Page 21 of The Doctor's Simple Life

I turn to Gramma in a desperate attempt to see if I can dissuade her. It’s not that I don’t get why she wants to do this, but I don’t want to spend any more of my day with this man. And I certainly don’t want to spend my night being insinuated to by my grandmother that I should look at him like some kind of catch.

Not that he wouldn’t be for someone, I bet. He’s handsome, he’s got a great job, and when he puts his mind to it, he can even be kind of nice. But he’s not the man for me. I want someone who can love me. I don’t want someone who talks the talk but doesn’t know how to be open enough to let me in.

If I marry, I want a partnership. I want to feel safe.

And falling for a petty attraction is not either of those things.

“Are you sure this a great idea, Gramma?” I say. “Do we have enough stuff for dinner?”

That was the worst angle I could have possibly taken. She gives me a withering look, and I wince. Not only is my grandmother the kind of person who cooks for at least twelve people at all times, but even if she wasn’t, we are literally in the store right now.

“Of course,” says Gramma, then looks back at Reece. “Don’t you worry about a single thing. You will come over tonight, and I’ll make sure you’re looked after just right.”

“Okay, then, I guess,” says Reece, looking between Gramma and me as if he’s trying to decide what the right thing to do is. “Thank you very much.”

“The pleasure is mine, sweetie,” Gramma says with a grin. “And you have to put some more things in your cart. Come around with us. Let me fill you up.”

He looks between us again, and I sigh. There’s no way I’m going to win this fight.

Reece follows us around the store for the rest of the trip like some sort of sad, lost puppy and doesn’t complain when Gramma throws stuff in his cart without asking. It’s like she’s teaching a child to feed himself, and she’s treating him like that.

When we hit the checkout, for a second I think she’s going to try and buy all his groceries for him, something I would absolutely have to put a stop to, but she doesn’t. Instead, she tells him to call any time if he wants recipes or to come for dinner. He thanks her, and I say nothing.

How is he replacing me in my own family?

I know Gramma just feels bad for him, but he’s a grown man. Can’t he look after himself?

CHAPTER 11

REECE

Ispend twenty minutes trying to figure out what shirt to wear to go over to Sienna and Peggy’s. Sienna texted me a little while ago to tell me what time she wanted me.

I say she. I have no doubt that she doesn’t want me there at all, but I can’t pretend that the idea of going over and seeing her tonight is upsetting to me.

I’ve hardly spent any social time with anyone here at all. In fact, after every shift, I’ve gone home and sat there. I’ve almost been considering starting to read. That’s how dire things are. At least there’s electricity here, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that I’m missing a month’s worth of TV by not being able to watch it.

Eventually, I decide to go casual but smart, not boring but not too fun. I pull out one of my favorite blue shirts, and as I button it up, my hands start to shake. I’m nervous.

I like Peggy plenty, and of course I see Sienna every day, but this is different. At work, or even the other night — that’s routine. There’s a purpose.

This is social. I’ve almost started to forget what having a social life is like.

I arrive at Peggy’s house at five thirty on the dot. For a second, I linger in the car, not quite sure what I’m going to say, but then I remember that I’m Reece Westbrook and I don’t get scared of anything. Especially not a woman and her grandmother.

Before I can even get to the door, Sienna opens it with a frown like she had been sitting in the window, waiting. “Come in,” she says, then turns her back on me to disappear back into the house.

“Good to see you too,” I mutter.

I head through into the kitchen, and I’m immediately met with the smell of home-cooked food. The windows are steaming up and the pots on the stove bubble away. I didn’t pay attention before, but this kitchen is full of trinkets, evidence of a life lived, of places Peggy has been — commemorative plates and tacky fridge magnets.

And the table is laid immaculately, with a crisp white tablecloth and matching silverware. Even the plates seem to have come from the same set.

God. It hits me so hard that I have to stop for a second and absorb it all. The rich mixture of tomatoes and spices and steam makes me gawk.

When was the last time someone cooked for me outside of a restaurant? When was the last time I had something like this in my home?

I can’t remember.

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