Page 65 of Doctorshipped
“Calm down. He’s got pants on. He’s just sitting here shirtless, and that’s the subject we’re expected to paint.”
“What on earth?” Grant grumbles, more to himself than me.
“They thought it would be like the artists in Italy.”
“I’m sure.”
“Anyway, I wanted to talk to you because Fiona was really looking forward to tonight, but obviously we don’t want her coming home with a portrait of Brooks with all his muscles and skin exposed to hang proudly on her wall. I was thinking I’d give her something else to paint, turn her away from Brooks so she isn’t looking at him shirtless all night, and then bring her home with a lovely painting of a … soccer ball … or whatever I can come up with around the Rec Center for her to paint.”
“While you stare at Brooks shirtless all night?”
Why is that even germane to our conversation?
“To paint him, yes.”
“And what will you be doing with this painting after you finish?”
I’m calling about Fiona. Why is he asking about me? But, he’s right. What will I be doing with a painting of Brooks shirtless? Not hanging it over the mantle, that’s for sure. Besides, I’m moving into Lexi and Trevor’s at the beginning of next week. It’s not like they want a painting of Brooks sans shirt anywhere on their walls. I look over toward Lexi. She’s laughing with Laura, Em, and Shannon. Maybe she’ll be painting her own Brooks original. But, I’ll let her and Trevor figure out where that masterpiece ends up.
“I’ll find a place for it,” I say defiantly.
Something in me flares when Grant gets all bossy. I turn into more of a fifteen-year-old version of myself. Only my body feels very much like the twenty-seven-year-old I am.
“So you want a painting of Brooks shirtless?’’
“And if I do?”
Grant growls or grumbles or groans. Some broody masculine noise comes over the phone. And it does things to me. Things I don’t want. There’s this rumbly feeling that goes straight from him into me and I almost shiver. What in the ever-living what is going on?
The next noise Grant makes also isn’t exactly a word.
“Did you just harrumph?” I ask.
“Of course not.”
“You did. You totally did. And, it suits you. If anyone should harrumph, it’s you. You can pull it off. I mean, can you imagine me harrumphing?”
He grumbles. “I can imagine you doing a lot of things.”
What? What does that even mean? What does he imagine me doing? And he imagines me? My head is swimming.
In a voice that comes out quieter and more squeaky than I expected, I ask, “Like what?”
“What?”
“What do you imagine me doing?”
“Nothing. Except tutoring Fiona. Now. You’d better get back to her. Is she alone in a room with that man?”
He makes it sound awful. It’s really nothing like that. If only he could see how awkward Brooks feels, and how we’re all like one big dopey family, he’d drop this whole caveman posture and relax.
“I don’t want Fiona painting Brooks,” Grant says.
As if that weren’t abundantly clear.
“Agreed.”
“Have her paint something else.”
