“We’re on first-name terms now,” whispered James close to her ear. Emma felt his warm breath on her temple, sending shivers down her spine.
“Lizzy, could you check if there’s anyone left in the corridor? I wanted to leave early today—Mum’s birthday,” Emma said.
“Right away, Dr. Bennett,” replied the young, cheerful nurse, standing up from her desk. She peeked into the hallway. “No one’s left, and all the appointments are done. I double-checked,” Lizzy reassured her with a smile.
“Perfect. If anyone comes, schedule them for tomorrow or send them to Dr. Thompson’s office.”
“Go on, I’ll handle everything. Don’t worry,” Lizzy said. “The clinic manager’s away on business—I’ve got your back.”
“Thank you. What would I do without you?” Emma grabbed her bag, glanced at her desk to ensure she hadn’t forgotten her phone, and headed for the door. “See you tomorrow, Lizzy.”
“Goodbye, Dr. Bennett. Oh, hurry—look how dark it’s gotten. It’s about to pour.”
“Really? I still need to pick up flowers. Well, I’m off,” Emma called over her shoulder as she stepped into the corridor.
She quickly changed out of her white coat and was fastening her raincoat on the stairs when an elderly woman stopped her by reception.
“Dr. Bennett, leaving already?”
“Hello. Can it wait till tomorrow? I’m in a rush,” Emma adjusted her collar as she moved toward the exit.
“Dr. Bennett, little Sophie only listens to you. Couldn’t you just pop in and calm her down? She’s been crying nonstop,” the woman pleaded, trailing behind her.
“I have evening appointments tomorrow—I’ll check on her then. I really must go now, sorry.” Emma hurried outside and glanced up at the sky.
A looming black cloud crept over London, so heavy it seemed ready to burst and drown the city in rain.
By the time she reached the flower stall, fat drops had already begun to splatter her shoulders. She ducked under the awning just as the downpour intensified.
“Don’t worry, I’ll wrap the bouquet securely,” the florist said.
While the woman bundled Emma’s mother’s favourite gerberas in thick cellophane, Emma anxiously watched buses pull away from the stop one after another. Finally, she paid with a quick tap of her card, clutched the bouquet over her head, and dashed for shelter.
The rain had turned relentless. The bus stop was empty now, save for her. At least the roof offered some cover. Her umbrella lay forgotten at the clinic, and she was already drenched.
No bus in sight. She should’ve waited inside, chatted with Sophie’s grandmother—too late for regrets. Shivering, she edged further under the awning as cars sped past, spraying murky puddles.
“Where is it? Of all days…” Emma muttered, squinting down the road. Suddenly, a black Range Rover pulled up beside the pavement. A pang of envy struck her—how nice it’d be to have a car and avoid this misery.
The passenger window slid down, revealing a man. It took her a moment to realise he was speaking to her.
“Need a lift? There’s been an accident—buses are stuck.”
Before she could decide, he pushed the door open. Warmth and dryness enveloped her as she settled into the leather seat. Even the drumming rain faded to a hush.
“Where to?” he asked, studying her.
Around her age, handsome in a tailored suit. Emma flushed. *I must look like a drowned rat*.
“Elm Street,” she said.
“Perfect. I’m heading that way.”
His calm confidence unnerved her. Not the sort who’d play villains in telly dramas—far too polished. *Leading-man material*, she thought. The car glided forward, carrying the scent of leather and expensive cologne. A persistent beeping broke the silence.
“Seatbelt,” he reminded her.
She fumbled with the clasp, then adjusted the bouquet on her lap.
“Why did you stop for me?” she asked, watching the wipers slash rhythmically at the downpour.
“Told you—gridlock. You’d have waited ages. Plus, the flowers—clearly an occasion.” He glanced at her. *”And we’re going the same way.”*
*Men like him don’t pick up strangers*, she nearly said but bit her tongue.
“Your face is familiar. We’ve met before—I never forget one,” he mused.
“Doubtful,” Emma scoffed. “We’re from different worlds. Different tax brackets, as they say.”
She felt the weight of his assessing gaze.
“Your sort don’t take buses. I’m just a humble GP,” she added, sharper than intended.
He stayed quiet. So did she, regretting her tone.
“Ah. Two months ago—my granddaughter’s check-up at your clinic.”
“You?” Emma stared. *”I’d have remembered you.”*
“Too young for a granddad? Blame my daughter—teen mum. Kids these days.”
“Takes after someone,” Emma snipped.
“Feisty. Don’t cross you, do they? Even then, I could tell you were strict.”
“Is that bad?”
“Depends,” he deflected. “You grew up on Elm Street?”
“Yes.”
“Went to St. Mary’s Secondary?”
“How did you—?”
“Alumni. Odd we never crossed paths.” His brief glance made her cheeks warm. “When did you graduate?”
“2004.”
“Ah. Me—’99. Bet you were top of the class. Too busy for boys, dreaming of med school.”
She bristled, but her mother’s building came into view.
“Turn into that estate. Second block, please.”
“Can’t pull up closer—you’d step right into a puddle,” he said, already opening his door.
“I’m fine!” She leapt out, sprinting to the entrance.
When she turned back, the Range Rover was driving away. *I didn’t even thank him.*
Inside, the flat smelled of vanilla. Her mother gasped at the flowers.
“You’re soaked! Change now—tea’s ready. Made your favourite cake…”
“Where’s your book club?” Emma noticed the empty lounge.
“Didn’t invite them. We meet enough. Pensions don’t stretch far. Just us tonight.” Her mother’s eyes twinkled. “Who drove you? A suitor?”
“*Mum.* Random kindness. Bus crash.”
“Handsome, though.”
“You *peeked*?”
“I’ve got eyes.”
Over cake, her mother nudged her toward dating, forgetting the past, starting fresh…
“*Mum.* I’m fine. Seeing kids all day—I’m *set*,” Emma mumbled, dozing against her shoulder.
She woke to darkness. Her mother knitted under a lamp, the telly murmuring.
“I crashed.”
“Made your old bed up.”
Emma lingered, savouring the comfort. Later, under the covers, she replayed the drive. *Stop dreaming. Not for you.*
A week passed. No Range Rover. *Your fault. Move on.*
Then, another rainy Friday. At the bus stop, a woman nudged her.
“Love, is that for you?”
Emma lifted her umbrella. The black car idled by the kerb, passenger door open.
Heart racing, she slipped inside. James smiled.
“Sorry I vanished. Work. But today… I missed you.”
“Sorry I—I panicked. It’s been years since… I don’t know *how* to do this.”
“Who says what I need?” At dinner, he slid theatre tickets across the table.
“I’ll collect you tomorrow. No pressure. Just… let me try.”
*Maybe,* Emma thought, *luck finds you when you least expect.*
