The summer had him all screwed up, but this was his job. Waiting tables wasn’t life or death, but Preston acted like having spending money for his upcoming sophomore year was.
Dr. Lowe sighed loudly. “I’m sorry about him. You know you’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”
Um, unlikely. “Thanks.”
He hesitated. “And there’s fresh lemonade.”
“I know what you’re doing,” I said. “You’re just trying to unload that on me.”
He smiled and nodded like he’d been busted. “I feel bad pouring it out. If you like lemons, I’m sure it’s good and probably not drugged.”
I squeezed out a smile, meeting his. We held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Long enough for the smiles to end and be replaced with something different. He gave me a look similar to the one earlier and it made my pulse pound in my throat.
What the hell? I stared down at the ripples in the water, blinking rapidly. Maybe I wasn’t imagining things.
“Do you want some?” His deep voice sounded unsteady, and his question threw me.
What exactly was he offering? “Some?”
“Lemonade.”
Right. I was an idiot, projecting things that weren’t there. “Oh. Sure.”
He picked up a cup and poured from the pitcher, and my focus was drawn to his hands. They weren’t just beautiful, they were talented and worth a lot of money. How many lives had he saved with them?
Off on the far side of the house, we heard the garage door go up, a car back down the driveway, and tires peel out.
“Here you go,” he said, bending down over the edge of the pool to pass me the cup.
“Thank you.” I took a sip, and he gauged my reaction. I puckered my lips. “Ugh. Don’t feel bad about pouring it out. It’s too tart.”
I set the cup on the side of the pool and turned my gaze to the steps. I couldn’t stay here. I climbed out of the water as Dr. Lowe gathered up the cups and pitcher.
He paused when he noticed me standing beside the railing, my arms crossed over my chest. It was warm outside, but when the breeze blew, it was chilly. I was drenched and wasn’t going to go inside the house to change until I at least stopped dripping.
“You forget to bring a towel out?” he asked lightly.
“No,” I said. “Preston did, and he took mine.”
He shook his head and muttered something under his breath as he went inside the house, taking the gross lemonade with him. He reappeared thirty seconds later with a folded towel and passed it to me.
“Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t want to go in and drip all over your carpet.”
“Because you’re capable of thinking of someone besides yourself.”
It had to be a dig at Preston, and I had absolutely no response. I wrapped the towel around my body and pressed my lips together.
Dr. Lowe’s expression wasn’t exactly frustration—it looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead he held it back and just frowned. His brown eyes filled with disappointment.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked, hovering awkwardly. Almost as if he hoped I’d start a conversation. I searched the back of my brain to find something, but couldn’t.
“I’m good,” I eked out.
“All right. I’m . . . going inside.”
He turned swiftly and disappeared into the house, moving so fast he didn’t see my mouth fall open. The man was a surgeon. He oozed confidence and always seemed calm in a crisis. When Preston had totaled his car two years ago, his father had been concerned, but never lost his cool throughout the ordeal.
Seeing Dr. Lowe unsure? It made me nervous.
THREE
AFTER I’D DRIED OFF ENOUGH, I let down my hair, grabbed my phone, and padded back into the house, shivering in the air conditioning. The enormous television was on, showing some news program, and the volume was so low I could barely hear it.
Dr. Lowe didn’t seem to be watching.
He sat casually on the large sectional couch, one arm thrown over the back of it, and gazed vacantly at the coffee table before him. The angle of his body and his form fitting t-shirt showed off his toned frame. His jeans clung to his powerful legs, and I lingered inside the doorway, gawking weirdly at him while my toes burrowed into the plush carpeting.
My desire to talk to him was strong, but I shouldn’t. He was Preston’s father. I couldn’t exactly ask him for advice on what I should do now, could I? I cinched the towel tighter around my waist and made my way into the spare bedroom where I’d gotten changed.
After I shut the door, my disappointment made me move slowly. I dropped my phone beside my stack of clothes and sighed. What was I going to do? Wait for Preston to call me? Technically, it was done. I’d told him we were over.