Dr. Hot Stuff (Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedies Book 9) Page 4

  “Don’t mention it. By the way, I’m trying to put together a girls’ lunch the day we all do our final fitting for Jon and Blanka’s wedding. You in?”

  “Absolutely.” I can’t wait. What would it be like to be permanently part of a world like this? A world filled with farm dates and girls’ nights and handsome, single doctors.

  Maybe there’s some way…

  My hopeful heart sinks its claws into that idea, even as my brain folds its arms and scolds me for being ridiculous.

  We’re almost to the door, and something about knowing Bradley’s on the other side sends a spurt of joy through me. I turn and look at Bree as my heart starts to gallop.

  “I kissed him.” I whisper the words like I’m confessing I’ve robbed a bank.

  Bree looks at me and nods. “Good for you.” She smiles and pats me on the back. “Now go get some more.”

  If only it were that simple.

  I pull open the door to see Bradley Parker standing on the porch wearing jeans and boots and looking like an American sex god. He’s got a flannel shirt of his own, which makes me doubly glad Bree urged me to change.

  “Ladies.” He smiles at me. “You look great. I’ve never seen you so casual.”

  I smooth my hands down the shirt, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s not too informal? I wasn’t sure if your mother would be there or if there’s any special protocol for meeting her.”

  He laughs, but it’s a sweet, musical sound and not a mockery of my ignorance. “As long as you curtsy and address her only as ‘Your Highness,’ you should be fine.” He must see my stricken look because his expression softens. “A joke, I swear. Wait. Is that what it’s like for a guy to meet your mother?”

  If he only knew. “Perhaps.” I swallow back the lump in my throat as I turn to hug Bree goodbye. “Thanks again.”

  “Don’t mention it.” She pulls the door closed behind us both and fixes Bradley with a mock-stern look. “Have her home before curfew. No funny business. Feet on the floor at all times.”

  “Absolutely.” He grins at me. “Do you have an expression like that in Dovlano?”

  I’ve only just realized what circumstances might prompt a parent to suggest such a thing, and I’m blushing too hard to think of anything smart to say. “Not one I’ve heard, but it’s possible.”

  Bradley pivots toward the parking area and crooks an elbow at me. “Your coach awaits, Your Ladyship.”

  I feel myself flinch. He must feel it, too, even as I’m threading my arm through his. “Sorry,” he says as he leads me down the pathway toward a shiny silver pickup truck. “Dumb joke.”

  “It’s okay.” My siblings know I’m not fond of formal titles, but there’s no way Bradley could know. Besides, he’s only kidding. “I’m just conscious sometimes of how different I am.”

  “I understand.” His brow furrows as he opens the truck door. “That was a poor choice of words. I don’t understand in that I can’t personally relate, but it makes sense you’d want to step away from anything that leaves you feeling like an outsider. I’ll try to avoid doing that, okay?”

  I nod as he offers me a hand up into the cab. “Thank you.”

  He moves to the driver’s side and slides behind the wheel but doesn’t start the engine. “Seriously, that was a dick thing to say,” he says. “I wasn’t even thinking about your title. Just playing at chivalry.”

  “Really, it’s fine.” The fact that he cares so much warms my heart. “Am I your first brush with royalty?”

  He laughs and starts the truck. “Real royalty, yeah. I’ve seen plenty of imposters in my medical practice.”

  I study the side of his face, fighting not to feel the effects of that chiseled jaw dusted with faint stubble. “You mean mentally ill people who think they’re kings and queens?”

  “No, though I did treat a private with a head injury who thought he was a five-star general.” He shakes his head as he steers us down the long, winding driveway. “Oh, and there was one guy convinced he was the U.S. president. Frankly, he’d have done a better job than half the folks who’ve held the office.”

  I laugh, relieved I actually get the joke. Where I’m from, most leaders ascend to their roles instead of being elected. “So what did you mean about royalty?”

  He’s driving with one hand, oozing with the easy energy that’s customary among American men behind the wheel. There’s no reason I should find it sexy. I do, though. So much that I nearly miss the next words out of his mouth.

