A Groom of One's Own (Appies, #3)

by Emma St. Clair

“Oh, Bailey …” The moment I hear Beth, my most favorite and also most nosy coworker, sing-song my name, I shove the letter into my bra. Just like the completely normal, fully functioning adult I am. One of the paper’s sharp corners immediately pokes delicate skin where no woman ever wants a paper cut, and I wince. It’s the same knee-jerk reaction I would have had as a kid when caught with my hand in the cookie jar. A cookie jar would be a lot more fun—and tastier—than this missive. Why, exactly, do I feel the need to hide the letter? And why did I shove it into my bra? That’s easier to answer—because scrubs don’t have pockets. Or, at least, mine don’t. They’re the bargain scrubs. No pockets. And made of a fabric only a stone’s throw from burlap. I really wish I could afford the softer, pocketed kind. Because as I turn to face Beth, I am rewarded with what is most definitely a paper cut on my nipple. “Yes, Beth?” I echo in an equally melodic voice. I know from the smug grin on her softly lined face exactly what she’s going to say. My heart, already racing a little, picks up the pace again, clearly going for a PR on its late afternoon sprint. “Your boyfriend's here,” Beth says, clasping her hands over her chest in a gesture that somehow makes her look about fifty years younger, like an elementary school girl with a crush. I can’t blame her. But I also won’t reward her teasing with an acknowledgment. “Hot Puppy Guy,” Beth clarifies after a moment. Clearly, my response of star...