The Doctor (Nashville Neighborhood 1)

“Your distraction worked like a charm, but we still need to talk,” he said.

I plucked the glass from him, pressed it to my lips, and took a big swallow. I’d only had red wine twice before, and dear God, this was the worst of the three. I tried not to make a face as I politely handed it back. “Thanks.” I struggled not to wipe the gross, buttery taste from my lips. “It’s really good.”

His knowing smile said he didn’t believe me. But he turned serious as he set the wine down and focused on my eyes. “Are you okay?” Confidence fled from his voice. “I didn’t mean to be like that.”

All the hair pulling had made a mess of my ponytail, and I tucked a loose tendril behind my ear. “I’m fine.”

The quiet in the room careened toward awkwardness.

“I’m fine,” I said again, trying to convince him. “I, uh, liked the way you were. You couldn’t tell?”

He appeared conflicted. “No, I could, it’s just that was probably too much.”

The single sip of his disgusting wine must have given me courage. “For who? You?” I straightened so I could stare directly at him. “Because it was great for me.”

“Jesus.” He cupped my face, and the corner of his mouth ticked up into a smile. “All right. Let’s add it to the list of all the things we’re not supposed to do, but do anyway.”

I couldn’t hold back my smile, even when I knew it was wrong.

I stared across his enormous bed to the wall beyond, where his undergrad degree from Vanderbilt was framed. Beside it hung an award he’d received from the hospital a few years ago. Maybe someday after I’d become a veterinarian, I’d hang my diplomas and awards on the wall like him. Like an adult.

Man, as if I needed another reminder of how different my life was from his.

The warmth from his touch went away when he took a deep breath, as if preparing for something serious.

“What are we doing?” he asked quietly.

I scowled. Like I had any clue. Plus, thinking about us together only brought on guilt.

“Okay.” He said it like I’d given him an answer. “What do you want this to be?”

What I wanted wasn’t possible. Greg would always be Preston’s father and twenty years older than I was. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“What we just did . . . you want to do it again?”

My pulse jumped. It was scary to confess, but I wasn’t going to lie. “Yeah.”

He tensed his shoulders, and visibly struggled to get his words out. “Me too,” he admitted softly. “Which means we have to tell Preston.”

“Oh my God, no.” Had Greg lost his mind? Not in a million years was I going to do that.

“He’s my son, Cassidy. When he was born, I put my needs before everyone else’s and, shit, I was the worst father. Hell, I wasn’t a father at all. But I got a second chance, and I’m not going to blow it this time. It’s taken years for him to forgive me.”

“Uh—” I cut myself off just in time before saying it out loud. He thought Preston had forgiven him?

“What?” Greg’s skeptical gaze drilled into me.

“Nothing.”

I tried to act casual, but it was too late. He had latched onto my unspoken thought and wasn’t about to drop it. I pulled away, hiking the sheets up tighter around my body, but he followed me, trapping me in place with a hand on my shoulder.

His tone was firm. “What were you going to say?”

I stared down at his hand, avoiding looking at him. “I’m not sure,” I said reluctantly, “he’s totally forgiven you yet.”

Greg sucked in a sharp breath. For a long moment, it was the only painful sound in the room. I worked up the nerve to look him in the eye, and his expression was guarded. Maybe even defensive. It was striking how similar it was to Preston’s earlier today.

Greg’s hand slid away, and his voice turned dubious. “What makes you think that?”

I sighed. “He told me.”

“When? A while ago—?”

“When school ended, and we were coming home.”

I watched the balloon of hope deflate in his eyes, and he sagged back against the headboard, defeated.

For three years, I’d tried to get Preston to come around. His father hadn’t been much older than he was now when Preston’s parents had gotten pregnant. Just kids themselves. I didn’t know the details, and I’d only heard Preston’s version of the story, but I was aware Greg had chosen medical school and a career over having a son.

Child support payments and birthday presents in the mail were all Preston had known of his father the first ten years of his life, and he’d told me again and again that wasn’t something he was getting over any time soon.