Page 19 of The Doctor's Simple Life

Yesterday, she would have wheeled around and snapped at me to tell me to shut up, that we should respect our elders and give them the care they need. She would have jumped to their defense and had no second thoughts about tearing me down.

Today, she still hesitates, but there’s a challenging glint in her eye, one that’s not annoyed as much as defiant. “There’s something wrong with everyone.”

“Ouch,” I say at the pointed comment. “But have you considered that I’m perfect?”

“You definitely have,” she says cuttingly.

I press the back of my hand to my forehead in a dramatic gesture. “You’ve got it out for me today, huh?”

“Just today?” She raises both eyebrows, but she grins at the same time.

I grin back, and we continue around the ward. There are a couple of repeat customers, a couple of people with real problems, and one teenager who’s recovering from a torn ACL. She pouts up at us as we come to her, and I put on my most comforting expression.

It does nothing.

“Hey, there.” I glance down at her chart. “Jessie, how are you doing today?”

“How do you think?” She frowns.

“Jessie is making a great recovery, aren’t you, hon?” says Sienna, reaching down to her chart so she can hand it to me.

I reach out for the clipboard, but her hand slips and my palm brushes over her knuckles. But instead of wanting to flinch away, I want to get closer.

Suddenly, it bursts to life in my mind, the vision of her body against mine, of our hands twined together. Something that had never seemed reasonable before now seems so obvious, like it’s just a heartbeat away from happening rather than a wild figment of my imagination.

Maybe it still is. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions. Not yet.

But to test my theory, when I return Jessie’s chart to its holder, I make sure toaccidentallylean in too close to Sienna, bump my shoulder against her arm and watch what she does.

It’s not entirely a surprise when she doesn’t flinch at all.

CHAPTER 10

SIENNA

“Oh, hon, would you get a lettuce for me?”

“Sure, Gramma,” I say distantly, not paying as much attention as I should to the conversation.

“Pick a good one, okay?”

“Okay, Gramma.”

“I don’t want one with brown bits and bugs in it.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying,I think they do quality control some of their produce a little, Gramma,and just say, “Okay, Gramma,” again instead.

Dutifully, I make my way over to the salad greens and pick out the juiciest head of lettuce that I can see. It might not be one hundred percent to her own high-quality standards, but there aren’t too many better choices.

I know what else Gramma likes: spinach, arugula, the store-brand salad mix. If I don’t get it now, she’ll just send me back again, so I grab everything from this section that she’s going to need and head back over to where she’s manning the cart.

The stack of plastic tubs is so tall that I can barely see where I’m going, and I have to stare at them so I don’t drop them. Fortunately, I know exactly where Gramma is, and she won’t have moved, so I shuffle back over to her and try not to drop anything.

Which is hard when I bump into someone as I step up to Gramma’s cart.

“Ugh, sorry,” I mutter as I dump all the greens into the cart, then blink up to see my grandmother and Reece staring at me from where I’ve interrupted their conversation.

What the hell is he doing in the grocery store? I didn’t think he could cook. I barely ever see him eat, honestly.

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