Page 11 of Detention with Daddies

“Mmm.” Not at all who I expected her to say. Not someone who’s forward-thinking in that arena. I mean, I only have to look at his dating history to know he values the overly idealized body type for his women. Not that I’ve ever heard him fat-shaming someone.

“What doesmmmmean?”

“It doesn’t sound like something he would sign off on, but he’s fair as far as I’ve dealt with him.”

She makes another face. “Yeah, I’ve gathered that most of the faculty and staff think my thesis is a waste of time, but that’s not a deterrent for me.”

“If you ever need an ally, I’m here.” And I truly mean that. If I can help her find the proof needed to make a dent in the long-standing medical bias against bigger people, I will.

She finally gives me one of those breathtaking smiles. “Thanks.”

After another few steps, she adds, “And I chose him because I knew if I could convince him, I could convince anyone.”

That has me laughing. She pegged him right.

Too soon, we’re walking up the path to the center. I could turn to my small, shared office, but I follow her all the way to her lab. It’s good recon, knowing where she’s stationed without having to go snooping for it.

I linger by her table, watching as she sets up her space. “If you’re around later, the cafeteria is serving harissa chicken. You should grab some.”

“With you?”

I shrug, but she’s reading my mind again. “I’m usually there around one when the rush dies down.”

She smirks. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

I take that as my dismissal, trying to keep myself from flirtingtoomuch, but it’s harder than I expected.

When I turn to leave, I see Britney hanging nearby with Jeremy.

Well, shit.

I take a deep breath, preparing for the onslaught of sexual innuendos and obnoxious flirting, although I’ve already politely rejected her more than half a dozen times.

WAYLEN

I pat my son’s good leg, proud of the progress he’s been making with his other leg—the one that ends just above his knee. We’ve gone through four prosthetics, and none of them were quite right until we sat down to design one together.

It probably shouldn’t have been fun, but it was because Junior and I were doing it together.

He slides it off and hands it to me. “Still has a little too much spring. I’m not running marathons over here.”

I adjust the socket and the foot attachment in micromovements and hand it back. “You could though, and that’s the point.”

Junior laughs, always good-natured, easygoing. Even after he lost his leg to a roadside bomb. He made jokes in his hospital bed as his mother sobbed. He shouldn’t have had to ease her pain like that, but he did.

“Yeah. Maybe next year. My buds over at the support group are setting up a basketball league. I might give that a try, but I feel bad for having the advantage over the guys in the wheelchairs.” His grin is jovial.

“Could play in one with them so you don’t flaunt your ability to walk.” I might not have wanted my son to join the Marines, but I can’t begrudge him his dedication, his pride, all of his bravery and hard work.

He’s the reason I treat disabled veterans now, and we have a nice influx of them in the center. I take them on pro bono. It’s the least I could do for the men and women who made sure my son came home to me.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll do that. When are you coming back to the VA?”

“This weekend. I’ve got a small group with back injuries. Spinal surgery recovery.”

Junior grimaces. “Those are rough. No prosthetics for your spine. At least, not yet.”

“No. Not yet. But thankfully, we can work on reducing their pain and giving them some of their mobility back.”

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