Page 172 of Trouble from Abroad
“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.”
The switch flips so fast I nearly get a whiplash. Gone is the polished host; in his place, a man who’s barely suppressing a grimace now that he knows he’s not tending to the new billionaire in town.
Liam Gunn attracts these types—leeches, all of them after his money, power, and whatever favors he can grant.
Politeness? Love it. But this isn’t it. This is brown-nosing with a wine list in hand. And I can’t stand it. It warms me to see the doctor can’t either.
The maître d’ disappears in a puff of awkward silence, and I barely hold back a scoff. These clowns never fail toamuse me, but Preston doesn’t look a bit entertained—he’s wound up. So, of course, I joke around with Dr. Grump. Some harmless banter to lighten the mood. I don’t know why it’s so fun to tease him; it just is. Is it risky to poke a bear? Yes. Yes, it is. But it’s safer than addressing the lingering tension between us.
“What's the problem now?” I ask, propping my chin on my hand. “You look ready to spit out the food they haven’t served yet.”
He doesn’t answer me. Just glances sideways, jaw tight, face momentarily shadowed. Then his eyes find mine. Steady. Unreadable. “I see what you’re doing.” The warning landing quiet and clear. “I’m not playing.”
I smirk, because we obviously are, and it looks like I’m winning.
CHAPTER EIGHT
preston
The only way tosurvive Mia Thorne is to take the lead. Give her room, and she turns me into a human cockpit, pressing buttons just to see which one sets me off.
“Do you want to take a look at the menu?” I offer it as a peace treaty. Anything to stop her poking at what’s left of my nerves. She doesn’t make a move to take it. She smiles, full wattage, making me wonder if she ever runs out of energy.
“No.” There goes my fleeting hope. “I want to know more about my new boss.”
