Page 87 of Doctorshipped
But do I tell Ella Mae all that? You guessed correctly. I don’t get close to telling her the reality of my befuddled state. I simply nod and hope we can get through this over-the-top photo shoot before Brooks changes his mind. Or maybe, come to think of it, him changing his mind would be better.
Do I really want to smear the internet with photos of me being fake-bitten by Brooks while he’s dressed for Halloween a month and a half early?
And will this even translate into followers on my social profiles? That has yet to be seen. Besides, getting the first thousand followers—which feels about as achievable as a hike up Mount Everest in a bikini, walking backwards, while yodeling the national anthem of Zimbabwe—well, that’s just the beginning. I need to ultimately get to ten thousand. Ten thousand people who want to follow my social media accounts. It’s mind boggling to say the least.
The whole thing makes me re-check whether I applied deodorant. I’m starting to sweat and it’s not even that hot out today.
“Okay! Enough chit-chat!” Ella Mae says. “Let’s get some more shots. Jayme pick up that wooden stake and the giant head of garlic. Brooks, lie down. Jayme is going to pretend to stab you and I want a pained-but-longing look from you as you gaze up at her, mkay?”
I think to myself,if he’s my boyfriend, why am I trying to kill him?Yeah. I keep my lips zipped and raise the wooden stake.
After the photo shoot wraps up, I drive home quickly, change clothes and grab my bike. Between Ella Mae’s need to get the perfect shot and Brooks and my incorrigible urge to goof around a little, the whole shoot took longer than I had planned.
“Sorry I’m late!” I shout as I come scrambling up the porch steps and bursting through the door of Grant’s home.
I almost collide with Grant in the entryway. I’m only ten minutes late, but after Fiona’s meltdown about being left at school, I’m uber-sensitive about her need for adults to show up on time.
She’s not waiting for me at the door as I anticipated she might be.
“It happens.” Grant mumbles, turning into his office and taking his place in his comfort zone, that leather desk chair of his, encased behind a three-foot, solid mahogany barrier between him and the rest of humanity.
“Nice shirt,” he says.
I’m wearing a vintage graphic tee I found on Ebay for a song. It saysDr Pepperin the traditional logo, and yes, I wore it to antagonize him. The whole town has yet to call him anything but Doctor Grant, or in Duke’s case, Doctor G. I wonder if most of them think his last name is Grant, or if they figure he’s only got one name because he scared the other one away with his moodiness.
“It’s a fave,” I say, tilting my head and giving the fabric a little pinch and letting it snap back toward my body so he knows I’m very aware of exactly what I’m wearing.
“What made you late?” he asks, obviously done with my little T-shirt demonstration.
“I had this hideous photo shoot and then I biked over today.”
“A photo shoot?”
“It’s nothing. Something for my author business.”
“You’ve been biking here lately.”
“While the weather’s cooling I thought it would be nice. I’m trying to get in shape.”
“Your shape is fine.” He clears his throat and adds, “Speaking as a medical professional.”
I don’t know how to answer that. On the one hand,fineis a word men should never use with women. Ever. It’s as good as a curse word. If a woman asks a man how she looks,fineis a fighting word. We either look beautiful, breathtaking, amazing, or you deflect to a different non-looks-oriented compliment.
To us,finemeans awful, or drab, or passable. And I’d really love to meet the woman who wants to be passable. Trust me, no matter how low-maintenance she is, passable isn’t, and never has been her aim in life.
But, we’re talking about Grant here.Fineisn’t an insult, which makes it a compliment. He thinks I look fine? As in nice? I’d be foolish to try to read into his words. But, still.
“So you took photos of your books?”
“I’m doing this social media thing—to appease my agent. It’s boring. You wouldn’t want to hear about it.”
Grant’s green-gray eyes pierce mine. Today a dark gray outline encircles the iris and the green is barely visible. They look like a storm cloud, but one that’s not going to rain, at least not yet.
“I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot about your profession.”
“My professions,” I correct.
He quirks a brow. “Are you trying to tell me you aspire to predict the future and sell flowers the rest of your days?”