  “We implemented this new electronic intake form at the clinic last year,” he explains. “There’s some setup on the back end that allows folks to pick their preferred title. Regular stuff like ‘Mr.’ or ‘Ms.’ or ‘Mx.’”

  “Mx.?” That’s a new one to me.

  “It’s a gender-neutral title for people who don’t identify with male or female or who prefer not to specify for any reason.” He shifts easily, thigh flexing as he moves the pedals. “It’s becoming more common.”

  “I see.” I make a mental note to remember that one, just in case. “Were there more titles than those ones?”

  He laughs. “That’s the problem. The company that created the intake form uploaded hundreds of titles for countries all over the world. Most medical offices narrow it to a dozen or so, but we missed that step when setting it up.”

  The low, alluring rumble of his voice has me mesmerized, and I forget for a moment this is a conversation and not a monologue. I’d cheerfully listen to him read the owner’s manual for this truck.

  “What happened?” I manage to ask when I find my voice. “I presume some of the titles aren’t commonly used?”

  “Some I might have left in there anyway,” he says. “Stuff like ‘reverend’ or ‘doctor.’”

  “A doctor treating a doctor,” I muse. “That must be interesting.”

  “Could be a college professor or even a veterinarian,” he points out. “But I’ve had a few patients who were medical doctors.”

  “So what other titles were there?” I stretch my legs out in front of me, curling my toes in my hiking boots.

  “Let’s see, there was ‘chancellor.’ I guess that works for any patient who’s a chancellor at a university. There was also QC or KC which I had to look up.”

  “What are those?”

  He steers the truck around a big hunk of ice in the road. “Stands for ‘Queen’s Counsel’ or ‘King’s Counsel.’ I guess it’s for a judge or barrister in some parts of Europe.”

  I laugh, unfamiliar with either title. “Something to aspire to, I suppose.”

  “Then there were the really odd ones,” he says. “My personal favorite was ‘His Beatitude.’”

  “His what?”

  “Beatitude.” The dimple in his cheek is driving me crazy. Who gets turned on by face divots?

  Me, apparently.

  “‘His Beatitude’ or ‘His Eminence’ are used in some catholic communities,” he explains. “Which I guess would be handy if the archbishop of the Syriac Orthodox Church shows up needing a tonsillectomy.”

  I laugh and brush a strand of hair off my face. “It’s good to be prepared.”

  “We had one guy click the box for ‘Your Excellency,’” he says. “That guy was a kick. Spent the whole exam keeping a straight face while I asked things like, ‘have you experienced any shortness of breath, Your Excellency?’ or ‘When was your last bowel movement, Your Excellency?”

  I hoot with laughter, hardly caring that my mother would find it most unladylike.

  “Isabella,” she hissed once, grabbing me by the arm at a royal gala. “It’s gauche to laugh with your mouth open.”

  But here in the cozy cab of Bradley’s truck, I keep right on laughing. I’m grateful my mother can’t see me. Can’t read my mind, either, to know I’m thinking impure thoughts about the man driving me around in his big American pickup truck. “I love it,” I tell him. “I presume you’re no longer offering the full array of titles?”

  “Nah, we had
to pare down.” He grimaces. “Finally figured it out when a woman came storming up to the counter demanding to know what we were implying about her husband. She took it personally that ‘Mistress’ was an option.”

  “Oh, dear.” I cover my mouth with my hand as he hits his turn signal and waits for a tractor to pass going the other way.

  There’s an arched metal and wood sign over a long, asphalt driveway. Metallic silver letters spell out “Parker Ranch.” While not quite as grand as the signage at Ponderosa Resort, it’s much fancier than most farms we’ve driven past. I wonder how big this ranch is, but decide it’s improper to ask.

  As Bradley steers us toward the barn, butterflies dance in my stomach. “Your mother’s expecting us, right?”

  “Right. She might be back at the house, though. My sister’s daycare has early release on Wednesdays, so sometimes my mom looks after Jordan.”

  “That’s your niece?”

  “Yeah.” A warm smile spreads over his face. “Pretty much the cutest kid ever.”

  I give him the haughtiest look I can muster. “Aside from Bree’s baby, you mean? My nephew is the pinnacle of cuteness.”

