Page 77 of Doctorshipped
Whenever I do anything in life, I do it with precision, or I don’t bother doing it at all. I’m not bragging when I say I’m a good dancer. At one time in life, I learned to dance because my mom insisted it was a necessary evil. Later, Margot and I took several sets of lessons after we started our respective practices. We had galas and fundraisers that required us to mingle in affluent social circles. Dancing well and playing golf were two non-negotiable skills. If Mom were still here, I’d be kissing her cheek in thanks for her foresight.
I pull Jayme in so our bodies align, and then I begin to move us around the dance floor, taking up only our small corner, leading her and swaying to the beat of the slow song as I test out a few steps to see how we move together. And we move well.
I tip my head down toward Jayme’s. I’m nearly a foot taller than her, so her head rests comfortably on my chest. Her scent washes over me. Cinnamon and flowers. She’s everything sweet and homey in life. It figures she’d smell like a bakery in Provence. She’s soft in my arms, all her curves fitting against me, the fabric of her dress swishing between our legs as I spin us lightly.
For as feisty as she can be, I half-expect Jayme to try to take over and lead this dance. But she doesn’t. She tucks herself into my embrace and surrenders to my leading.
She hasn’t met my eyes since I cut in on Brooks, so I have no way besides her pliant movements to tell how she feels about being in my arms right now. About halfway through the song, she looks up at me. Her eyes wander over my features as if she’s seeing me for the first time, or she’s trying to figure me out.
And I don’t blame her. I’m acting out of character. And yet, I never felt more like myself, doing exactly what I’m meant to be doing. Her lips part and I wonder if she’s about to make a sudden declaration of hidden feelings. Maybe she’s experiencing the same unexpected connection that I am right now.
I bend in—with half a mind to kiss her. My gaze roves from her chocolate brown eyes to her pillow-soft lips. She mirrors my movements, looking from my eyes to my mouth and back again. I’m so rusty, but I’m not that far out of practice that I can’t read the signals. When a woman flits her gaze from a man’s eyes to his lips and back again, she wants to be kissed. And I want to kiss Jayme. I want to kiss her more than I want to breathe. All thoughts of anything but kissing her have fled my mind.
It’s her.
Everything about her.
She’s different from anyone I’ve known. She’s under my skin. I can’t stop thinking about her. I want to know what her lips taste like, to run my hands through her curls and kiss up her neck. I want to stay up all night, snuggled together on my couch, simply holding hands and talking about everything and nothing with her, hearing her laugh, watching her as she drifts to sleep.
I want her in my home, in my life, in my heart. How did this happen? She ambushed me with her bright, sunny disposition, her unfailing devotion to Fiona, and her resilient spirit. I’m no longer confused about what I want. I may have sworn off women, and who would blame me? But she’s not just any woman, and I want her.
When I lean nearer, Jayme says something I wasn’t prepared to hear.
In a soft and careful voice, she asks, “How’s the guinea pig?”
I shake my head. “The guinea pig?”
Jayme squeezes my hand with hers and a teasing smile lights up her face.
“You know, the creature?”
“Ah, yes.”
To say I’m disoriented would be an understatement. And what exactly was I thinking? As if Jayme wants to kiss me, and as if a kiss between us should happen here, in front of a not-so-small fraction of the town where news travels faster than a bullet train. Besides, no matter what I feel for Jayme, she doesn’t need a man like me falling for her. She’s young, and optimistic. And she’s sworn to singleness.
“The creature seemed to be alive and making all sorts of odd squeaking noises when we left. I think we achieved not killing it so far.”
Jayme’s melodic laugh taunts me. I’m like a starving man, hungry for her and unable to take even a nibble. All this time, I convinced myself she was merely intriguing.
Now I realize how truly sunk I am.
25
JAYME
How’s the guinea pig?
Seriously?
I had to say something though. It felt like Grant was about to kiss me. And I wanted him to. I really, really, really wanted him to lean in, and not merely kiss me, but claim me with his strong, full lips while he held me in his embrace and we explored one another through a kiss. The thoughts and feelings I had as he held me and guided me around the dance floor shouldn’t be repeated around young ears.
But, Grant and I can’t kiss. I’m Fiona’s tutor, and I have no idea what Grant feels for me beyond appreciation for my care for Fiona, and a slight annoyance at my chronic optimism. Maybe he felt an attraction in the moment—weddings do that to people. Even the crustiest of curmudgeons can go all soft and swoony after watching a couple like Shannon and Duke declare their undying love for one another.
And anyway, I’m solidly single, no matter what Shannon and I talked about last night in our heart-to-heart.
Maybe Grant wasn’t going to kiss me. I probably only wished for that possibility because he had me in his arms and he smelled like leather and soap and deliciously broody man. The way he took charge, I could let go and simply be led. I don’t know where else in my life I’m able to do that. Everything feels like it’s up to me, but during our dance, for those glorious few minutes, Grant took the lead and I felt safe enough to let him.
And then I blurted out the first thing that came to mind:Heya, buddy. How’s the guinea pig?Stellar. Well, if he were going to kiss me, I sure put that idea on the deep freeze. There will be no kissing here tonight, friends.
