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  “No, Mamaw, it’s okay,” she was saying. “Rocky is coming to get me.”

  Lee frowned. Why was she still at the hospital? Was this Rocky her boyfriend? If so, why the hell hadn’t he picked her up?

  “I’ll call you as soon as I get home. I promise… Okay, Mamaw. Bye.” She ended her call and stuffed her phone into the multicolored bag at her side, all without meeting his eye. He watched her square her shoulders before looking back up at him.

  “Why are you still here?” he repeated, even though he suspected the answer. Lee found that he was a little pissed at this Rocky guy.

  “I’m just waiting on my ride,” Wren said. Her cheeks colored, and with a nervous gesture, she brushed her blue bangs out of her eyes. He noticed a piercing in her left brow he hadn’t seen before.

  “When were you discharged,” he asked, watching her closely.

  She gave a defeated sigh, and Lee could see that he’d embarrassed her. He didn’t mean to, but she should be in bed, not sitting on a metal bench as night fell.

  “Around 4:30. My grandmother was supposed to be here, but she doesn’t drive. Her neighbor was going to take her, but there was…” Wren waved her hand dismissively. “…a pot roast incident.”

  Lee’s eyebrows leapt. “A pot roast incident?”

  “Yeah, um, apparently, when you get old, everything revolves around dinner. And her neighbor Nanette had this crockpot failure, and…” She took a deep breath and eyed him with desperation, her cheeks now scarlet. “I can’t even go on. Old people drama.”

  Lee forgot all about Rocky and sushi reservations as he watched her blush deepen.

  “Anyway, it’s fine. I can Uber,” she said, pulling out her phone again.

  Lee held up his hand.

  “Wait, I thought you just told your grandmother that Rocky would pick you up.”

  Wren rolled her eyes. “Well, she’s seventy-eight, and she doesn’t need to know that Rocky’s daughters have strep and my best friend had to work, and I’m stranded at the hospital. She feels bad enough as it is.”

  Lee shook his head, knowing that she wasn’t going to Uber her way home. “You’re not stranded at the hospital anymore. I’m taking you home.” He held out his hand to help her up, but she just stared at him.

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  He wasn’t sure, but she sounded offended. “You didn’t have to ask. I offered.”

  Wren didn’t budge. “I can get my own ride home. I’m not a charity case.”

  Lee opened his mouth to argue that, as a patient in a charity hospital, she, indeed, was a charity case, but he thought better of it.

  “Of course not, but I’m not walking away. Hippocratic Oath. First, do no harm.” Lee well knew the oath didn’t read this way, but admitting that wouldn’t help his cause. “Leaving you on this bench for another thirty minutes while you wait on a ride would harm you.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “How so?”

  Sassy. Everything about her was sassy. The look in her eyes. The tone of her voice. Even her haircut. It wasn’t long or short, but with its shag of blue on black that just touched her shoulders, it had plenty of sass.

  “Apart from increasing your soreness, the temperature is dropping, and you aren’t wearing a jacket,” Lee said, glad that his years in high school debate served some purpose. “Surgery is stressful, and your immune system is compromised. You shouldn’t be out in the cold.”

  It was early April in South Louisiana. It was hardly cold, but Lee wasn’t going to give any ground. The air was chilly, and the bench was hard, and he wasn’t leaving her.

  Wren must have sensed his determination because she rolled her eyes again.

  “Fine.” She took his hand and let him help her stand.

  “Smart girl.” He meant for her to smile, but she blanched as she got to her feet. Too late, he realized he probably should have walked to his car and driven it around to pick her up. Her progress was slow, and she stooped as she walked. Lee knew her discomfort was normal, but he still felt bad for her.

  They reached the passenger side of his Jeep, and he opened the door. Wren reached up and was about to hoist herself inside when he stopped her.

  “That’s going to hurt. Let me give you a hand.” Before she could object, he scooped her into his arms. He felt her go rigid before he settled her onto the passenger seat.

  “Um… that wasn’t necessary,” she muttered, smoothing out her black skirt and avoiding his eyes.

