by Ellis, Aven
“I don’t mind, I was tired,” I say.
“And you were studying my scars waiting for me to get up?”
Gah! I know I love that he’s quick, but sometimes he’s too quick.
“Um, yes,” I say.
Okay. I do need to confirm these are work wounds before I drive myself crazy worrying that when we do have sex, he’ll ask me to whip him with a chain or something and then it will totally be awkward because I’m not into that at all.
I wriggle around so I can gaze up at him. “You did get those scars from work, right?”
Brooks cocks an eyebrow. “Why?”
Poised Payton would never ask. Common sense Payton would say, this is only a date have I lost my mind?
But Payton who is falling for Brooks needs to know.
“Well, um, just making sure you didn’t get them from sex,” I blurt out.
His eyes grow wide. As in very, very wide, as in what the hell kind of question is that and shit. Shit! My face begins to burn, as Brooks is so taken aback he can’t even speak.
And now I wish I could find a trap door to jump through.
This house is really old. Maybe Sylvia has one. If I just run around and jump with any luck I’ll be sent falling into his basement.
“Um, sex scars?” he asks, his eyes searching mine.
“I never should have asked, forget it.”
“Oh, no, I’m not forgetting it,” Brooks insists. “Are you into sex that leaves scars?”
Now I know my face is a raging inferno.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I had to make sure you weren’t into sex that left scars because um . . . well . . . that’s not my thing. I mean, it’s totally fine if it’s your thing, I completely respect that, but I need to know because it’s not mine and if you want me to like . . . well . . . you know.”
Angus suddenly lifts his head and snorts loudly, as if to say, “My human dad is so kicking you to the curb before that salmon is even filleted tonight.”
“Well, that’s very good because I’m not into that either. Although I am cheered to think you’re already pondering the full English with me.”
“So those are work wounds, right?” I ask hesitantly.
“Bloody hell, yes,” Brooks says, grinning at me. “I’m a veterinarian. I’ve been kicked, scratched, clawed, bitten, peed on. Definitely work-related. Not as part of the full English.”
Then he gives me a wicked grin, and I can’t help but laugh at myself.
“I’m such a dork,” I admit, burying my face against his blue Seattle Seahawks T-shirt.
“Oh, no, you have to look at me,” Brooks says, lifting my head back so he can gaze down at me. “So already thinking of our sexual compatibility?”
Oyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
“Well, it’s important, don’t you think?”
Especially when I’m falling for you as fast as I am, I think as I stare up into his handsome face.
“It is,” Brooks agrees. Then his eyes go serious on me. “But I’m not worried about being sexually compatible with you. I like you. That’s all that matters to me right now. The rest will follow. And it will be good when it does. So please don’t worry.”
My heart swells.
“I won’t worry,” I say, smiling up at him.
“Good,” Brooks says, dropping a sweet kiss on my mouth. Then he lifts his head to look at me. “And those bite marks are from a very pissed off Holland Lop rabbit.”
I laugh as I lift his arm to find the spot, placing my fingertips over it when I do. “Oh, now that’s hot,” I say, tracing my fingers over his arm until I find the bite marks.
He laughs. “Good to know. On my other arm I have a bite wound from a cat, if you play your cards right I’ll show it to you.”
I can’t help it and giggle at that. “And the scratches?”
“A wild turkey got me when I was trying to pick it up.”
“You’ve treated a turkey?” I ask, incredulous.
“Yes, I have a couple of clients that have turkeys as pets.”
“Never tell our mutual client Courtney this. She’s already thinking of doing urban chickens—I found printouts when I was organizing her stuff—and the call of a wild turkey might be too much for her to resist.”
“Doesn’t she have her hands full with kids, Mr. Not Bacon, and the dogs?” Brooks asks. “Oh, wait. You can be the chicken concierge.”
I playfully pop him on the shoulder with the back of my hand. “No, no, no. I’m not taking on chickens!”
