The Doctor (Nashville Neighborhood 1)

I didn’t get carded at dinner. Greg ordered a bottle of white wine and the server brought two glasses. As I sat at the table, a glass of sauvignon blanc in hand, watching the sizzling skillets and impressive knife skills on display, I felt like an imposter. I was a child pretending to be an adult, but as long as I faked it convincingly, no one but Greg would know.

His hand rested in my lap, and I was worried I was going to vibrate out of my seat. He was so comfortable with this. With being with me. I loved every freaking minute of it and did my best to look like I belonged with him. When it was just the two of us, I did, but out in public? That was going to take some getting used to.

Course after course was served, and although I wasn’t usually an adventurous eater, I ate every drop on the odd-shaped bowls and square plates, maybe even the garnish I wasn’t supposed to. Wine buzzed through my system, mixing with the powerful effect of his touch on my leg.

“How is he?” I finally asked, after the last course had been served. We’d avoided talking about Preston all evening, but I couldn’t put it off forever. He’d come back from North Carolina on Sunday, and tonight was the first time I was seeing Greg since his son had returned.

Greg’s expression shuttered. “He’s fine.”

The mood between us shifted faster than a rabbit bolting from a cage, and I struggled with how to get it back on track. “Uh, good. How were your rounds this morning?”

“I asked him to stay at a friend’s place tonight,” he announced quickly.

“Oh.” I hesitated. “Why?”

The hand on me moved. It slipped beneath the hem of the dress, so his palm brushed against the top of my thigh, and the bare skin contact sent a tinge of pleasure zipping to my center.

“Because,” Greg’s eyes darkened a shade, “I have something to give you.”

“What is it?”

“A surprise.”

I inhaled deeply, and anticipation thickened my blood. Whatever Greg had planned, he didn’t want Preston around for it, and I tried to curb my enthusiasm. It was a lost cause, though. It’d been five days since I’d seen my boyfriend, and my fantasies and my own hand only got me so far. I leaned over, mustered the most seductive voice I had, and whispered in his ear.

“I can’t wait.”

By the time Greg parked in the garage, my slight buzz from the wine had disappeared, and that was disappointing on multiple fronts. Walking in the ankle-breaking shoes was easier when I was distracted and not concerned about looking foolish.

Preston’s Jeep wasn’t in the garage, and Greg’s shoulders relaxed a degree. The tension I didn’t realize I was holding left my body too. He shut off the car, climbed from the seat, and hurried around the back end of the car to open the door for me. I took his offered hand and let him help me to my feet, where I teetered on the shoes.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said.

He stood so close, I breathed in his cologne, and tried not to swoon at the scent. His arm slipped around my waist. “You’re welcome. Let’s go inside so you can open your birthday present.”

He led me up the step into the house, but instead of taking me to the bedroom, I clip-clopped on my heels into the living room, where he sat me down on the couch. I gazed up at him, puzzled, but he just smiled and bent at the waist. He captured my face in his hands.

“This gift is kind of selfish, I’m sorry.” He caressed his lips over mine, moving too quickly to call it much of a kiss.

“What?”

“Hold on, you’ll see.” He released his hold and stood. “I’ll be right back.”

I watched him disappear down the hallway to his bedroom, and then I swallowed dryly. What was he about to give me?

When Greg reemerged, he was carrying a pale pink box tucked under an arm, and he wore an expression that was an even mixture of excitement and something that looked suspiciously like anxiety. He sank down beside me on the couch and gently set the apparel-sized box in my lap.

“Happy birthday, Cassidy.”

I cast my gaze down, and all the sound in the room faded out.

The pink box had a black satin ribbon banded around one corner and tied in a bow in the other, and the words Agent Provocateur were scrawled in fancy script across the top.

“I hope it all fits.” His voice was uncharacteristically tight, and then dropped low. “It does in my fantasy.”

With nervous, excited fingers, I slipped the ribbon off a corner, opened the lid, and pulled the tissue paper back.

It was a bra, garter, and panty set of dusty pink tulle trimmed with black lace, and two stockings of luxurious black silk. I ran my fingers over the delicate lingerie, then slowly held the bra up to look at it closer.