“It’s nothing.”
“So it does hurt a little.” When he shrugs, I tap lightly in the middle of his palm, well away from his bandages, to make a point. “It’s okay if it hurts.” Each tap is like a nose boop, a “listen up.”
He glances my way. “Okay. It kind of hurts.”
“Is it because a reptile punched four holes in your hand with its teeth?” He gives a soft snort-laugh. “Take any ibuprofen?” I’d told him to take at least 600 milligrams when I left him earlier.
“It’s fine, I don’t need it.”
I shake my head and lean back against my seat, letting go of his hand because I’m distracted by how much I like touching it. “Every other medical professional has to deal with drug seekers, and I get the guy who won’t take an Advil.”
“Your love is my drug,” he says, his tone serious.
It’s my turn to laugh. “I can’t even say something like that for show. I’d never be able to do it with a straight face.”
He grins at me. “Honestly, just be how we usually are but maybe with some touching, and that’s all it will take.”
A warm tingle dances across the top of my cheekbones when he says “touching” because some part of me is still a sixth grader. I don’t know how else to explain the sudden nervous giggle I keep from bubbling up.
Needing to break the tension, I look for a change of subject. “You mentioned your grandpa but not your grandma. Did she pass?”
Josh’s face loses its smile. “She did. Gramps is doing okay though.”
His voice is tight, and I wish I could snatch the question back. Instead, I say only, “I’m sorry to hear about her,” and ask him about if his grandfather still works at the firm. Josh spends the remaining drive telling me about how his grandfather founded the firm and ran it until he retired fifteen years ago. His body relaxes the longer he talks. By the time we pull into a residential neighborhood, he’s back to the usual, easygoing Josh I’m used to.
We turn into the driveway of his parents’ home, one of those big semicircle pull-through ones, paved with actual rock, not concrete, and my nerves sort of . . . wobble. He grew up in a mansion. A legit mansion—big piece of property, columns, huge double doors that a butler is probably going to answer.
They don’t have to actually like you, I remind myself. I only have to make them believe that at least for right now, Josh is into me, and Presley isn’t an option. I can do that. I press my hand to my stomach as Josh climbs out of the car and draw a steadying breath. I’m reaching for the door when it opens, Josh standing there with a hand extended to help me out.
I stand and barely have time to register again how mismatched we look before three dogs come bounding around the side of the house, making happy yipping noises.
“They’re friendly,” he says when I step back against the car.
“I’m not worried,” I say. “That was just a whole lot of fur coming at me at once.”
They’ve all skidded to a stop at his feet, nosing his legs and panting with excitement. “Meet Tater, Bean, and Queso.” He bends and gives them head rubs and belly scratches, but he’s badly outnumbered, so I crouch to help. He smiles at me across the dogs as one of them licks my hand.
“All right, that’s enough, troublemakers.” He stands and helps me straighten again, only this time, he keeps hold of my hand as he turns us toward the door. “Thanks for doing this. Again.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze.
“Sure, neighbor. Snakebite first aid. Fake girlfriending. All part of the Grove welcome experience.”
He smiles but it’s already fading as he looks toward the house. I can’t figure out his dynamic with his parents. There’s a friction there that I can’t identify. They seemed watchful last night at dinner, and I had chalked it up to them observing their son with someone he’d declared he was madly in love with. Josh had seemed to be slightly on edge, but I figured it was because of Presley.
He still has that same energy about him now. It’s not a sharp feeling, but it’s there in the hints, like his fading smile. The deep breath he’s trying to quietly draw as we start toward the house. His hand tightening around mine again, almost a spasm, like he’s drawing reassurance rather than giving it.
Hmm. Interesting. I’m going to have some questions for Josh on the drive home.
We walk through the imposing double doors into a foyer of marble flooring beneath a chandelier. No butler. No Browers to greet us either, but there’s plenty of ruckus coming from farther back in the house.
“Game day,” he says. “We’re in the—”
“Playoffs,” I tell him. “I know. I follow football. You should probably know that about me.” I can’t resist resting my chin on his chest—possible only because of my wedge heels—and smiling up at him, eyelashes batting. “Sweetheart.”
He answers by letting go of my hand and swatting my bum.
I squeak and he laughs. “You should probably know that’s how I show affection.”
“The price went up.”