“You might not have to be a concierge at all after your TV interview airs,” Brooks says. “I think your blog is going to explode.”
“Argh, the idea of being on TV is so scary,” I admit.
“You’ll be amazing.”
“I’ll want to throw up.”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” he teases.
I grin and put my palm to his face, feeling the stubble scratch deliciously against my skin. “It’s a huge opportunity. I hope I don’t mess it up.”
“It is,” Brooks concurs, “and you won’t. You’re bright and effervescent. You’re a natural for the camera.”
I pause for a moment. “You think I’m effervescent?”
Brooks’ eyes grow serious. “Yeah, I do. I noticed that the day I first met you. You have this energy around you, this brightness, and you have it in everything you approach. It’s magnetic. And you are sharp, running your own business at a very young age, and doing it your own way. You’re inspiring, Payton.”
I am amazed by what Brooks sees in me. I feel like my whole life, people have seen me as the cute girl with crazy ideas. With college boys, I was the cute girl they didn’t take seriously. I was good for a beer, but not a conversation about how I was already running my own business.
With my family, I’m the child with the inability to be serious and follow the pre-drawn, traditional, perfect path for life.
But Brooks doesn’t see that at all.
My throat grows thick as I gaze into his eyes, the ones that are gazing back at me so affectionately.
Brooks sees me as inspiring.
And it means more to me than he could ever know.
“I don’t think I’ve ever inspired anybody,” I say softly, my voice thick.
“I don’t believe that,” Brooks says firmly. “Your blog readers are inspired by you daily. Don’t discount your work. Or who you are.”
I feel tears forming in my eyes as my feelings for Brooks grow stronger in my heart. I have a connection with him I’ve never had with anyone else.
And I hope he is feeling this same connection, too.
I’m about to respond when Angus snorts and gets off the couch. He moves down to stare right at me and Brooks, and I can’t help but grin at his cute face.
“He wants dinner,” Brooks explains, smiling. “If I don’t feed him now, he’ll begin moving his bowl all over the kitchen to let me know I’m not on schedule.”
I sit up, and Brooks follows suit. He rises and extends his hand to me, pulling me off the sofa. We head into the kitchen, with Angus leading the way.
“Does he get another salad for dinner?” I ask, curious.
“No, he gets his pig pellets,” Brooks explains, reaching down to retrieve Angus’ bowl. He walks over to the pantry and opens the door. “That has all his nutrition, so I serve the pellets for breakfast and dinner, and then he gets the salad at lunch, in addition to his treats.”
I nod. “Now what about the rabbits and Mycat Holmes?”
“They don’t like pig pellets.”
“You’re impossible!” I declare, laughing.
Brooks peeks his head out of the pantry door and flashes me a wicked grin. “I know, and you like it.”
Ohhhhhhhhhh, feels. FEELS!
“No, the rabbits get fed in the morning, and so does Mycat Holmes,” Brooks says, scooping some pig pellets into Angus’ bowl. “So after Angus, we get to eat.”
Brooks takes the bowl over to Angus, who is waiting e
agerly to eat if the swishing of his tail is any indication.
“Here you go, Angus,” Brooks says, “Dinner as prepared by your in-house chef.”
Angus grunts happily as his bowl is placed in front of him. Then Brooks heads over to the sink and begins the surgical washing of his hands, which I think is the cutest thing ever.
“Now I’m not on call tonight, and unless something very strange happens like two emergencies at once, we’ll be in for an uninterrupted evening.”
“How often are you on call?” I ask, curious.
“Well, there are two of us who treat exotics,” Brooks explains as he rinses his hands and shuts off the faucet. “So we rotate who is on call. But when I’m on call, I can’t go very far out of the area. And going out to eat, or to a movie, is hard to do.”
“That makes sense.”
“And sometimes I’ll be up there late if I have a patient that needs monitoring. A few months ago I had a pig that ingested some of the owner’s medication. I had to give an oral antidote and charcoal, but since the pig had a low heart rate she had to stay overnight. So I pulled an all-nighter to monitor her, and she made it. So it was absolutely worth it. But stuff like this is part of my life.”
