Page 58 of Doctorshipped
“He’s a puzzle,” Laura adds from her place at her station. She’s curling Shannon’s hair. “I mean, you look at him and you think,hot. But then you meet him and you find out he’s socold.”
“He’s not cold,” I defend.
I can’t stop thinking of that wink he gave me in his kitchen yesterday. Was it an actual wink? It was so out of character I’m almost convinced I imagined it. But, I’m pretty sure he actually winked—at me. What did the wink mean? Was it an,I’m so right,wink? Or was it a flirty wink? Or did he have something in his eye and not want to show weakness?
“He’s surely not warm,” Laura retorts.
Our eyes meet in her mirror and I smile. She’s right. He’s not warm. But, then again, when I picture the way he is with Fiona, warm fully encompasses his interactions with her—warm, patient, kind, encouraging, supportive, and smitten.
He’s such a good dad.
And why am I thinking so much about Grant?
“Did you tell everyone about your talk with your agent?” Shannon unhelpfully asks from the styling chair.
Every eye in the salon turns toward me, and all thoughts about Grant take a back seat.
“My agent wants me to up my social media presence.”
I groan.
Laura chuckles, but gives me a sympathetic look. She and I share a disdain for social media.
“As in, get on it at all?” she asks.
“Basically. I have accounts on all the major platforms, but they are like graveyards. I have fifteen friends on Facebook and twenty-four followers on Instagram. That includes @HarryStylesLovesU, which I’m fairly certain is not Harry Styles, and some guy whose profile picture is himself in front of a yacht in a sailor hat with his labradoodle and a bouquet of roses. Not exactly my ideal reader.”
“Who wears sailor hats?” Laura chuckles.
“It’s a bot,” Shannon explains.
“Obviously,” Laura says. “And if it weren’t, no one is going for a guy who looks as smarmy as all that. He’s probably some serial killer who takes you on a boat and dumps you at sea.”
“Or he’s an old man without teeth who just wants attention, so he made a fake account,” Em says.
“Or! He’s the mafia!” Shannon adds, excitedly. “I read in Star that the mafia uses accounts.”
“Did you read that after you read about Meghan Trainor’s alien baby?” Laura jokes.
Shannon gives Laura a stink-eye. “How do you know Meghan Trainor didn’t have an alien baby? You don’t have proof.”
We all laugh. Shannon knows there aren’t alien babies. At least, I think she does.
“It’s okay if you barely have followers. Everyone starts somewhere,” Lexi says in her typical encouraging tone, dragging us back from the X-Files and into my own personal horror story.
“You could always ask …” Shannon doesn’t even finish the sentence before a chorus of, “No!” “No!” “No!” comes from each of my friends, except Em who hasn’t lived here long enough to piece together that the same woman popped into all of our minds: Ella Mae.
Ella Mae’s the queen of social media. I’m pretty sure Ella Mae doesn’t even tie the shoelaces on her knock-off stacked Jimmy Choo tennis shoes without filming the event and posting it for all her fans on what she calls “the gram.”
“Never mind, I was just making a suggestion,” Shannon says.
“I’m not asking Ella Mae,” I say with finality. “That’s like asking a biker gang to host your grandma’s birthday party.”
“Memaw would love that kind of birthday party,” Lexi says with a wink.
“She would,” I agree. “I love Memaw. I hope I’m just like her in fifty years.”
“Getting married in retirement?” Lexi asks.
