Page 16 of Doctorshipped
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“That’s what I asked you.”
“No you didn’t. You made a growly noise of confusion.”
“Which was meant to imply you should elaborate what you meant by penning fortunes.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, I’m a writer, as you know. Freelance work. Indie novels. Those are jobs one and two. And I write fortunes. You know? For the cookies.”
Grant stares at me, like a person stares at a bug crawling up their arm right before they squash it—to death.
I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders. I’ve substitute taught at the local elementary school over the past year on a number of occasions for a week at a time when a teacher was out sick or on leave. This glare from Doctor McHotty has nothing on a second grader who just spilled glue down his favorite shirt while his classmates line up for recess.
“And you’ve worked at the flower mart here in town?”
“Part-time florist at your service,” I say with a smile.
As if he wants to send flowers anywhere but my premature funeral right now.
He scowls.
Noted: Does not like flowers.
The scowl should look ugly or intimidating, but it makes his eyes so intense they nearly sparkle.
“And you … what? What is this fifth job in the cobbled life of Miss Culhane?”
“I substitute taught at the elementary school.”
“Are you also the principal, janitor, and school secretary?” I barely hear him mumble to himself while he stares at my resume as though it’s about to come to life and dance around his desk like the drunken elephants in Dumbo.
“No. I’m not, actually.”
His eyes snap up toward mine. His face remains remarkably impassive.
I decide I’ve had enough of playing Captain VonTrapp and Maria for one day. I’m not going to start belting out songs about white flowers while I spin through the room like I’ve dropped an extra dose of ecstasy. And I can’t take much more of this inquisition. The man needs a tutor for his adorable daughter. It boils down to me or Rob, our resident graduate of MIT who has a famous science-themed YouTube channel. And I’m not sure if Rob was even approached for this position.
“You need a tutor?” I say in a statement that holds barely a hint of question in it.
He nods.
Good. We’re getting somewhere.
“I’m the tutor. So, as much fun as this has been, you can hire me, or you can drive to Dayton to the Kumon Center and arrange for tutoring there. Or fly someone in, or do a virtual tutoring thing. I think there are reputable ones to be found. But, if you want someone local, I’m it. So you may not like the way I cobble my life together, but that’s not really up for town vote—or your input.”
He studies me. His face still holds the stoicism of an ancient Greek.
“I promise I will be patient and kind, but firm. I will instruct, evaluate and tailor lessons. You will see improvement. And I can assure you I will stay out of your way.”
I let out a breath and think,whaaaaaaat did I just do?That’s so not me. I’m not timid, but I don’t grab a man by the collar and give him that kind of tongue lashing.
I picture giving Doctor McGrumpy a tongue lashing while gripping his collar. Oh my word. What is happening to me? What is it about Grant that makes the worst version of me rise to the surface while simultaneously making me have urges I haven’t felt in … well, probably ever?
I have to get out of here. I’m a happily single woman. I plan to be rocking my singleness well into my nineties—and then to die, blissfully single.
I don’t tell men off. And I don’t picture kissing near-strangers while gripping their lapels for dear life.
I stand before I give Grant a chance to respond.
