Page 6 of Doctorshipped
I’ve had enough of him. He’s a conundrum, and anyway, I don’t do men. I’m going to be single for life—happily so.
I turn my attention back to his delightful daughter, the one who begged to sit by the window, but now has her back turned toward it and sits bouncing with excitement over books. My kind of girl.
“What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m Fiona. And this is my dad, Grant.”
“Nice to meet you, Fiona,” I say. No, I don’t say,nice to meet you, Grant. I probably should, considering I just drooled all over his dress shirt. But, I can’t actually say it was nice to meet him. It was something. Not exactly nice.
“What kind of author are you?” Fiona asks.
The plane thuds onto the ground and the telltale pull of and whoosh of the landing gear engaging overrides us momentarily.
“I write fantasy romance.”
Her father, Grant, huffs.
He actually huffs.
“What?” I ask him directly.
“Fantasy romance?”
“I didn’t stutter.”
Fiona giggles.
“Well, I guess that’s fitting,” he grumble-mutters.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Romance is fantasy, isn’t it?”
I’d be prone to agree with him. When I broke up with my boyfriend—well, he broke up with me, to be exact—I would have told you romance was a notion, a wishful interlude leading only to heartbreak. But, I’ve seen too many successful, happy, real couples up close in my friend group to think true romance can’t exist.
I decide to take the high road. My conversation is with Grant’s daughter, not him.
“My romance booksarefantasy. I write about aliens, vampires, shifters, werewolves … creatures who don’t exist in our world, but who still deserve their share of romance.”
Grant looks out the window, and then glances up at the lit sign just as the bell chimes, indicating that we can unbuckle our seatbelts. He looks at Fiona, “Let’s go.”
They both stand. I back into the aisle and Grant surprises me by reaching up and grabbing my carry-on for me. They step out in front of me and we don’t say another word to one another until we are off the plane and Fiona turns to look at me from over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you, author, Jayme.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I say as she turns and takes a few quick steps to catch up with her dad.
If I had to make a good, solid case for remaining single, men like him would be one strong piece of evidence in that iron-clad life decision.
3
GRANT
People from our flight crowd around the baggage carousel, but for some inexplicable reason, my eyes drift across the conveyor belt to the other side of the room where another cluster of passengers waits for their luggage to drop from the chute.
And I see her.
Jayme.
A fantasy romance author. Figures. What kind of profession is that anyway? How does she even pay her bills? Writing romance is bad enough, but romances between mythical creatures? Do people actually read that sort of thing? And yet, she had Vivaldi for a ringtone.