  With a jolt, he remembered her reluctance to be examined. He stepped back at once.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s fine,” she said, giving a terse shake of her head and reaching back for her seatbelt.

  Lee watched her for a moment, unsure if he should say more, but he decided against it and made his way to the driver’s side. Even as he cursed his stupidity, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of lifting her up. She’d weighed almost nothing.

  “Where do you live?” he asked, climbing into the driver’s seat.

  “On St. Vincent.”

  Lee started his Jeep and frowned. “Is that in the Saint Streets?”

  “Yeah, a block off St. Julien.”

  “I live in the Saint Streets, too. I’ve just never seen St. Vincent.”

  “It’s a tiny street. Almost directly behind Izzo’s.” But she eyed him with skepticism. “You live in the Saint Streets?”

  He nodded, navigating his way out of the parking lot. “Yeah, on Dunreath. I love it there.”

  Her mouth made an O, but she didn’t say anything.

  “What does that mean?” he asked, unable to help himself.

  She shrugged. “Nothing. That just makes more sense.”

  Lee guessed that he knew what she meant, and the idea chafed. He wanted to make her say it aloud so he could tell her she was wrong. “What makes more sense?”

  Wren’s left brow, the one with the small hoop, arched. “The fact that we live in the same neighborhood. Not too many doctors live in the Saint Streets,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “But the houses on Dunreath are pretty nice — in a Southern Living kinda way.”

  Lee cocked his head back and gave a surprised laugh. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it sort of sounds like you’re judging me.”

  “Oh, I am. Just like you’re judging me.” She sounded tough, but her eyes were smiling. “People do it all the time, and if they say that they don’t, then they’re judging and lying.”

  “Wow, that’s blunt.” A part of Lee’s brain told him he should be offended, but he wasn’t. Instead, he felt intrigued.

  “It’s the truth. It’s natural to evaluate. We do it constantly. Without even thinking,” she said without apology. “You meet a person, and you take in what you observe about them and what you know about the world, and you try to categorize them. Friend or foe? Threat or asset? Peer, superior, or inferior?”

  Lee made a left from North College onto Johnston Street. “That’s a pretty harsh view of the world.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Well, sometimes the world can be pretty harsh.”

  He knew what she said was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. “I kind of think we’re responsible for making our own world.”

  “Well, naturally, I agree with you there,” she said, her voice smoothing out.

  “Naturally?” he questioned.

  Wren shifted the bottom of her skirt so that her left calf was visible. A brown-and-black-striped feather spanned the length of it. The feather seemed to be falling, twirling downward. The shading and detail were extraordinary.

  “As a tattoo artist, I absolutely agree.”

  Mesmerized, Lee glanced back and forth between the traffic on the road and the artwork on her leg. He wasn’t sure, but he guessed it was a wren’s feather.

  “You did that yourself?” Surprise was clear in his voice. Wren smiled.

  “It’s never a good idea to ink yourself, but I did draw the design.”

  “Tha
t’s really good.” It would be inappropriate for him to mention that the cherry blossom tree on her stomach was a masterpiece, but that didn’t stop him from thinking it. It also didn’t stop him from blabbing on. “I don’t have any tattoos.”

  Wren said nothing, but her look of mock surprise made him laugh. “There you go again,” he said, shaking his head. “Judging me.”

  Her expression softened. “No judgment. Ink isn’t for everyone.”

  Lee wished then he had a tattoo. It would have made her rethink her assumptions. He took a left onto St. Julien Street.

  “I’ve heard they’re addicting. That once you get one, you want to keep doing it.”

  “I’ll say,” she muttered, tracing her fingers over the blackbirds on her wrist. Then she sat up higher and pointed. “Turn left here.”

  Lee made a left onto St. Michael and drove slowly.

  “Take the next right,” she said, pointing to St. Vincent. “I’m in the duplex halfway down.” Wren dug through her purse and found her keys as he pulled into the driveway of the two-story house.

  “Upstairs or down,” he asked, looking at the steep stairway that led to the second floor.

