Page 30 of Wrecked By You
One hour.
Then it was decision time.
I returned to Chloe’s bedroom.
“Here,” Ginny said, “I’ll do it. You look dead on your feet.”
Grateful, I handed the cool towel to her and went to sit down, but before my butt hit the chair, a knock at the door interrupted me.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
Ginny cocked a brow. “Seeing through walls isn’t something I’ve yet mastered.”
I stuck out my tongue at her. “Funny.”
“Go answer it.” She jerked her chin. “And if it’s Fred from next door come to ask me out on a date, again, tell him my answer is the same as the previous twelve times he’s asked.”
“You keeping score? Maybe Fred just needs to be a little more persistent.”
Ginny wagged her finger. “You give that man ideas, and you and I will be having words.”
I chuckled to myself, the moment of levity a welcome distraction, and trudged down the hallway. Poor Fred. Got to give the man ten out of ten for effort, even if it was misplaced.
I opened the door.
It wasn’t Fred.
A tall, reedy-looking man with dark, curly hair and a long, thin nose, which matched his physique, was standing on Ginny’s front step. Dressed in a snappy suit and a cobalt-blue tie, he carried a briefcase, one of those that door-to-door salesmen often hauled along, stuffed with household items that plenty bought but no one used.
“Yes?”
“Miss Reyes?”
I stiffened. “Who wants to know?”
His smile was meant to reassure. Didn’t work on me. I folded my arms and made myself as tall as possible.
“I’m Doctor Magnusson. I’m here to see Chloe.”
My head snapped back so fast I thought I might’ve broken my neck. I rubbed at the nape and narrowed my eyes. “Who called you?”
“Mr. Kingcaid. He said I was to come right by.”
I ground my teeth. The interferingbastard.He knew full well I couldn’t afford a damned doctor, yet he’d butted his nose in where it wasn’t wanted and sent one anyway. Who thehelldid he think he was?
And on a Saturday, too. I was almost certain that weekend visits were even more costly than weekday ones.
“I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted visit, Doctor Magnusson.”
“Oh?” He frowned. “Do I have the wrong house?” He stepped back and checked the number stamped on the wooden porch. “I’m sure this is the right address.”
“It’s the right address, but you’ve received the wrong information.”
His frown deepened. “You don’t have a sick child?”
A band locked around my chest. Having a doctor standing right there, with the training and medicine to help my daughter, when I knew I couldn’t afford his fee was a form of torture no one should have to endure.
“Yes, I do, but what I’m lacking, Doctor Magnusson, is the ability to pay you.”