Page 112 of Doctorshipped
He takes my lips in a kiss that is simultaneously playful and intense. Another layer of this man. It feels like I’ll be discovering galaxies within him—entire universes uncharted by any other human, all for me to explore and inhabit.
We kiss and hold one another, soft, then passionate, then tender again. And one of us, I’m not sure who, hears the front door open. All I do know is that we are whipping apart faster than Rob shot out of that human cannon last year. I hit the floor, because, you know, that’s so normal.
And, a second later, I’m glad I did because Fiona walks into the office, shouting, “Heya! I’m home!”
I glance across the room from under the desk and crane my neck to see the clock. Three o’clock. Why is she home? She gets off the bus at the same time every day. She’s a half-hour early.
Grant clears his throat and stands just as I shout, “Oh, there it is!”
Grant looks down at me with a questioning look. Yeah. On second thought, maybe I should have stayed quiet. But, we’re committed now.
“My … uh … um … pen! Yep! My pen! Right there!”
My eyes chaotically scan from point to point underneath Grant’s desk.
Did Fiona see us?
Gah! I hope not.
She hasn’t said anything since she walked in besides her initial announcement of her presence. Shouldn’t she be talking by now? Shouldn’t Grant be saying something?
I keep looking under the desk, hoping there’s a random pen waiting to greet me. I'd even take an eraser, or a chewed up pencil, though I’m pretty sure Grant doesn’t chew pencils. What about a crayon?
Grant scrubs his hand down the scruff on his jaw and makes these hemming, hawing, and harumphing noises, which, okay, are pretty normal for him, but not in such rapid fire, flustered succession.
No pen. Not even a paperclip. Leave it to Grant’s orderly self to have a pen-free floor. I’d totally find a pen on my floor. I could find more than one. I could probably stock the back-to-school section of the pharmacy with my floor-pen collection.
I’ve obviously been on the hunt for the pen for longer than any pen-hunter in the history of office supplies at this point.
Grant looks down and asks, “Did you find your pen?”
His voice is surprisingly nonchalant. Maybe it comes from years of being a doctor. Or maybe it’s just because he’s so used to tucking his emotions away behind his stoic exterior.
“Um yeah. Can’t reach it.”
I do, however, see a dust bunny.
Desperate times and all.
I grab the nasty cluster of whatever dust bunnies are made of and I start rolling it between my palms, trying not to think about what I’m actually touching. Maybe at a quick glance it will look like a pen?
I come up from under the desk with my pen-like fuzz stick in hand. But, I come up a little too quickly.
The back of my head meets the desk with a thud. I duck back down and rub the back of my head with my lint-free hand.
Then I pop up like a marmot, my head peeping over the edge of the desk before the rest of my body emerges.
“Ta da!” I exclaim, holding my “pen” of floor fuzz out in my hand, but sort-of cupping my fingers around my palm to shadow it from full view.
Fiona finally says something.
“Why are you guys acting so strange?”
I set my furry craft project on Grant’s desk. He eyes it strangely, and eyes me a little strangely too. Hey, I was improvising. It’s not like I had any warning so I could have stashed some pen-like supplies down there, or, say, an actual pen.
“We aren’t acting strange,” Grant says with his usual stern and immovable tone. “You’re home early.”
“I am. Remember, today was early-out for teacher inservices? And I know strange when I see it. You’re acting strange.”
