Page 100 of The Love Operation

“If it bothers you—”

He shakes his head. “No. No, you should go.”

It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince me.

“I know I can trust you. It sounds nice. You should do it.”

“You really don’t mind?”

He tucks his chin slightly, eyes narrowing—adorable and unsure all at once. “Let’s just say . . . I’m trying not to mind. You know my history. It makes me a little skittish.”

My heart urges me to stop right here. Walk away from Benedict Calder. Forget closure. Run into this man’s arms and stay there—in a relationship finally heading in all the right directions.

But my brain chimes in, Mortal Kombat–style: Finish him. I need to understand what went wrong. With Benedict. With all of it. If I can do that, maybe I can finally get it right with Isaac. As long as I remain clear about my intentions, we all walk away better. At least . . . that’s the goal.

“I know,” I say, quietly. “And I would never do that to you. That’s why I’m telling you. I want to be aboveboard.”

“I appreciate that.”

I take a breath. If I’m going to be honest, I need to be fully honest.

“And in keeping with that theme,” I say, “I think you should know that we used to date. For a while. It didn’t end badly, it just . . . ended. I hadn’t seen him in years—until he walked into my clinic with his dad.”

Isaac’s eyebrows lift. “You dated him.”

I nod once. “Years ago. It mattered . . . at the time.”

He leans back slightly, watching me, assessing. Not cold. Quiet.

I fight the urge to fill the silence and let him take his time.

Finally, he exhales through his nose. “Thank you for telling me.”

I nod again, unsure what to say next.

“I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t twist something in me,” he admits. “But your honesty helps.” He looks down, then back at me. “So . . . do you want to go to dinner with him?”

It’s not an accusation. It’s a real question.

“Yeah. I think it’ll be good. Cut the loose ends, clear the air.”

He holds my gaze a moment longer. I can see the question behind his eyes—what kind of loose ends?—but he doesn’t ask it.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. I can’t say I love the idea. But I’d rather you get closure than carry around unfinished business.” He gives a tight, tired smile. “Besides, you’re not the kind of woman a guy can control.”

“No, but I’d respect your wishes.”

This pleases him. “Then all I ask is, if anything shifts . . . tell me. I don’t want to be blindsided. Again.”

“I will. I promise.”

Something softens between us.

“You better be back at a decent hour, though. I’m not above texting you passive-aggressive memes.”