Dana takes a sip of her drink, casting me a loaded look. As well as being Brandon’s twin sister, Dana is the accountant and billing specialist at his psychiatry practice. She’s been known to spill the tea that goes on between Brandon and his administrative assistants. He and his business partner, Gladys, are high maintenance and can’t seem to hold on to their help.
“Oh, come on,” Brandon defends. “You have to admit the whole thing is absurd.”
“She was great, Brandon.”
“Hardly,” he argues, lifting a crystal tumbler to his mouth. Mesmerized, I watch as he presses the glass to his lips, following the smooth line of his throat as the liquid slides down. “She took pet bereavement, Dana.”
“So?” I challenge. “Sometimes pets are all people have. If her dog died, then I think it’s totally reasonable that—”
“Her gerbil,” Brandon interjects. “She took the week before Thanksgiving off because she wanted to grieve the loss of her deadgerbil.”
Laughter rings throughout the table.
“Her . . . gerbil?”
“Her gerbil,” Brandon affirms. Suddenly, I feel his hand brush up against my knee, and without thinking, I stab him with my fork. He winces and retreats, coughing as he jerks forward. “So I fired her,” he concludes, rubbing the back of his hand beneath the table.
Whoopsie. I just stabbed him.
But he deserved it.
“A bit harsh, no?” Jamie asks before popping a bite of mashed potatoes into his mouth. At first, I think he’s talking to me, but he’s looking at Brandon.
Brandon shrugs. “I need someone who takes the job seriously. Someone who will be as committed to being available to my patients as I am.”
My heart glows with admiration, despite my better judgment. Brandon is as dedicated to the needs of his psychiatry patients as I am to those of my home care clients, and I admire him greatly for it. He is a wonderful doctor.
“What do you mean?” my sister-in-law, Rebecka, asks.
“I’m on call twenty-four seven,” Brandon supplies. “My assistant screens my phone calls and forwards the messages to me if it’s an emergency. Sometimes, patients will call in the middle of the night or on weekends or holidays.” He takes another drink. “And if she’s taking her PTO to grieve a gerbil two months into the job, then it wouldn’t have worked out long-term.”
“What relationship of yours lasts long-term anyway?” Dana quips.
Water spurts out of my nose.Jamie guffaws.
Brandon’s eyes narrow as everyone laughs at his expense.
Where Brandon’s dating life is concerned, Dana has hit the nail on the head. He goes through personal assistants like he goes through women. Back when I paid attention to his dating life, it wasn’t uncommon for him to have a new woman hanging from his arm like he was their own personal jungle gym almost every other week—if not more frequently. Women have always come and gone out of Brandon’s home like they’re passing through a revolving door.
He’s what Jamie calls a womanizer.
Dinner continues at a snail’s pace. Jamie drones on about his job, telling the same story he’s told a million times before about an old man who tried to steal a lawn mower from Dave’s Lawn Mowing Service—probably because it’s the most excitement this small, riverfront town has gotten in years.
“As if riding it down Main Street wasn’t bad enough, when he noticed me following him, he abandoned the mower and started running. He didn’t get very far before I managed to rugby tackle him to the ground, and then—”
“You shouldn’t have attacked the poor old man,” I mutter through my fingers, pushing my green beans around my plate. “He was clearly senile.”
Insulted, Jamie gapes. “He was a criminal, Evie.”
“Maybe he was only running from you because he was afraid of getting hurt,” I retort. “You’re pretty scary looking.”
Eventually, I get bored of the conversation and excuse myself to prepare the dessert buffet. I’m in the middle of cutting into the pecan pie when a toe-curlingly familiar voice tickles my ear. “Is that why you’re running from me, Spitfire?” he asks. “Because you’re afraid of getting hurt?”
I jump and whirl around, wielding the pie spatula I’m holding like a weapon. Brandon jumps back, narrowly avoiding the utensil as it whips in his direction.
“Whoa, there. Careful, Spitfire. You’ve already stabbed me once this evening.” He studies his hand. “Luckily, you didn’t break skin.”
My heart rate settles as he backs up a step, giving me some much-needed space, but it’s still galloping like a racehorse. It always beats a fraction faster in his presence.
