, he was getting around pretty well on crutches.” Nikki turned to go, but Rachel refused to be mollified.
“Is he in a lot of pain?”
She turned back, her ire flaring. “You’ll have to ask him.”
“Oh, I will,” Rachel promised in a singsongy voice. “He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”
Exasperated, Nikki lifted her hands. “I didn’t notice.”
Rachel tilted her head. “Really? Gosh, Dr. Salinger, your boyfriend back in Broadway did a horrible, lowdown thing to toss you aside for a stripper, but you shouldn’t let it sour you on men altogether.”
Nikki bit down on the inside of her cheek. “Fiancé.”
“Pardon me?”
“He was my fiancé,” Nikki said evenly.
“Ouch—even worse.”
Nikki closed her eyes, but when she opened them, the woman and dog were still there. “I’m tired, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to my room.” She turned and started climbing the stairs. Her feet felt like bricks.
“The men are having a barbecue to welcome us to Sweetness,” Rachel said behind her.
“I think I’ll pass,” Nikki replied over her shoulder.
“Do you suppose Porter will need my help getting there?”
Nikki rolled her eyes, but didn’t turn back. “Sounds like a plan.” At the top of the stairs, she veered toward her room at the end of the hall.
“Dr. Salinger?”
Nikki sighed, then turned back and leaned on the railing. “Yes, Rachel?”
“Do you like it here?”
Surprisingly, the woman seemed pensive, as if Nikki’s response actually mattered. The dog yelped, and Rachel loosened her grip.
“I…don’t know yet.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Nikki turned back toward her room and pressed her lips together. It looked as if Rachel and Porter Armstrong would be the first couple to pair off. Granted, they did seem suited to each other in terms of physical beauty…and tact.
She wished them well.
As Nikki passed other rooms, she was appalled to find most of the doors standing open. Inside, women were sprawled on the beds and floors, painting toenails and doing each other’s hair. Had everyone regressed to college dorm behavior?
“Hey, Dr. Salinger,” called Traci Miles, one of the women who’d ridden down in the van with Nikki. She was smearing something gooey on a seated woman’s eyebrow. “Want me to wax your brows?” Traci pressed a white strip of cloth to the goo, then ripped it off. The woman in the chair grimaced in pain.
“Um…no, thanks,” Nikki said. All the way down the hall came offers for hair highlighting, makeup air-brushing and manicures. She declined as graciously as she could, considering how alien all that girly stuff was to her. She self-consciously touched her never-plucked eyebrows and bare face and curled under her stubby fingernails. She was the only woman in the building with a medical degree…so why did she feel lacking?
By the time Nikki closed the door to her own room and leaned against it, she had made a decision.
She was leaving Sweetness.
She’d wait until everyone had left for the barbecue, then make her escape to avoid any drama. She’d leave a note for the Armstrong brothers, and by the time anyone noticed she was gone—probably tomorrow sometime—she’d be back in Broadway. She wondered if she could get her old job back at the family medical practice…and if the apartment she’d rented after moving out of Darren’s house was still available.
Since she was only a few hours from Atlanta, Nikki toyed with the idea of driving there to take her chances in the sprawling metropolis. But she still had some friends in Broadway, like Amy Bradshaw, a yoga partner and Southern girl whom Nikki had hoped would come with them to Sweetness. Amy hadn’t even considered leaving her civil engineering job to relocate, but had asked Nikki to stay in touch.
On impulse, Nikki went to her purse and rummaged for her cell phone to call Amy—maybe she would have some words of advice, something wise and…Southern that would help Nikki see things from a different perspective.
But at the “No Service” message on her phone screen, Nikki dropped her head and released a strangled cry of frustration. The fact that she couldn’t reach anyone in the outside world was a sure sign she needed to leave this no-cow town, pronto.
Thank goodness she hadn’t fully unpacked yet, she thought as she moved to the one open suitcase on her bed. She refolded the clothes she’d worn earlier and placed them on top, then began to gather the toiletries she’d used. Her movements were furtive, which was ridiculous, she realized. It wasn’t as if she was doing anything wrong. In fact, she was correcting a mistake. Coming here made her realize how good she’d had it in Broadway. And if she went back, no one could say Darren Rocha’s public disposal of her had humiliated her so much she’d had to leave.
Even though it was true.
She was so deep in thought, a knock startled her. With her heart thumping, Nikki made her way to the door and, in deference to her nearly repacked suitcase on the bed, opened it only a crack. She didn’t want to tip off any of the women that she was leaving.
Only it wasn’t a woman on the other side.
“Hi,” Porter Armstrong said with a pained smile. His cobalt-blue eyes were a little hazy, and he was leaning heavily on his crutches. He had, she noticed, found a shirt—a pale blue T-shirt that stretched agreeably across his biceps and shoulders.
Nikki’s pulse picked up. “Is something wrong, Mr. Armstrong?”
“Nope. I came to talk to you. Can I—er, may I come in?”
She shifted uncomfortably in the three-inch wide opening, trying to shield the suitcase from his view. “I’d rather you didn’t. Did you come up the stairs on your crutches?”
“Thought it would be good practice.” Then he made a rueful noise. “Guess I didn’t realize how much it would take out of me.”
Nikki felt contrite, then opened the door and waved him inside. But she left the door open as he settled himself, of all places, on her bed next to her suitcase.
An acrid aroma filtered into her lungs. “What’s that smell?”
“Oh.” He grinned. “It’s wintergreen oil. Doc Riley says it’s good for swelling and pain.”
After she’d given him legitimate