Page 88 of Doctorshipped
“What if I do?”
“I think we both know what you’d like to do if you were able to make a full-time income from it.”
“Oh, yes. I’d buy a crystal ball and take my fortune telling on the road. Wild, flowing skirts, maybe a carriage draped in paisley and checked fabric. I’ve already got the crazy hair for the job. I’ll rename myself Madame Jamesca. What do you think?”
“I’m trying to be serious here.”
“When aren’t you?”
“You’re a good author.”
“What?”
Grant straightens papers on his desk, avoiding my eyes as if he could make me disappear by looking away long enough. Meanwhile, I try to make sense of his compliment—the second compliment-ish thing he has said in the past few minutes. Maybe he’s coming down with something. I should probably back up so I don’t catch it.
Eyes still aimed at the papers, he mutters, “I said you’ve obviously got a way with words, and you have the imagination to carry off the kind of writing you aspire to do.”
“You didn’t. You said I’m a good author. How would you know that?”
A staredown ensues that would rival any five-year-old and their mom in front of the fridge when the subject of dessert before dinner arises.
Finally, Grant caves and when he does, my mouth nearly hits the floor.
“I read a book.”
By a book, we all know what he means.
He readmybook.
“Which one?”
I can’t help it. He’s too easy to rattle. Besides, I have to know.
“The first in series.Love, Bloody Love. And, now, Fiona and my dad will be back any minute. She’ll need you. You can wait in the kitchen, or ...”
I’m unable to move for a full minute, which sounds brief and fleeting, and granted it is when you’re running late for work and you can’t find your keys. But right now, that minute feels like an hour. Grant squirms and fidgets. I finally have mercy on us both and quietly leave his office without saying another word.
Grant read my book!
I feel like I could break out in a jig.
In the hallway alone, I do a quiet little hopping twisting jump with a spin and some shimmying of my hips with a few hand thrusts into the air, and then I remember the whole tripping on the rug incident and I dial back the celebration towe’re not going to sprain an anklelevel.
Grant read my book, and he said it was good!
A tiny parade marches through my chest, filled with baton-throwing, tutu-clad dancers, people on floats throwing confetti, a full marching band with tubas and bass drums, and not a clown car in sight. Those are creepy and nothing about this moment feels the least bit creepy.
Grant read my book.
A sigh of contentment softly blows through my nose, and my grin feels like the first taste of summer after a long year of sitting in a stuffy classroom.
Grant read my book.
I sigh. Is this what swooning feels like?
His approval shouldn’t thrill me this much. But, then again, he’s Grant. He has that kind of impact on me whether I like it or not.
29
