Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Paul gives me a hug instead of a handshake. We’ve been chatting online for weeks. I don’t get a lot of hugs, which makes it easy to sink into his warm body.
A warm body … I could use one of those too.
Warm.
Naked.
With a pulse.
“It’s nice to finally meet in person,” I say, taking a seat across from him.
“You look better than your profile picture.” Appreciation seeps through his words.
My grin doubles. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you as I approached the table.” In less than thirty seconds, I have a good feeling about Paul Turner. He doesn’t appear nervous or awkward. Confident, but not overly so.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks.
“Water is fine. Thank you.”
“Are you sure? They have an amazing house wine here.”
“I’m sure. Please, however, order yourself a glass of wine. I’m going to jump straight into an appetizer because I skipped lunch today.”
He laughs. “Sounds good.”
We order drinks and appetizers while I contemplate my main course. He smiles a lot. I smile a lot. All the good vibes buzz around us.
“Did your niece have a nice birthday party?” I ask, lifting my gaze from the menu.
He narrows his eyes for a second. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot I told you about that. Yes. It was extravagant. I fear when she turns five, anything short of a trip to Paris will be an epic disappointment.”
“Is she an only child?”
Paul gives me a few more details about his family, and his love for them bleeds through each word. He’s originally from Vermont, and he’s lived here in Chicago for five years as a cosmetic chemist. Paul swiped right because we both have degrees in the sciences.
“So how do you like Chicago? It has to be quite the change of pace from Des Moines.”
My head bobs several times as my stomach growls waiting for the appetizers. “It is, but I feel at home with my job.”
“And you like your job?”
I sip my water before nodding. “I do.”
“That’s good.” Paul sets his menu aside and unwraps his silverware, depositing the cloth napkin on his lap. “It takes the right kind of personality to work in a lab. My friends think I have a cool job. I mean … I formulate cosmetics, but when they find out I’m tucked away in a lab all day, it loses its luster. I bet you get the same thing.”
“Yeah, it’s not as uh…” I clear my throat “…glamorous as other jobs.”
“I can imagine people perk up when they hear you’re a doctor. You think doctor and immediately you think saving lives. But I suppose working in pathology you’re catching things like early stages of cancer, and in some ways, you’re saving lives as much if not more than other doctors. Right?”
Saving lives? Not exactly.
I find a subtle smile to accompany my slight nod. “I worked in surgery for just under a year. So I’d never take anything away from other doctors. I solve mysteries.”
“What’s the hardest part?” Paul asks, and I wish we could steer the conversation in a different direction. Talking about jobs this much on a first date is as disappointing as talking about the weather until the main meal arrives.
“The hardest part is dealing with the death of young children.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“So, Paul, do you travel much?” I make the conversation go in a more acceptable direction. Paul bites, gobbling up my questions like Pac-Man. There are no awkward moments of silence. We cruise through dinner and dessert with each topic of conversation smoothly shifting to a new topic. This is how a date is supposed to go, and I’m hopeful that it won’t end when we leave the restaurant.
“I’m going to use the men’s room quickly.” Paul stands after paying the check, even though I argue that the first date should be separate checks.
Feeling good about the start to my weekend, I watch his smooth gait drift toward the back of the restaurant.
“Josie Watts?”
No.
No. No. No.
That familiar voice at my back—familiar like a paper cut eliciting a grimace and a silent expletive—brings every hair on my neck to attention, ready for battle.
Turning, my lips find a neutral position short of an actual smile. That dark hair is as unkempt as it was the last time I saw it, nearly seventeen years ago. Same irritating smirk. Same glimmer of antagonism in his monster-like brown and gold eyes. He’s a dimple shy of being that guy every girl swoons over in high school then despises the rest of her life. “Colten.” His name still leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
“Wow! How long has it been?” he asks.
Not long enough is my answer, but I don’t offer it to him.
“I heard you went to medical school.”
“Did you?” I press my lips together for a beat. “I heard that too.”