My dad pats the top of my head and then smooths a hand over the trail of my hair kindly. It’s almost comical that he can smile at me the way he is after the heavy shit he just tossed my way.
“Just…put yourself first, okay? Don’t settle for some shithead.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, Dad. There aren’t any guys…not even any prospects. Shitheads or not.”
He waggles his eyebrows. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“You never know, though,” I prod as he walks away with a spring in his step. “A shithead could be just around the corner.”
Shell’s husband Phil strolls through the kitchen, not even looking up to see if I need any help as he takes a swig of his beer. Through the window, I witness Shell wrestling their three boys on the front lawn as they try to tear both armfuls of her grocery bags from her grasp, and her husband is walking through the house drinking beer without a care in the world.
My dad is definitely right. My sisters are married to shitheads.
The doorbell rings as I pop the tray of dinner rolls my dad just set out into the oven. I can hear my dad’s boisterous voice—the one he uses with “the guys”—filtering through the house, but I don’t pay it much attention. I still have the green beans to prepare, the potatoes to mash, and sixteen pounds of turkey to carve.
And if things keep proceeding like they are now, it looks like I’m going to be doing it all on my own.
I pull my hair up off my neck and tie it into a messy ponytail with a groan. I’m so used to wearing it up for work that I swear I don’t even know how to keep it down anymore. It’s sticky, it’s sweaty, it gets stuck in my mouth and pokes me in the eyes. Honestly, I don’t know how put-together women do it.
Give me a hair tie, some mascara, and a stick of ChapStick, and I’m ready to call it a day.
Throw in a bonus of wearing scrubs as work attire for the last decade of my life, and it’s like my skills as a real live woman have completely atrophied. Just putting together a professional outfit for the doctors’ office these days is an exercise.
Oh well. It’s not like this dinner involves anything other than family and shitheads, so it doesn’t really matter—
“Laurie,” my dad calls from the doorway to the living room, snagging my attention. “This is one of my guys. One of my best firefighters…”
How did I already forget my dad invited one of his firemen to come today? He literally just told me.
“Garrett Alexander,” Dad introduces us, the name stirring familiarity in my mind, and I turn around. “This is Laurie, or Lauren, my youngest.” My dad smiles at me. “Lauren, this is Garrett.”
Icy-blue eyes meet mine and, oh, holy hot fireman smokes, that is indeed Garrett Alexander.
The man who was in my office in September.
The freakishly good-looking guy whose balls I know like the back of my hand because, well, they were in my hand.
The patient I’ve been tempted to track down on social media like some kind of teenage girl with a crush. Which, thankfully, I didn’t do.
But none of that matters now because he’s right here. At my dad’s house. Because not only does he work for my dad, but he’s here to eat Thanksgiving dinner with my family.
So help me God.
Garrett
It’s her.
Dr. Lauren.
Otherwise known as the sexy physician I shamelessly flirted with at my yearly physical. The one who’s tempted me on more than one occasion to schedule another appointment for a bullshit excuse just to see her again.
And she just so happens to be the Cap’s daughter.
A memory of her saying her last name was Carroll at my appointment pops into my mind, and I want to punch myself for not putting two and two together. Which is ludicrous. I mean, what are the odds that my sexy-as-hell physician’s dad would end up being my damn boss?
Pretty sure even Vegas would’ve given shit odds on that outcome.
Blond-brown hair in a ponytail and captivating blue eyes, the captain’s youngest daughter has her gaze locked with mine, damn near sucking the breath right from my lungs.
She’s beyond beautiful, just like the first time I met her over two months ago, and Thanksgiving dinner at the captain’s house just got a whole lot more…interesting?
Awkward?
Frankly, I don’t know which. Maybe a combination of the two.
Simultaneously, excitement blooms in my chest, while impending doom tries to set up camp in my stomach.
Captain Carroll glares at me as I stare at the blush-colored sweater drooping off Lauren’s tanned-skin shoulder and try like hell to reel my mind back in from the crazy place it’s trying to go—from all the absolutely psychopathic things it wants me to say.