Page 61 of Doctorshipped
Let’s just be clear here. Ella Mae is not a motivational speaker. She isn’t in my life to make me feel better about myself, unless telling me I have bags under my eyes and I look like a twelve-year-old in my graphic shirts (so, no wonder men haven’t pursued me), is supposed to somehow motivate me. She’s in my life to help me with my main goal—to increase my social media presence. And, apparently, I’m willing to go to some lengths to achieve that goal.
After she made me up, she had me move around the flower shop while she snapped photos of me like I was Kate Moss on a runway, or Scarlett Johansson at the Academy Awards. I’m just a small-town author, florist, tutor, cobbled-mess of a woman. And I’d rather not pretend to be anything but me. Still, I have to admit, the photos looked good and my social media is off and running now that we uploaded them with captions Ella Mae crafted about flowers and love. I hope I don’t live to regret her involvement.
Tonight is paint night. I’m going to do a few tutoring exercises with Fiona and then she and I are going to head to the Rec Center to join my friends and some of our seniors for a night of drinks and art.
I step onto Grant’s front porch and the sound of raucous laughter filters through from the back yard. I’ve gotten in the habit of walking into the Peppers’ home as if I live here. First of all, that’s how we do things in the Midwest. If you walk up to the unlocked door of someone you know, you walk in. You might say, “yoo-hoo,” as you come in the door to alert everyone of your presence, but you don’t usually knock.
I walk through the foyer and the kitchen to the back door. And let me tell you, I’m completely unprepared for the scene that greets me on the back lawn.
Grant’s face is lit up with a smile—a full, brilliant, dazzling smile that shows off dimples I never knew he had. Why are those creases around his eyes so alluring? He and Fiona are running through the sprinklers.
Grant.
Running through sprinklers, ladies and gentlemen.
I could pinch myself to assure this isn’t some sort of weird fever-dream.
Not only are they zipping through the sprayed arcs of water, but Grant is armed with a super soaker which he’s aiming at Fiona while she squeals with both joy and an adorable dash of fear.
None of what I’m witnessing tops the fact that Grant is shirtless, wearing the heck out of a pair of board shorts in a way that would make every twentysomething surfer jealous, and every woman anywhere close her mouth to make sure her tongue doesn’t loll out like a lusty cartoon character.
Grant, shirtless. Not only are his toned arms on full display, but the man has a six-pack that belies his workaholic lifestyle. When does he have time to do enough core work to come up with six defined, sculpted abs? All I can say is that right now I’m a huge fan of his time-management skills.
I stand on the porch taking the two of them in, since they seem to be completely oblivious to my presence.
Until they aren’t.
In a flash, before I have a chance to get my bearings, both their eyes settle on me. They exchange what I would call a maniacal glance, and simultaneously aim both the super soaker and the garden hose in my direction.
I let out a squeal and attempt to dodge the spray, but it’s no use. So, I do what any self-preserving woman would in my situation. I dash into the yard, grab the spinning sprinkler from the ground and start aiming it at each of them in turn.
The three of us are a blur of water, moving limbs, and soaked clothes. Well, the soaked clothes are mostly mine since both Grant and Fiona are in swimsuits. And we’re all shouting, laughing, and squealing.
Okay. Grant’s not squealing. But his deep laughter wraps around me like a secret song, if there were such a thing as a male siren. The vibrations of his deliciously raspy laugh find a home across my skin and down my abdomen.
Grant shouts, “Get her!” unfairly teaming up against me again, and both he and Fiona turn their weapons on me. I dodge them, but hit a muddy spot and my feet go out from under me. I fly up in the air and land on my butt right in a freshly muddy, swampish spot in the yard.
When I look up, Grant has a look of concern on his face.
“Are you okay?”
I giggle. “I’m fine. Well, except for the fact that I was going to take Fiona to paint night in this outfit.”
Grant shakes his head. All signs of carefree laughter and disarming smile gone from his face.
“You can borrow something to wear from Fiona’s closet.”
I look up at him. “Have you seen my body? I’m a little curvier and more filled out than your eleven-year-old.”
Why did I ask himthat?
“I have seen you. Right.”
His eyes slowly rove from my shoulders to my toes and it feels strange—like he’s really seeing me and confirming that, yes, I have curves, and I enjoy my share of good food much more than I enjoy exercising. But instead of assessing my need for a nutritionist, Grant seems to approve of what he’s seeing. And that approval does even more to unnerve me.
He has this smirky half-smile on his face by the time his eyes reach my feet.
“It’s okay. I can pop by my house before we head to the Rec Center. That water fight was worth it.”
