Page 43 of Doctorshipped
I see Grant out of the corner of my eye. Standing back, surveying everyone as if he’s here to shut the party down, not join it.
I look over at Fiona. “Let’s go get your dad and introduce him to some people so he doesn’t spend the night standing in the middle of the driveway with his hands stuffed in his pockets.”
“He’s hopeless,” Fiona says with a dramatic sigh.
“He really is,” I say with a roll of my eyes and a light shake of my head.
Grant sees me walking toward him with Fiona, and his eyes soften. Maybe I’m imagining some effect I have on him. More than likely, it’s Fiona’s presence relaxing him as it always seems to do.
“Did you want to set up camp here, or move closer to the people?” I ask.
“Closer to people?”
He asks it as though I’m suggesting he go frolicking through a field of poison ivy in his boxers.
“People. You know, the ones you’ve taken a pledge to serve. That whole hippocratic oath thing about doing no harm?”
“I can do the least harm from a distance.”
“While I’d fully agree with that statement, I want to assure you the sooner you get this over with, the better. It will be like ripping a bandaid off, to use a medical euphemism.”
“We don’t use that actual phrase in real medicine.”
“Not my point, Doctor Peppers.”
He glares at me and it’s glorious. I shouldn’t be having fun poking the bear, but it’s so irresistible. It’s just too easy to get a rise out of him.
Fiona’s been observing the banter between me and her dad for a few moments. She finally says, “Daddy, I want to play with the other kids. Come with me so you can meet people. Please.”
At that one word from Fiona, Grant gives a light nod and turns to follow her. He looks like a child being led to the principal’s office, but he’s moving toward the clusters of people, so that’s progress.
Duke sees Grant approaching and meets him halfway. I can’t hear their conversation, but Duke’s his usual animated self, talking with enthusiasm and a huge smile. The two men are a study in contrasts. Grant folds his arms over his chest, but doesn’t disengage. Duke’s all playfulness and light, engaging and fearless. Grant’s serious and broody, closed off and cautious.
I can’t seem to stop watching the two men as they interact. Brooks comes over to where Grant and Duke are talking. Grant acknowledges him and actually shakes his hand. I feel like a mom dropping her child off for the first day of school, hoping he’ll make friends and not end up playing alone on the playground.
Only Grant’s no child. He’s wearing lightly faded jeans that hug his thighs, and a casual pair of what look like brand new tennis shoes instead of his polished loafers. He’s got on a fitted T-shirt so that nothing covers his arms where he usually has the sleeves of a dress shirt. His biceps are toned, not overly bulked, but muscular and taut. And he has forearms that would inspire a romance novelist—which, of course, I am, but my characters are not usually human, so forearms don’t come into play in my books. He’s all man, and seeing him in such casual clothes makes him seem more … approachable? vulnerable? desirable? I don’t know. But it’s something.
Shannon comes up beside me and I don’t realize she’s there until her mouth nearly brushes my ear. “That’s a nice looking group of men right there.”
“Agreed,” I say. “And I’m appreciating them the same way I appreciate paintings at the museum.”
“Any particular painting you appreciate more than the others?”
“Nope. That would be a no.”
“Hmmm. Well, they aren’t paintings, so I’m going to touch,” she says, sauntering over to Duke and lacing her fingers through his. He turns away from whatever he was saying to Grant and kisses Shannon. Not on the forehead, like Trevor did to Lexi. Nope. He’s Duke. He gives Shannon a kiss that makes me blush, even from this distance.
And then Grant’s eyes find mine and I blush another two shades deeper. It’s like we’re watching this kiss together. I turn away. Time to see what side dishes everyone brought to this shindig.
The tables set out by the barbecue where Aiden is cooking ribs, burgers and chicken are overflowing with casseroles and side dishes.
I’m staring at the options—jello molds, ambrosia salad, baked beans, chips, and multiple plates piled high with corn cobs—when an all too familiar voice breaks my concentration.
“So, what’s good to eat here?”
I turn to see Grant’s intense stare assessing the spread of food from over my shoulder. If I stepped back one foot, my back would collide with his chest. I grip my plate a little tighter and focus on the crock pot filled with Lit’l Smokies.
“Well, it depends on your taste in food. I’d steer clear of that,” I say, pointing to the casserole Memaw brought.