He reaches up and rubs his hand across the back of his neck, and I know he’s thinking about something that makes him uncomfortable. And my heart sinks a bit when I realize it’s his past.
I want to tell him I understand this. I admire his passion for animals and to care for them, and while I’m sure there will be times when it’s a challenge, he is worth taking those challenges on.
But I can’t. I know I entertained this earlier today, during lunch, but it’s only our what— second official date? If I want to scare him I should tell him all this, that I see Brooks as part of my future as long as he wants to be in it—
No. No! What am I thinking? While I’ve been all kinds of imperfect as far as what I’ve done and said with Brooks, now I need to remain silent. Or he’ll think I’ve already registered us as “Payton James and Dr. Brooks Martin, DVM” at Crate & Barrel for our wedding next June.
Suddenly, I picture us at Crate & Barrel playfully arguing over something stupid like what color duvet to register for and bantering about it and being totally in love the whole time. The image comes so easily to me, and feels so right that it’s practically terrifying.
Second date.
Not wedding date.
I need to quickly refocus before I say something that scares Brooks off me for good. Now is not the time to be blurting out budding feelings.
Now is the time to remain perfectly silent.
“But at least I have relief with Dr. Nesmith now,” Brooks says, interrupting my thoughts. “He’s also exotic, but he really loves avian. Oh, can I trust you with some gossip?”
I glance up and see Brooks is smiling mischievously at me.
“You gossip?” I ask, surprised.
“Who doesn’t?” Brooks counters. “But if you don’t, I won’t say a word.”
“No, you have to tell me now,” I plead.
“Are you sure you won’t think less of me for gossiping?”
“I’ll think more of you for it,” I tease, cocking an eyebrow at him.
Brooks laughs, which makes my heart leap.
“So you’re sure?”
“Brooks!”
“I think Derna likes Dr. Nesmith.”
“Derna? Your vet tech?”
“Yep. I’ve caught her expression when she’s talking to him, and I see it in the way she smiles and laughs when they talk. Derna likes him, and it’s pretty obvious.”
“But what about Dr. Nesmith?”
“He’s a typical man. Oblivious. But if he’s smart he’ll come around. She’s a great woman.”
“Maybe you could play Cupid,” I say, thinking aloud.
“Oh, no. No, no. Cupid will have to take care of them on his own, thank you.”
Kind of like Cupid did for us, I think happily.
“Okay, enough gossip,” Brooks declares. “I’m starving. I’m going to start the grill, and you can start the margaritas, if you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all.”
“The blender is in the far left bottom cabinet,” Brooks says, inclining his head toward it.
“Okay,” I say, moving over there and opening the door. Brooks heads outside to the patio, and I can see him messing with the grill from where I am. Oh, he’s so rugged and handsome and I still can’t believe I’m here, spending time with him.
But in so many ways, I feel like I’ve known him forever.
I grab a cutting board and retrieve the blood oranges we bought at the market. I’m slicing them in half when Brooks comes back inside, shutting the door behind him, and heads over to the fridge.
“I can’t wait to tuck into this salmon,” he says, pulling out the fish. “It’s going to be brilliant.”
I smile to myself. He’s half-American, with Seattle in his soul, but his speech and vocabulary are without a doubt one hundred percent British.
Brooks goes about unwrapping the fish, and I’m squeezing juice into the blender. I’m about to open the bottle of tequila we picked up earlier when Brooks clears his throat.
“You need to get ready, Payton,” he declares.
I turn and see he’s holding up the huge salmon.
“For what?” I ask, furrowing my brow.
“You’re going to catch this.”
I laugh. “Oh, no. No, I’m not!”
“I’m going to throw it to you, and you’re going to catch it. I know you have the skills, you’re a native Seattleite.”
