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I wait, surveying the room for my date. It’s not too busy, so checking out the patrons is easy enough. Mrs. Loughty told me that my date would be wearing a red silk pocket square in the front pocket of his suit jacket.
So that’s what I search for.
When I find it, I’m suddenly very, very happy that I’ve put on my favorite red dress. I mean, my boobs? Absolutely slaying in it. Thank you, red dress, for having my back—and my front!
Because at the end of the bar sits the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my entire life: Dark-brown hair that’s close-cropped on the sides, but longer on top. A clean-shaven face, without even a hint of stubble on his chiseled jaw. A body whose muscles are practically bulging from his neatly pressed suit.
He’s my date? What the hell?
I double-check, but yep, there it is in his front pocket: a neatly folded red pocket square, perfectly matching his red tie.
Blind date? More like a bull’s-eye!
I can’t tell the color of his eyes since he has his phone out and is looking down at it, but I’ll bet my right hand they are blue. A dark blue, deep as the sea, and just as dangerous.
But why has he been divorced three times? Who would divorce a man like him? Unless he’s a total douche.
I really hope he isn’t.
Oh, God, do I hope he isn’t.
There’s only one way to find out.
I square my shoulders and draw in a deep breath, a ritual ingrained from countless performances. With each exhale, some of the unseen weight that’s been on my shoulders for months begins to dissipate. Before I can make a conscious decision, my feet start moving by themselves, utterly weightlessly.
I literally float over to him and take the bar stool by his side.
He’s reading the New York Times on his phone and only slowly raises his head to see who just sat down next to him.
I was right. His eyes are blue, and if I’m not very careful, I will drown in them.
2
LIZZIE
Idon’t know where I summon the courage to speak up before he does. Perhaps it’s that sensation in my chest, the fear that staying quiet or waiting for him to initiate the conversation will be a regret that will haunt me later. Perhaps it’s the deep coolness of his eyes, concealing something both peculiar and strangely familiar.
“Oh, hi,” I say. “You must be…the doc.”
He glances over at me and arches a brow. “Hi. And yes, I am.”
Oh my stars. His voice! It’s deep, captivating, and carries a distinct velvety masculine quality.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, giving him one of my dazzling smiles. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
He studies me for a moment, clearly giving me the once-over. “Actually…I just sat down.” He still has his phone in his hand, which I think is a little rude but decide to ignore it.
“Good. Traffic wasn’t what I expected. Can I get you a drink, or have you already ordered one?”
“The latter.” He’s staring at me strangely as he speaks, almost as if he’s trying to figure out where he knows me from.
My stomach sinks.
Why is he looking at me funny?
I hope and pray he isn’t a patron of the club. The last thing I want is to be set up with one of my customers. Oddly enough, there is something familiar about him, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“Do you want to stay here at the bar, or do you want to get a table?” I ask, crossing my legs so the hem of my dress rides up just a smidge—oops, okay, maybe more than a smidge. (Oh well, not exactly hating it).
