Page 137 of Doctor's Bossy Match
I meet her eyes that are filled with kindness and understanding.And for once, I don’t try to argue or rationalize.
“I know,” I say, and being that she’s been with me for years, I lower my guard and let the words fall from my heart.“I hope so.”
I pull into my parents’ driveway just after six.Turning off the engine, I grab the bottle of wine I picked up and head up the front steps.
The front door’s already open, so I walk in.
“Brant.”Mom’s voice floats down the hall, followed by the unmistakable thud of a saucepan hitting the stove.
Inside, it smells like buttery comfort.
“Hey,” I call as I pass the living room, spotting my dad in his recliner with the news on low.
He gives me a nod.“Evening, Chief.”
I smirk.That nickname has stuck harder than I expected.
In the kitchen, Mom is stirring a pot, her sleeves rolled up, and her apron dusted with flour.
“Wine?”I hold out the bottle.
“Perfect.Your sister’s already here.Out back with Aria.”
I nod and head through the glass doors onto the back patio.Aria spots me first.
“Uncle B,” she shouts, barreling across the deck in pink rain boots three sizes too big for her.
I crouch just in time to catch her, lifting her into a spin.“You’ve gotten bigger.”
“I’m five,” she says proudly, holding up a hand.
“No way.Five?That’s practically an adult.”
She giggles and buries her head in my shoulder.
“Hey, stranger,” my sister, Bridget, says, rising from the outdoor lounge with a glass of wine in her hand.“Thought you’d forgotten about us.”
“Never.Work’s just been—” I shake my head.“Nonstop.”
She nods like she gets it, and we both sit, Aria curling up between us with a coloring book.
We stay there for a while, talking about nothing, coloring, laughing at Aria’s stories about school and the wild things her teacher says.
I picture Regan here.Sitting across from me, charming my mom, making Aria laugh, fitting into my world like she belonged here all along.
When dinner is ready, the dining table is crammed with my favorite mac and cheese casserole, baked vegetables, and a salad.
We eat, talk, laugh, and for the first time in weeks, I almost forget.
Almost.
Later, once Aria’s been bathed, Grandma promises to read her a story before bed.Bridget and I are standing in the kitchen with our wineglasses, leaning against the counter like we used to when we were younger, and sneaking leftover cake.
“So…” she says casually, swirling her glass, “how’s the whole ‘Chief of Ward’ thing treating you?”
I shrug.“It’s good.Big shoes to fill.Lots of pressure.Long hours.”
“But?”