  “I’ll give you that. Brian’s adorable. I dig how they mashed up ‘Breeann’ and ‘Austin’ to make his name.”

  “Isn’t that clever? Perhaps Mark and Chelsea will do something similar.”

  Bradley laughs. “I’m drawing a blank on that one. I guess they could go with Chark?”

  “Or Melsea,” I suggest, fighting the urge to giggle. “That could work for either gender, though they already know it’s a girl.”

  “Libby’s gonna be a great big sister,” Bradley muses. “Chelsea’s due in the spring, right?”

  “March.” I wonder if I’ll still be here then. I glance at the barn and feel another flutter in my belly. “You’re sure this isn’t an imposition?”

  “Trust me, it’s not.” He pushes open the truck door with a grin. “My mother lives to show off her broken animals.”

  “Broken animals?” He doesn’t hear me, since he’s walking around to open my door. I assume I’ll find out soon enough.

  Taking his hand, I slip from the cab of the truck feeling ungainly and strange in my hiking boots. Part of me likes it. In my life back home, I knew what it was to feel glamorous. Regal. Revered.

  I never knew what it felt like to be tough.

  Squaring my shoulders, I take three long strides toward the barn. Something gray and hulking darts in front of me and I scream.

  “Bobcat!” I shriek again, remembering a talk I attended at a local museum. Bobcats are fierce predators that can leap twelve feet and take down big game. Panicking, I leap into Bradley’s arms. “Bobcat!”

  I scrunch my eyes closed and wait for fangs to close around my throat. A rumbling against my shoulder makes me squinch one eye open.

  He’s laughing. Bradley’s laughing, and I’m pretty sure I’m the cause.

  “Easy mistake.” He juts his chin the direction I saw the creature run. “That’s Griff. He’s a Maine Coon.”

  “A raccoon?” I learned about those, too, but I’m positive they didn’t look like what I just saw. I open the other eye and look back at the edge of the barn. The biggest house cat I’ve ever seen sits grooming himself in a patch of sun.

  “A Maine Coon,” Bradley repeats. “It’s a type of domesticated cat. He’s harmless, I promise. His name’s Gryffindor and my mom’s had him for years.”

  It slowly dawns on me I’ve made an utter ass of myself. Also, that Bradley’s holding me in his arms like a baby.

  No, not like a baby.

  Like a bride being carried over a threshold. It’s a custom in Dovlano, and I pray to God it’s not one here because this is mortifying enough.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.” He grins. “Hey. This is the same conversation we had when I kissed you before.”

  “But—I kissed you.”

  “You’re right, you did.” Slowly, he lowers his mouth to mine, lips brushing softly. “So I owe you one.”

  I’m too dizzy to follow the logic, or to question whether we ought to be doing this in a barnyard on his mother’s property. It’s disrespectful. It’s ill-mannered. It’s—

  “So good,” I breathe as he deepens the kiss. As his tongue grazes mine, my eyes flutter shut. I imagine for an instant I’m a normal woman, kissing this wonderful man who could possibly be my boyfriend. Husband, even. With the way Bradley kisses—soft and gentle and achingly slow—I can picture myself doing this for the next fifty years. Longer, even.

  “You’re here!”

  My eyes fly open at the sound of a woman’s voice. I suck in a breath as Bradley smiles and slowly lowers me to the ground.

  “Hey, Mom.” He turns toward a woman with ash blonde hair and the most perfect posture I’ve seen outside a royal palace. Her blue eyes are warm, and she looks completely unsurprised to see a wanton woman on her property holding hands with her only son.

  I glance down and confirm it. Yes, he’s holding my hand. I should definitely draw back.

  Before I get the chance, Bradley lets go and pulls his mother in for a hug. “Great to see you,” he says. “Mom, this is Isabella Blankenship.”

  “Izzy, please.” I extend my hand and do my best to summon some dignity. Maybe she didn’t see me making out with her son.

  “It’s a pleasure, Izzy.” Her eyes flash with amusement as she pumps my hand with a quick glance at her son. “When you said you were bringing a friend, I didn’t realize she was that kind of friend.”

