“I will.”
I won’t, though. How could I? The clock is ticking, and it’s only a matter of time until the charade is up. I glance at my watch. “He should be here any minute.”
As if on cue, my doorbell rings. My stomach unleashes a flurry of butterflies, and my hands start to shake.
“You’ve got this.” Bree smiles, and somehow, I believe her.
“Thanks for your help.” I start toward the front of the cabin and Bree falls into step beside me.
“Don’t mention it. By the way, I’m trying to put together a girls’ lunch the day we all do our final fitting for Jon and Blanka’s wedding. You in?”
“Absolutely.” I can’t wait. What would it be like to be permanently part of a world like this? A world filled with farm dates and girls’ nights and handsome, single doctors.
Maybe there’s some way…
My hopeful heart sinks its claws into that idea, even as my brain folds its arms and scolds me for being ridiculous.
We’re almost to the door, and something about knowing Bradley’s on the other side sends a spurt of joy through me. I turn and look at Bree as my heart starts to gallop.
“I kissed him.” I whisper the words like I’m confessing I’ve robbed a bank.
Bree looks at me and nods. “Good for you.” She smiles and pats me on the back. “Now go get some more.”
If only it were that simple.
I pull open the door to see Bradley Parker standing on the porch wearing jeans and boots and looking like an American sex god. He’s got a flannel shirt of his own, which makes me doubly glad Bree urged me to change.
“Ladies.” He smiles at me. “You look great. I’ve never seen you so casual.”
I smooth my hands down the shirt, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s not too informal? I wasn’t sure if your mother would be there or if there’s any special protocol for meeting her.”
He laughs, but it’s a sweet, musical sound and not a mockery of my ignorance. “As long as you curtsy and address her only as ‘Your Highness,’ you should be fine.” He must see my stricken look because his expression softens. “A joke, I swear. Wait. Is that what it’s like for a guy to meet your mother?”
If he only knew. “Perhaps.” I swallow back the lump in my throat as I turn to hug Bree goodbye. “Thanks again.”
“Don’t mention it.” She pulls the door closed behind us both and fixes Bradley with a mock-stern look. “Have her home before curfew. No funny business. Feet on the floor at all times.”
“Absolutely.” He grins at me. “Do you have an expression like that in Dovlano?”
I’ve only just realized what circumstances might prompt a parent to suggest such a thing, and I’m blushing too hard to think of anything smart to say. “Not one I’ve heard, but it’s possible.”
Bradley pivots toward the parking area and crooks an elbow at me. “Your coach awaits, Your Ladyship.”
I feel myself flinch. He must feel it, too, even as I’m threading my arm through his. “Sorry,” he says as he leads me down the pathway toward a shiny silver pickup truck. “Dumb joke.”
“It’s okay.” My siblings know I’m not fond of formal titles, but there’s no way Bradley could know. Besides, he’s only kidding. “I’m just conscious sometimes of how different I am.”
“I understand.” His brow furrows as he opens the truck door. “That was a poor choice of words. I don’t understand in that I can’t personally relate, but it makes sense you’d want to step away from anything that leaves you feeling like an outsider. I’ll try to avoid doing that, okay?”
I nod as he offers me a hand up into the cab. “Thank you.”
He moves to the driver’s side and slides behind the wheel but doesn’t start the engine. “Seriously, that was a dick thing to say,” he says. “I wasn’t even thinking about your title. Just playing at chivalry.”
“Really, it’s fine.” The fact that he cares so much warms my heart. “Am I your first brush with royalty?”
He laughs and starts the truck. “Real royalty, yeah. I’ve seen plenty of imposters in my medical practice.”
I study the side of his face, fighting not to feel the effects of that chiseled jaw dusted with faint stubble. “You mean mentally ill people who think they’re kings and queens?”
“No, though I did treat a private with a head injury who thought he was a five-star general.” He shakes his head as he steers us down the long, winding driveway. “Oh, and there was one guy convinced he was the U.S. president. Frankly, he’d have done a better job than half the folks who’ve held the office.”
I laugh, relieved I actually get the joke. Where I’m from, most leaders ascend to their roles instead of being elected. “So what did you mean about royalty?”
He’s driving with one hand, oozing with the easy energy that’s customary among American men behind the wheel. There’s no reason I should find it sexy. I do, though. So much that I nearly miss the next words out of his mouth.
“We implemented this new electronic intake form at the clinic last year,” he explains. “There’s some setup on the back end that allows folks to pick their preferred title. Regular stuff like ‘Mr.’ or ‘Ms.’ or ‘Mx.’”
“Mx.?” That’s a new one to me.
“It’s a gender-neutral title for people who don’t identify with male or female or who prefer not to specify for any reason.” He shifts easily, thigh flexing as he moves the pedals. “It’s becoming more common.”
“I see.” I make a mental note to remember that one, just in case. “Were there more titles than those ones?”
He laughs. “That’s the problem. The company that created the intake form uploaded hundreds of titles for countries all over the world. Most medical offices narrow it to a dozen or so, but we missed that step when setting it up.”
The low, alluring rumble of his voice has me mesmerized, and I forget for a moment this is a conversation and not a monologue. I’d cheerfully listen to him read the owner’s manual for this truck.
“What happened?” I manage to ask when I find my voice. “I presume some of the titles aren’t commonly used?”
“Some I might have left in there anyway,” he says. “Stuff like ‘reverend’ or ‘doctor.’”
“A doctor treating a doctor,” I muse. “That must be interesting.”
“Could be a college professor or even a veterinarian,” he points out. “But I’ve had a few patients who were medical doctors.”
“So what other titles were there?” I stretch my legs out in front of me, curling my toes in my hiking boots.
“Let’s see, there was ‘chancellor.’ I guess that works for any patient who’s a chancellor at a university. There was also QC or KC which I had to look up.”
“What are those?”
He steers the truck around a big hunk of ice in the road. “Stands for ‘Queen’s Counsel’ or ‘King’s Counsel.’ I guess it’s for a judge or barrister in some parts of Europe.”