Archangel Rafe (A Novel of The Seven Book 1) by Lisa Hughey Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lisa Hughey
down a hallway.
She tried not to focus on the giant mason jars full of dried herbs and mushrooms and--was that a snakeskin? Eeeww. She averted her gaze from other items she didn’t even want to identify. The juxtaposition of modern office and ancient practice was just a bit of an odd disconnect, as if she were trapped between the logic of medicine and the romance of magic and miracles.
Once they were inside a small room that looked like a cross between a doctor’s exam room and a spa room, Peter introduced himself, but didn’t shake her hand. He didn’t even look at the paperwork she had filled out, which was fine since she didn’t have a valid reason for this visit. A few night sweats were nothing. She’d get over her depression. And she certainly wasn’t about to tell him that she dreamed about angels.
The paper crinkled as she hopped up on the exam table. Her palms were sweaty from the unknown.
Then Peter settled down to business. He leaned over, and peered into her ear. Her ear .
She had this moment where she thought she might blurt, “What are you looking for, the Elephant in Horton Hears a Who?”. But laughing at your acupuncturist-slash-Traditional-Chinese-Medicine practitioner was probably not the best way to start the relationship.
Of course, perhaps she should be just a little nicer, since it was the only new relationship she’d had in forever. Unless you counted her dream guy. And wasn’t that pathetic? Good thing she didn’t want a relationship.
“Ah.”
What did ‘ah’ mean?
“I’m going to take your pulse in three places,” he stated matter-of-factly.
So far she was just the tiniest bit underwhelmed. Ears. Pulses. She was supposed to pay for this?
He pressed his fingertips to her right wrist, listened and counted, then he moved to the next place up her wrist. He frowned. “Why did you come here?”
He’d know if he looked at the damn papers. Did she really have to say it out loud?
“I’m starting menopause,” she blurted baldly. And she didn’t like it. Night sweats, weird dreams. “Early.”
“No.” He shook his head emphatically. “No menopause.”
Ha. I think I know my own body. I knew this would be a waste of time.
“I’m having night sweats,” she said. And she didn’t like it. And she was depressed.
“You have had back pain in your lower right side.”
Yes. She had. An old track injury from high school. Too much high jump and not enough padding when she fell. “Used to.” But come to think about it, she hadn’t had much pain recently.
He nodded. “You also had an injury to your left knee some time ago. But it looks fine.”
He was right. She’d hurt her knee on a ski trip about six years back. She hadn’t gone skiing since and the injury had healed.
“You have stress.” He ran his hand along her shoulders.
“Yeah, what parent of teenagers doesn’t?” She quipped. He was like a fortune teller where one could infer meaning from very obscure and not quite cryptic statements.
“No. No. Not regular stress.” He fingered her newly colored hair. “But you don’t look like you have stress. Stick out your tongue.”
She stuck out her tongue and wished everyone would stop. Angelina knew what she looked like, and while she wasn’t complete dog meat, she wouldn’t win any beauty contests either. As far as she was concerned, she felt every single one of her thirty-eight years.
“May I try your other wrist?”
“Sure.” She thrust out her left arm and wondered how she could gracefully extricate herself from Peter’s office. So maybe he’d nailed a few old injuries, fairly impressive given that he’d only looked in her ears and taken her pulse. But face it, this had been a total waste of time. His and hers.
Peter clasped her wrist between his fingertips, just like last time. He jerked back, his gaze shot to hers. “Ah.”
“What?”
He pointed to the sunspot on her other wrist. “You are changing.”
She sighed. Wasn’t that what she
She tried not to focus on the giant mason jars full of dried herbs and mushrooms and--was that a snakeskin? Eeeww. She averted her gaze from other items she didn’t even want to identify. The juxtaposition of modern office and ancient practice was just a bit of an odd disconnect, as if she were trapped between the logic of medicine and the romance of magic and miracles.
Once they were inside a small room that looked like a cross between a doctor’s exam room and a spa room, Peter introduced himself, but didn’t shake her hand. He didn’t even look at the paperwork she had filled out, which was fine since she didn’t have a valid reason for this visit. A few night sweats were nothing. She’d get over her depression. And she certainly wasn’t about to tell him that she dreamed about angels.
The paper crinkled as she hopped up on the exam table. Her palms were sweaty from the unknown.
Then Peter settled down to business. He leaned over, and peered into her ear. Her ear .
She had this moment where she thought she might blurt, “What are you looking for, the Elephant in Horton Hears a Who?”. But laughing at your acupuncturist-slash-Traditional-Chinese-Medicine practitioner was probably not the best way to start the relationship.
Of course, perhaps she should be just a little nicer, since it was the only new relationship she’d had in forever. Unless you counted her dream guy. And wasn’t that pathetic? Good thing she didn’t want a relationship.
“Ah.”
What did ‘ah’ mean?
“I’m going to take your pulse in three places,” he stated matter-of-factly.
So far she was just the tiniest bit underwhelmed. Ears. Pulses. She was supposed to pay for this?
He pressed his fingertips to her right wrist, listened and counted, then he moved to the next place up her wrist. He frowned. “Why did you come here?”
He’d know if he looked at the damn papers. Did she really have to say it out loud?
“I’m starting menopause,” she blurted baldly. And she didn’t like it. Night sweats, weird dreams. “Early.”
“No.” He shook his head emphatically. “No menopause.”
Ha. I think I know my own body. I knew this would be a waste of time.
“I’m having night sweats,” she said. And she didn’t like it. And she was depressed.
“You have had back pain in your lower right side.”
Yes. She had. An old track injury from high school. Too much high jump and not enough padding when she fell. “Used to.” But come to think about it, she hadn’t had much pain recently.
He nodded. “You also had an injury to your left knee some time ago. But it looks fine.”
He was right. She’d hurt her knee on a ski trip about six years back. She hadn’t gone skiing since and the injury had healed.
“You have stress.” He ran his hand along her shoulders.
“Yeah, what parent of teenagers doesn’t?” She quipped. He was like a fortune teller where one could infer meaning from very obscure and not quite cryptic statements.
“No. No. Not regular stress.” He fingered her newly colored hair. “But you don’t look like you have stress. Stick out your tongue.”
She stuck out her tongue and wished everyone would stop. Angelina knew what she looked like, and while she wasn’t complete dog meat, she wouldn’t win any beauty contests either. As far as she was concerned, she felt every single one of her thirty-eight years.
“May I try your other wrist?”
“Sure.” She thrust out her left arm and wondered how she could gracefully extricate herself from Peter’s office. So maybe he’d nailed a few old injuries, fairly impressive given that he’d only looked in her ears and taken her pulse. But face it, this had been a total waste of time. His and hers.
Peter clasped her wrist between his fingertips, just like last time. He jerked back, his gaze shot to hers. “Ah.”
“What?”
He pointed to the sunspot on her other wrist. “You are changing.”
She sighed. Wasn’t that what she