  “Up.”

  “And no one’s home?” Lee asked, frowning.

  “Uh, just a pissed-off cat named Agnes.”

  He didn’t mean to, but he laughed. “Why is she pissed?”

  “Well, duh, because no one was here last night or this morning to feed her,” Wren said. “She probably shat on my bed just to make her disapproval clear.”

  “Oh, God. You’re kidding.”

  One side of Wren’s mouth lifted. “It’s happened, but it’s been a while.”

  “Well, I really hope she hasn’t,” Lee said, killing the ignition.

  Wren shrugged. “I’ll live.”

  “You? You’ll be fine. I’ll be the one cleaning it up.” He got out of the Jeep, but not before he saw her stunned look.

  “What are you doing?” she asked after he came around and opened her car door.

  “I’m helping you up those stairs, and, in the event that Angry Agnes has soiled your sheets, I’m going to be making up your bed because you are in no shape to do it yourself.”

  “What?” she asked, eyes wide.

  “You heard me.” He held out his hands. “Do I have your permission to carry you up the stairs?”

  “Hell no! I can make it up the stairs just fine, and I can handle everything else, thank you very much.”

  Lee felt his brows meet and pull down. “Were you listening when the nurse talked about straining the surgery site and risking another hemorrhage?”

  “That won’t happen,” she said evenly.

  “I’ve seen it happen. It isn’t pretty.”

  Wren stared at him, stone-faced. “Let me at least try the stairs.”

  “Fair enough.” The stairs weren’t his biggest concern. Sure, they would hurt, especially when she used her hip flexor on her right side to mount each step, but Lee was most concerned about her lifting, reaching, and pulling — exactly what she’d need to do if she had to change her bedding. “But I’m helping.”

  “Yeah, you’re good at that,” she grumbled. But when he offered his hand to help her down from the cab of the Jeep, she accepted. Even with his aid, she winced as she stretched her legs down to reach the ground.

  They made their way slowly to the foot of the stairs, and Lee looked up at the top before glancing back down at her.

  “You sure about this?”

  Her answer was to grip the banister with her left hand. Lee grabbed her right elbow as she ascended. And she was smart. She went up slowly, using her left side to mount each stair and then just letting her right leg catch up. Even though he gave her a boost with each step, by the time they reached the top, her jaw clenched tight, and he could feel her trembling.

  “Shit…” she sighed, catching her breath. “That truly sucked. I’m never leaving the house again.”

  Lee laughed. “You’ll feel better in a few days. I promise.”

  Wren unlocked her door, but before she opened it, she looked up at Lee with a stern expression.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He started to ask what she meant when she swung the door open, and Lee took in the front room of her apartment. Hips. Thighs. Backs. Buttocks. Breasts. Photographs of every conceivable body part hung all over the room — all of them covered in intricate and astounding tattoos. Scores and scores of them.

  “Wow.” And a moment later, “Did you do all of these?”

  “Ha. I wish,” she said. “Most of these are inspirations. But I did the ones in the black frames.”

  Lee scanned the walls. He counted fourteen, and they were among the most striking. In one, an inverted Chinese fan spanned the lower back on a woman with generous hips. She’d captured the color, the grain, even the sheen of the fan’s silk, and a riverside town sprawled over the bamboo ribbing. It looked real enough to touch. In another, Wren had tattooed a pair of black lace underwear across a young woman’s entire pelvis. Lee found himself staring in order to find her cleft, but it was so well camouflaged among the lace pattern it was almost impossible.

  “Those are incredible.” He hoped she could hear the awe in his voice. He’d never seen anything like it.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, stepping up to her coffee table and bending to clear sheets and sheets of sketches.

  “What are you doing?” He tore his eyes from the wall and frowned at her.

  “It’s such a mess. It’s embarrassing.”

  Lee reached forward to stop her. “First of all, it’s not a mess. Clearly, this is your workspace, and you are damn good at your work. Secondly, you aren’t supposed to be doing chores,” he scolded. “You need a good five days of rest.”

