Page 22 of Doctorshipped
Grant glances at the box of muffins in my hand and a questioning look passes across his face. I fight the urge to toss them over the porch railing into the front bushes. Why does he make me feel like I’m in junior high? Shannon’s words come to mind and I stand firm. Who cares what the hot doctor thinks? I don’t think that’s how she phrased it. But, there he is, looking admittedly hot, a little frazzled, and very grumpy.
“Of course I showed. I promised Fiona I’d come. I don’t break my promises, especially not ones I make to children or people who need me.”
His lips almost move into what could be the beginning of a smile, but the moment they start to turn upward, they resume their normal posture, like the palace guard at Buckingham, unflinching and austere. I’ve always had this odd inclination to do something utterly silly to make those guards crack too. It’s unnatural to be so stern with hundreds of people milling about around you. At least they have good reason. They’re guarding royalty. Doctor Grumpsalot has no reason that I can tell to be moody and dour. But, here we are frowning into a perfectly sunny day.
I’m nearly bursting with the urge to ask him why he’s so serious and restrained. But, I have a feeling he’d send me home and never let me come back, and after meeting Fiona, I’m determined to help her.
I wonder what makes him think I wouldn’t show up. It’s obvious from his expression he definitely did not expect me to be here. The residue of shock slips out from beneath his stoic façade.
Since I can’t ask him all the questions I want to ask, I simply stare at him while he avoids my eyes by pretending to be interested in something across the street. He’s acting like my eyes are the third eye on the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland—as if looking into them would cause him to face an eternal curse.
I’ll have to write that into a book—a character who holds an eternal curse in her gaze.
Anyway, I keep my eyes fixed on his face without even hiding that I’m doing it. The summer humidity presses in around me while I clutch my box of muffins like a lifering, staring at him while he stubbornly surveys the area beyond his yard.
Something comes over me and I start to make faces, to test his peripheral vision, or to entertain myself during this strange stand-off.
I cross my eyes.
Nothing.
I stick out my tongue.
Still nothing.
I flare my nostrils and arch my one eyebrow while lowering the other.
He looks at me and I straighten my expression just in time. Or so I think.
“Are you just going to stand there practicing elementary school facial contortions, or are you actually going to tutor my daughter?”
No muffins. He’s not getting one of these muffins. Not even a bite or a little morsel of the crumb topping, even if it would cheer him up. He’s a muffin-less meany and he won’t get to me. He won’t. I don’t care if he helped pick my underwear off an airport floor or let me drool on his shoulder, or if he smiles the most handsome, loving smiles at his daughter. He’s not getting my muffins and that’s final.
“I’m here to tutor Fiona,” I say with a smile.
Shannon’s right. I’m not going to let him deflate me. I’m going to remain my cheery self. Actually, I’m going to kill him with kindness. Not kill him, kill him. Just injure, maim, debilitate, level, disarm, and overwhelm him with it.
Why not? Kindness comes naturally to me. I love showering people around me with sweet words and gifts. Kindness makes the world a better place. And if it won’t make Grant less grumpy, I can at least make my days more interesting by being kind in response to his grumbly, irritated, maddening ways.
“Do you like cinnamon?” I ask as I push past him and walk into his home.
“When it’s baked into something, yes.”
“I wasn’t asking if you opened the spice container and ate it for breakfast by the spoonful.”
I mumble the next sentence to myself. “Though that would explain your demeanor if you did.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I baked muffins. If you would like one, I’ll bring you one on a plate. Into your office, where I assume you’ll be hiding out while I tutor Fiona.”
So much for my muffin stand-off. But, I’m back in charge. And cheery.
Grant studies me and clears his throat.
“You baked them?”
“I bake. It’s one of those cobbled things I do.”
