But—
Griff’s eyebrows shot up even as he lolled in his semi-aware state. Could he be remembering right? But yes, Rosie had as much as said so. None of the guys in town would do it with her. Incredible! Either he’d read the redneck male psyche completely wrong, or there was something truly awful, completely repugnant about the strange yet alluring Doctor Atkinson.
Hell, in his state, she could have had a third eye in the middle of her forehead and he wouldn’t have known the difference. Pain did funny things to you. He’d been riveted by the scary-looking tray of sharp objects before Junior had administered the anesthetic, barely able to tear his eyes away from the lethal-looking tools.
On the other hand, he had a vivid recollection of glossy red curls gathered into a haphazard ponytail. Crazy-colored silk sliding along those lean, pale arms. Lips like satin flecked with tiny dots he longed to lick right off…
Details were his business, after all. And Griff was skeptical that he would have missed a grotesque deformity.
He made a mental note to take a closer look. And then shut his eyes and decided he might as well enjoy his little nap. Although, as he drifted off again, his thoughts were troubled by images of beautiful virgins holding power tools.
#
“So, what are you going to do with him?” Rosie was finishing up her late afternoon ritual, checking the dozen or so flourishing houseplants, straightening the stacks of paper on their desks into some semblance of alignment, shutting down the computer. Their patient had finally woken up in a fairly alert state, although he seemed to have trouble building a complete sentence, much less keeping his eyes off Junior. They’d allowed their patient to make his way the three blocks to the motel only after calling over and making sure the proprietor would be standing out front waiting for him.
There was silence for a few seconds after the door shut. Junior could feel Rosie’s gaze fixed solidly on her. She shrugged.
“I’ll give him a call in the morning and send him on his way. I can forward the crown on wherever he’s headed. The temp ought to hold him at least a week. For being such a mess it turned out to be a pretty clean fix.”
“Damn shame, then.”
Junior bit her lip. In some far recess of her heart, she had to agree. It
was
a shame that a woman couldn’t just latch on to whatever reasonably intelligent, reasonably able-bodied man happened into her life when it was time to have a baby. If that woman didn’t have a man of her own, that is. And if her doctor had just explained in painstaking detail why fibroids had whittled her fertility down to a window that was rapidly closing.
It wasn’t fair. That much went without saying. But who’d be naïve enough to expect life to deliver what was fair? Certainly not the youngest child of the Atkinson clan of Poplar Bluff.
“Look, Rosie,” Junior protested, with a little more spirit than she felt. “Who says I’m even ready for a baby? I’m only twenty-eight. Hardly anyone has kids at that age any more. I know, I know—” she held up a hand defensively—”you did, and Mom and Dad, but that was different.”
“I don’t know about that.” Rosie crossed her arms and leaned back against her desk, the familiar blue blaze in her eyes. “Seems to me the basics are still the same. You meet a fella, you fall in love—or not, in your case—and you do what comes natural. Bam! Babies.”
“Wasn’t there supposed to be something about marriage in there?”
Rosie stuck her fists on her hips and gave Junior a searing look. “Oh, so now you want to go all traditional on me? Well, little missy, I hardly think I need to remind you that your brother Charlie Earl and my Sandra were both love children, and your mama’s wedding dress fit me just fine because we were both five months along when we wore it.”
“Rosie, you’re impossible.” Impulsively, Junior reached for a hug, and was rewarded with the wonderful old sensation of being held tight and cherished.
“Not so. I’m just your devil’s advocate. Every gal needs one.” Rosie gave a final squeeze before holding Junior at arm’s length. “Besides, we make one hell of a team.”
***
Did you enjoy the first chapter of A Man for the Summer by Ruby Laska?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ruby Laska grew up in a small midwestern town, where her passions included state fairs, Vince Gill, and the local library. A recent West Coast transplant, she lives and works in Emeryville, California. When not writing sweet, small-town romances, Ruby loves to explore San Francisco’s neighborhoods, stopping in at every shoe store and searching for the perfect cup of joe.