Page 15 of Doctorshipped
She looks down as if she’s unaware of what she’s wearing.
“Oh. This?”
“Yes. When you wear a shirt that has writing on it, people will be prone to reading the words.”
“I know,” she says, straightening in her chair. “That would be the whole reason to wear shirts with captions on them. I thought this one was cute.”
“Cute.”
“Yep.”
“And your goal in life is to be cute?”
“My goals in life are not what I’m here to talk with you about,” she says with a little more spirit than I expected.
“I see.”
I look back at the paper, not to read it, but to regain my bearings. Why do I feel like I’m always off-kilter around her?
“But, since you asked, my goals in life are to be happily single until I die, to write best-selling books that entertain and delight many readers, to continue to excel as a writer, and to bring joy into as many lives as I can every day.”
“You and Mary Poppins,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” I turn my attention to the resume, searching for something to get us back on track.
Jayme’s here to be the tutor. Fiona wants her. I would like to relocate and start over in an entirely different small town—one without unnerving pixies who wear silly shirts and make me lose my bearings. But that’s obviously out of the question. How did I end up with this woman as my only option for a tutor? I must have been a swarm of gnats in a past life.
“Well, let’s talk about your potential as a tutor.”
6
JAYME
When Hazel asked me to give her my resume so she could share it with the new doctor in town, I had no idea what I would be walking into. The new doctor is Grant. He’s not Mister McGrumpypants. He’s Doctor McGrumpypants. And there he sits, across this mahogany desk, mocking my graphic tee and holding my resume as if he holds my future in his bare hands. News flash: he doesn’t.
If it weren’t for Fiona, I would stand and walk out, leaving his chiseled jaw dropped for once. Letting those crystalline green-gray eyes linger on my hips as they swayed toward the pocket door and I turned to leave this adorable Victorian home in my dust. I’d wipe that smirk right off his face with my departure. And I’d do it with a smile and kindness because there’s just no reason to be mean. But it would teach him a lesson. One I think he heartily deserves.
If only it weren’t for Fiona, I’d do all that. Let him beg me to stick around. Then sweetly tell him, “No, thank you.”
But, now all the pieces are falling into place. He’s single. She’s his daughter with dyslexia—and that’s why she listens to audiobooks instead of reading them. From what Shannon told me, he’s a widower to a wife who suffered from cancer. That little tidbit gives me pause. Maybe Grant’s grumpy from grief. But, something tells me he’d be grouchy anyway. He’s just too good at brooding and scowling. That kind of natural disposition comes with practice and something from deep within a person. And he’s not mean, he’s just grumpy. But hoo-boy is he grumpy.
I stare at him while he peruses my resume like it’s written in cuneiform. My unhelpful mind remembers two things as I look at the beautiful way his hair dips across his forehead in waves that aren’t quite curls. Mussed from him running his hands through it, and yet still somehow pulled together and sexy. Gah. Not sexy. Yes. Actually sexy as heck. Sexy doesn’t mean I want him. It’s a fact. He’s sexy. And when he smiles at his daughter, he’s so much more.
The facts rolling through my mind are, One: I drooled on this man. Two: he touched my bra. And not a granny bra, or a Walmart budget bra. Nope, he held my sexy boss-babe bra—the one I wear when I want to feel extra confident. The one I’m wearing right now. And he touched it with those long, strong fingers. And then our eyes met. Which means nothing because, obviously, he’s a man and I’m me. But it would be great fodder for a novel. I make a mental note:Write all this into a novel.
But, still. Ohhhh my gosh. What did I ever do to warrant this kind of cruel karmic retribution? I don’t even believe in karma—but whatever this is, there seems to be some cosmic joke going on at my expense. I straighten my shoulders and inwardly chant,No one puts baby in a corner, to myself. Me, being baby in this unfortunate scenario, and Patrick Swayze being nowhere around when I need him most.
“So, I see here you hold four jobs. Currently? Do you hold all these currently? Or is this a typo?”
“It’s not a typo. I actually hold five jobs if you count the cookies.”
His brows draw together. “The cookies?”
“Yes. I pen fortunes.”
“Hungh?”
