“Mia,” he says, all serious. “Should we talk about what happened befo?—”
“Noooo.” I cut him off, way too loud, saving us both from eternal humiliation and my spontaneous combustion. “Dr. Preston Jett, the only way to save this arrangement is to never,ever”—I pause and over-enunciate the words—“refer to that mishap again. Let’s file it under ‘things we don’t speak about.’”
I turn to check if he’s on board with this. “We’re going to move on and pretend it never happened. Deal?”
He’s still focused on the road, but his sideways glance is so intense, it almost pins me to the window.
“You got yourself a deal, Miss Thorne.” He doesn’t release my wrist, not until he’s guided it to the fancy sound system in his Jeep.
“Okay, a quick one-time exception, and we’ll never, ever speak of it.” I can’t resist it. Curiosity killed the cat and itwould’ve killed me. “That tattoo in the middle of your chest—was that a sun?”
His smug grin is back, and I let him have it. Fine. I did grab an eyeful of him.
“I call LilySunshine. So yeah, I tattooed a sun for her, well, for me, the day she first spoke ‘sunfine.’ Did you catch the rays of light too, Miss Thorne?”
“Okay, time’s up! Poof.” I mime the explosion with my hands. “Never happened. Gone from our memories.”
I blow out a breath, easing back into my seat. Pretty sure I’m back to my original height now that my spine’s not locked in fight-or-flight mode.
I connect my Spotify and cue up my favorite playlist, already bracing for him to groan, reprimand my musical choices or turn the radio off entirely.
But to my surprise, Dr. Preston doesn’t complain. Not a word. Not until I’m halfway through an off-key duet with Harry Styles.
“That’s not happening either, Miss Thorne,” he says with a frown, twisting the volume down until Harry, my pretend boyfriend, is practically whispering our love song into my drink holder.
“Hey, you’ve made your point. You know my last name. Quit Miss Thorning me.”
“Goes both ways,” he counters. “I’m not your doctor. Call me Preston.”
He parks the car, and we shake on it. The handshake lasts half a second too long, and when he pulls his hand back, I’m left grasping air.Idiot.
There we go. Two deals struck, and one new doctor kinkunlocked. Damn him. Now my brain’s staging a full Broadway production starring Dr. Jett—the wardrobe is only a stethoscope, and the script is a hundred percent XXX rated.
We’re the first ones to arrive since Liam, being the owner of a Premier League soccer club, has his whole anti-paparazzi routine and is probably doing rounds around the block. The restaurant my ex-boss picked is, of course, fancy as fuck. Dark wood. Black leather. The kind of place where they charge extra for eye contact. But it’s the low and warm lighting that gives the room an intimate feel: the kind that makes you want to whisper your conversations.
A clean-shaved lad leads us to a quiet table at the back. The boy attempts to pull out my chair, but one scowl from the fine doctor and he’s gone so fast I half expect him to leave skid marks. Preston does it instead, bowing his head and leaving me speechless.
I’m having second thoughts about his grumpiness. Sometimes, it’s almost funny. Borderline adorable, actually.
It’s a table for four in the darkest, most secluded corner of the restaurant. The nearby tables stay empty on purpose—classic Gunn booking move. Preston sits on the same side as me, both of us facing the room. He leaves the two seats across from us for April and Liam, so they’ll face us, not the restaurant—more privacy from prying eyes. Our knees already bumped once.
I lean in after we sit. “Quick thing before they get here—can you send me Lily’s teacher’s and the school counselor’s contact info? I’d like to schedule a quick re-entry chat with the staff.”
He blinks. “You work fast.”
“I call it being prepared.”
“I’ll forward the school portal, the login details, and all you need to know in there.”
I open Notes and choose the latest one:Lily—first 72 hours, with a list I started on the airplane:bedtime routine; safe snacks; pickup/drop-off hours. I angle the screen toward him. “Let’s start with bedtime.”
He nods and talks, while I type.
The maître d’ appears, smiling wide enough to show molars. “How are you this evening, Mr. Gunn?” The man’s voice oozes fake warmth. “Can I offer you a bottle of?—”
“Save it,” Preston cuts the man off with a hand in the air before he can finish. “Mr. Gunn is on his way.” No raise in volume. No shift in posture. Just the same glacial calm that somehow makes the words land harder. He doesn’t care for this over-the-top performance.
The man’s face drops faster than my credit score after Boxing Day shopping. His hand lands flat against his chest, all flair and no sincerity. “Oh,” he says, smile fading. “My apologies.”
