9. Brooke
Brooke
Dr. Beckett Whistler is pretentious and—there’s no other way to put it—insanely attractive. He’s also carrying my meddling grandmother up the stairs to her house.
I shake my head as I stand by the front door, holding it open. I must be experiencing temporary insanity because, for a brief moment, I wish that I was in Meemaw’s place.
Definitely insane .
He takes Meemaw to the living room couch, where he sets her down gently and elevates her feet with a pillow. He hands her the TV remote and crouches down when she pulls him toward her.
Meemaw whispers something in his ear, and his cheeks turn red.
“No, ma’am,” he responds quietly, but loud enough that I hear him.
“Good. Then I approve. You can take Brooke out anytime.”
I shake my head vigorously.
“Meemaw!” I interject. “You do not get to choose who I go out with, or when.”
“Brookie Cookie, if I’m not allowed to have any fun because of these old bones, you better go have some.”
Dr. Whistler stands and stares at me. I know my hair is crazy, and I know I’m wearing pajamas, but today was an extenuating circumstance. It was the middle of the night .
“Thank you for your help today, Dr. Whistler. I can assure you we’re just fine, and Meemaw is being meddlesome.”
His neck cords, and he nods once. I lean against the front door, ready to shut it once he leaves.
With a quick glance at Meemaw, he walks toward me. “Call me if you have any trouble or concerns. I’ll be right over.” His voice is low, soothing, and I wish he wasn’t talking about my grandmother, but I can’t let them both know that.
“Thank you, Dr. Whistler. I’ll try to keep the patient in line.”
He stops just a foot away from the door and meets my eyes with his own chocolate ones. “It’s just Beck.”
“Ok. Thanks, Dr. Beck.”
He grimaces. “No, I mean, just call me Beck, please.”
“Ok. Beck.”
I gesture for him to walk through the door. I’m ready to take a shower and a nap, but as he steps under the doorway, he stops and turns back to me. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and he doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he chooses to look at my fuzzy slippers.
“Can-I-take-you-out?” he mumbles.
I gape at him, not computing his words. “Did you just ask me on a date?” Meemaw’s chuckle in the background fuels my ire. “Because my meemaw said so? I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not a charity case.”
He turns beet red and shakes his head before dashing out the door, passing his truck, and running up the driveway to his house.
Meemaw calls my name. “Brooke, that man doesn’t know what to do with himself and you.”
I frown. “Just like everyone else.”
“Now that’s not true, Brookie. I know a thing or two. He’ll come around. And you two will be good together. Just give him a chance.”
“Why would I give him a chance, Meemaw? And why on earth would you tell him to ask me out?”
“Because giving good people chances is the right thing to do. I know I raised your momma to teach you that, and I know you know that.”
“No, why would we be good together? I don’t even know him.”
“Sometimes, us old folk have hunches, and it’s best not to resist them.”
I shake my head at Meemaw. “Are you comfortable?”
She nods in response and flips on Is it Cake? on the smart TV I upgraded her to the first week I was here.
I set my hands on my hips and look down at her on the couch. “No more baking. Got it? I’m going to shower and take a nap.”
Meemaw yawns and settles back against the couch cushions, and though I thought walking away would make the tension dissipate, I’m disappointed that thoughts of Dr. Beckett Whistler follow after me.