  He watched her brush her bangs out of her eyes again. She obviously wasn’t comfortable having him in her space, and it showed. And why should she be? He was pretty much a total stranger. Even if I am her doctor. Scratch that. Especially since he was her doctor.

  Lee needed to get out of there. The trouble was he wasn’t in any hurry to leave.

  “Sit down and put your feet up,” he said, gesturing to her couch. And then he did a double-take. It was a vintage camel-back sofa with glossy ball claw legs and scrolled arms. The gold fabric was a little worn, but, otherwise, it was in excellent condition.

  “What are you staring at?” She sounded edgy.

  “Is that a Chippendale?” he found himself asking. Lee didn’t need to ask. He’d spent enough Saturdays as a kid going to antique shows with his mom to know. Before she’d gotten sick, of course.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “It’s just really nice,” he said, knowing immediately that he sounded too surprised.

  Wren folded her arms across her chest. “Dr. Hawthorne, correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, throwing his words back at him. Her green eyes flashed. “But it sort of sounds like you’re judging me.”

  “No… I-I… know a little about antiques,” he stammered before recovering. “It’s a great piece.”

  She moved to the sofa and sat, but she eyed him the whole time. “Well, I like beautiful things,” she said with a defensive shrug.

  He hoped he could undo whatever offense he’d given. “You have excellent taste.”

  “Thank you.” Her tone was a little stiff. Wren picked up her feet and toed off her black ankle boots, one at a time. As soon as the second one hit the floor, a black, white, and orange blur shot out from under the couch and streaked through the room.

  “I take it that was Agnes.”

  Wren smirked. “Yeah, she’s suspicious of strangers.”

  “I wonder where she gets that?” Lee said, unable to help himself.

  Wren gave him the stink-eye, and he laughed. Loud mewling issued from the next room, which Lee guessed was the kitchen.

  “If you tell me where to find her food, I’ll try to get on her good side.”

  She gave him an amused l
ook. “Good luck with that,” she said, settling back against the arm of her sofa. “Her food is in the cabinet under the sink, and her bowl is in the corner by the fridge. She’ll probably hide under my bed until you leave, but she’ll eat eventually.”

  “Okay.” Lee turned and made his way to the kitchen. As soon as the cat saw him, she darted away through the opposite door, but when she heard him open the cabinet and shake the bag of Meow Mix, she ran back to her bowl. When Lee started to pour, Agnes did two, quick figure-eights through his legs before diving in.

  “Oh my God, is that her eating?” Wren called from the living room, clearly surprised.

  A grin broke across Lee’s face. “Yeah, I guess she’s a good judge of character.”

  “Or she’s starving.”

  He didn’t miss the dry tone in her reply. Lee picked up the cat’s water dish and brought it to the cast iron sink. He looked around the kitchen. Like most houses in the Saint Streets, Wren’s little duplex was old school. He guessed it had been built around the 30s or 40s. The cabinets were narrow and spare. There was no dishwasher, but the space was big enough to eat in. The enamel-top chrome rim table with its black vinyl chairs looked right at home. If it weren’t for her appliances, Wren’s kitchen could have made an authentic mid-century portrait.

  He set down the cat’s water dish and popped his head back into the living room. “Don’t get up. Permission to do a perimeter sweep for poop bombs.”

  Wren’s eyes went wide, and she seemed to suppress a laugh. “You’re serious about that, aren’t you?”

  “I am. I just want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Wren gave a sigh. “Fine. If you must.”

  “I must,” he confirmed before stepping back into the kitchen.

  Agnes swished her tail as she ate, and Lee crossed to the other doorway, which led to a short hall. A utility room stood to his left and a bathroom to his right. The hall ended at Wren’s bedroom door.

  Again, it was like stepping back in time. A Victorian iron bed with a long center spoke and brass S scrolls stood in the middle of the room. Pink rosebuds covered the quilt that lay across the mattress, and half-a-dozen pillows stuffed into vintage lace shams were stacked neatly against the headboard. The bed had been made with precision, and there wasn’t a cat turd in sight.