  Oh, dear. “Mrs. Parker, I’m so sorr—”

  “Oh, honey, don’t apologize.” She laughs and gives my hand a squeeze before letting go. “Call me Kathryn. And believe me, this is the most excitement I’ve had in months.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that, so I settle for falling into step with Bradley as he starts toward the barn. He’s explaining the mix-up with the cat, sweetly describing it as an honest mistake, though I’m certain I’ve made an utter fool of myself.

  “Watch your step,” Kathryn says, catching my elbow. I glance down to see a huge, round puddle of—

  “Oh.” I take a step back. “That’s what they mean by ‘cow patty’?”

  “Bingo.” Kathryn laughs. “We’re a little short-staffed. I gave one of the ranch hands the week off to be with his new daughter.”

  “Duncan’s wife finally had the baby?” Bradley asks.

  “Can you believe it? More than two weeks past her due date. They were getting ready to induce when her water broke.”

  I’m amazed by the casual ease of their conversation. I was there when Bree went into labor, so I’m not completely ignorant of the openness with which Americans discuss childbirth. Still, it’s foreign to me.

  “My sister went into labor in the middle of a wedding.” I hope it’s okay to share this. “She stayed through the reception because she didn’t want to miss anything.”

  Kathryn laughs. “Bree, right? I heard about that. It was at James and Lily’s ceremony.”

  Bradley rolls his eyes at that. “Nothing’s a secret in a small town.”

  I force myself to keep smiling, to put one boot in front of the other as we approach the barn door. “It was such a beautiful wedding.”

  “It’s a terrific venue.” Kathryn pulls open the barn door and waves us through. “We looked into having Julia’s ceremony there, but the resort hadn’t opened yet.”

  I’m on the brink of asking about Julia’s wedding when I recall what Bradley told me. His sister, Julia, she’s the one with the ex-husband Bradley threatened to castrate.

  I clamp my mouth shut and resolve not to pry.

  “Here we are.” Kathryn dusts her hands on her jeans and smiles. “We’ve got five hundred head of cattle on this ranch, but this barn here is only for fosters.”

  “Fosters?” I’m wondering if this is another animal I’ve never heard of, like a Maine Coon.

  “Mom works with the Sheriff’s
Department in seizure situations,” Bradley explains. “When someone with animals goes to jail, or in cases of abuse or neglect, they need a safe place for those animals to stay.”

  “It started as a hobby, but it’s truly the thing that’s kept me sane after Jordy died.”

  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess Jordy must be Bradley’s dad. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Kathryn smooths her hair back. “Ready to see some animals?”

  “Yes, please.” I’m practically bouncing on my heels as I survey the brightly-lit barn. There’s an open door on one end, letting in bright slabs of dusty sunshine. In the corner, there’s a pen filled with clucking chickens. Just outside, I spot a pond shimmering silver and green with a trio of white ducks paddling over breeze-stirred ripples.

  “These guys just came in last week.” Kathryn leads us to a pen on the opposite side of the barn. It’s filled with four of the tiniest goats I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen many goats.

  I step forward, delighted by their oddly-slitted pupils. “Are they babies?”

  “Nope, fully grown Nigerian dwarf goats.” She stoops down to pet a brown and white one, who makes quick work of trying to eat her sleeve. “They were awfully skinny when they got here, but we’ll have them fat and healthy in no time.”

  Cautiously, I stretch out a hand to scratch behind the nubby horns of a white and brown goat. The animal leans into my touch, lips curling up as it tries to get a taste of my finger. I laugh and draw my hand back. “They’re so cute.”

  “We had pygmy goats growing up.” Bradley leans down and scratches a tan one, his long, agile fingers making me envy a goat for the first time in my life. “They eat everything.”

  “Remember those Nubian goats that used to fight all the time?” Kathryn looks at me and smiles. “We had to put pool noodles on their horns so they couldn’t hurt each other.”

  I laugh and swivel my gaze to a pen of sheep nearby. At least, I think they’re sheep. “Why are they wearing jackets?”

  Kathryn glances to where I’m pointing. “They came from a yarn farm that’s under investigation for—well, I’m actually not at liberty to share that. But that helps keep the wool clean for when it’s time to process the fiber.”