“Just because I’m from Seattle doesn’t make me a fishmonger,” I protest.
“You don’t need to be a fishmonger to catch a fish.”
“No!”
Brooks backs up farther from me, holding the salmon in his hands, his brown eyes dancing in mischief. “Are you ready?”
“I’ll smell like a salmon afterwards!” I cry.
“I’m good with that. It’s a sexy scent.”
I laugh. “It is not, Brooks Martin, don’t you dare lie like that! And you said earlier you didn’t want to nap with a salmon.”
Brooks grins wickedly. “We’re not napping now.”
“Ugggh!”
“Come on. We have to do it. My first Seattle fish toss has to be with you.”
My heart pounds from his words, about needing to share this experience with me, and only me.
And I’m so going to catch this stinky salmon now.
“I’ll do this only because I like you,” I say.
“Ready?”
“Count to three,” I request.
Brooks nods. “Okay. One . . . two . . . three!”
He throws the fish across the kitchen, straight at me. It sails through the air and I extend my hands, but I have it all wrong and the huge salmon bounces right off my chest, hits the counter behind me and shoots right out of the kitchen and onto the living room floor.
I glance over at Brooks, who is staring at the fish now lying on the hardwood, and as soon as our eyes meet we both burst out laughing. I’m laughing so hard I have tears in my eyes, and Brooks’ loud laughter is filling the entire kitchen, and there’s a dead salmon on the floor staring up at us.
And we die all over again.
“That was the funniest thing ever,” Brooks says as he moves to retrieve the fish. “Your face when it hit you, that was brilliant!”
“It was heavy!” I counter, wiping tears from my eyes.
“I question your Seattle blood.”
“Because I dropped a fish?”
Brooks takes the salmon to the sink and rinses it off, then puts it on top of the cutting board. He reaches for a towel and begins to pat it dry.
“You can’t catch a fish. You don’t like coffee. Do you even like the Seahawks?” he asks, eyeing me suspiciously in regards to Seattle’s beloved football team.
“Oh, you’ve gone too far now,” I tease, moving b
eside him. “First, I love Nordstrom,” I say, referring to the Seattle-based department store. “And I love the iced green tea at Starbucks. I don’t use an umbrella. I have North Face in my closet. And yes, I’ll watch the Seahawks. I’m so Seattle, Dr. Brooks Martin.”
Brooks flashes me a grin. “So I’m wrong?”
“Very.”
“I do believe I’m right about you, though,” he says softly.
My heart holds still. “What do you mean?”
“I think you’re good for me, Payton,” he says, his eyes holding on mine.
I have no words for how fast my heart is falling for this man.
“Good, because I think you’re good for me, too,” I say, meaning the words with all my heart.
“I would kiss you but I stink like fish.”
“I don’t care,” I say truthfully.
I draw his face to mine and kiss him, not caring at all that I smell like a fish market.
I’m letting go, I think with amazement as his mouth softly caresses mine. Being with Brooks makes me want to let go of my ideas of perfection.
Well, except for one.
This man is perfect for me, I think as I kiss him back.
And I hope that Brooks thinks I’m perfect for him, too.
CHAPTER 18
Today’s plan to improve myself item: Today is a tremendous promotional opportunity for me. I’m going to be on TELEVISION. And I’ll promote myself as an enterprising young professional supporting her blog business in a unique way. I’ll be poised and confident and articulate myself to drive traffic to my blogs. So this is an opportunity to prove to everyone I’m a strong businesswoman.
In a career that is perfect for me.
***
“We need to go a touch brighter on your nude lips,” Courtney says, sliding open her drawer in her vanity. “You want to make sure they pop on camera.”
I’m sitting on Courtney’s posh gray-tufted ottoman seat as she combs her fingertips over rows of glorious lipstick tubes. It’s Monday afternoon, and we’re getting ready for the reporter from one of the local news channels to come over and shoot me doing my concierge work.
TV. I’m actually going to be on TV.
