Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Elias
“They’re taking a long time,” I eventually mutter, shifting my body into a more comfortable position.
“It’s probably a busy evening,” Raf says.
I nod in acknowledgment.
I stretch my legs out and accidentally knock his ankle with my toes.
“Sorry,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Not a problem,” he says in his rumbly voice. I’m not sure how he manages to sit still like this. I’m kind of short, and even I’m starting to get uncomfortable. I don’t know how he manages with how tall he is.
My stomach decides right then that it’s about the right time to rumble loudly.
Wouldn’t it be nice if he ignored the sound? Just pretended it didn’t happen?
“Hungry?” he asks.
I glance at the ceiling. “I forgot to eat lunch.”
“How does one forget to eat lunch?” I’d like to bristle and say he sounds judgmental, but even I can’t twist the mild curiosity in his tone into anything other than just that.
“You… you get really busy?”
He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t happen even if that was the case. I’ll get so hangry I’ll be intolerable, so somebody will remind me to eat.”
“You have better coworkers, then.”
“Or maybe you’re just a more pleasant person to be around when you’re hungry.”
“Well, I’m pretty low on the totem pole, so not in a good position to be insufferable.”
He snorts just as it registers what I’ve said.
“Not that you’re insufferable,” I say quickly.
“Of course, you might be. Or not. I really don’t know you well enough to make that judgment.
And I’m not judging, just to be clear. I’m simply saying people have the right to feel their emotions.
” I frown and consider what I’ve just said.
“But not at the expense of other people,” I add.
Ha. Take that. Passive-aggressiveness for the win.
“I have food,” he says.
I’m not taking food from the enemy.
My stomach rumbles even louder. My body is a traitor.
“I couldn’t. It’s your dinner.” I’m trying to be hostile, but it’s not that easy, mainly because while I do think I have a legitimate reason not to be all buddy-buddy with the person who slept with my boyfriend, it also feels like an asshole move to be an asshole to somebody who doesn’t seem to know why I’m being an asshole.
Also, to my great disappointment, so far it hasn’t turned out he’s some smarmy dickbag who kicks puppies as a form of relaxation.
I’ve been consoling myself with the thought that he’s some slick douche, and maybe sleeping with him was just something exciting for Chris, seeing that I’m, you know, boring and all. But if this guy is just a decent person then it opens a whole new can of worms for me.
What does he have that I didn’t?
Okay, so looks, obviously. He’s hot. Really, really hot. But I’m not totally terrible to look at either.
It must be his personality, then. Right?
Which leads me to an idea. I say idea, but it’s more like an obsessive thought. I have a prime opportunity here to figure this out. I can talk to him. See what it is about him that made him so irresistible to Chris.
“Here.” He holds the bag out to me. I hesitate, but whatever is in there smells really good. Good enough that my mouth begins to water.
I take the bag and peer inside.
The smell gets even better.
I pull out the large takeout box and open it. Fingerling potatoes. Grilled veggies. Pan-seared slices of duck fillet drizzled in sauce.
I glance up at Raf. I may be in the middle of trying to dislike him, but what kind of an asshole eats a dinner like this without leaving him anything?
“We’ll share,” I say.
That clearly takes him by surprise. Guess my be-an-asshole plan might be working after all. I don’t really feel good about it, though, which is slightly annoying.
“Are you sure?” His brow furrows.
A small, involuntary smile tilts the corners of my lips up. “It’s your dinner. You’re the one sharing it with me.”
We divide the meal in half. He takes the knife, leaving me with the fork, and we dig in. For a bit, we both eat silently, with only an occasional comment about the food, which boils down to us both finding synonyms for the word “delicious.”
“You’re a doctor,” he says eventually when he puts his knife down and wipes his mouth and fingers with the napkin.
“Umm. Yes?” I say.
“What’s with the pause?”
You’re always working. You’re always reading. You’re so boring, Eli. Boring, boring, boring.
“I’m in my second year of residency. A long way to go still.”
“What kind of doctor will you be?” he asks.
I straighten my back a bit to get more comfortable and put my fork down. Would it be impolite to lick the box clean? “It’s general surgery right now, but—”
Boring.
Boring.
Boring.
“Surgery. It’s not very interesting.”
He tilts his head to the side. “Why’d you stop yourself from speaking?”
“It’s not very interesting,” I repeat, and then I blush because I’m like a broken record and I’m starting to sound pathetic even to myself.
“I asked,” he points out.
I look down at my hands. “I’ve been told I ramble, and I won’t realize until it’s too late.”
He considers that, and when I look up, I find him staring at me.
“I’ve been told I’m too quiet, and it makes people uncomfortable. I don’t mind at all when somebody speaks a lot. I actually like it.”
We eye each other quietly.
“Pediatric surgery,” I finally say. “That’s what I’m planning to specialize in.”
He nods. “Why pediatric surgery?”
I laugh. “There’s no interesting story or some selfless reason. I just researched all the possibilities, and that one spoke to me. Why’d you become a firefighter?”
“I got my GED and then enrolled in a fire academy. My old man was a firefighter. Always wanted to be like him.”
He gets a faraway look in his eyes. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to ask—I don’t want to ask—but I can’t seem to stop myself.
“You have a good family?”
He shrugs. He looks like he doesn’t plan to elaborate, but then he does anyway.
“My dad is kind of like me. We look like him, my brothers and I, but I’m also sort of like him.
Introverts, I guess? Like to keep to ourselves.
My brothers are the outgoing ones. They take after our mom, apparently.
” He sends me a quick look. “She’s dead. ”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It was a long time ago. I don’t really remember her.”
“I have a brother and a sister,” I say. What the fuck for?
Well, if I want to keep him talking, I have to contribute.
I’m curious, even if I don’t want to be.
He opened up, so I guess it means I’m gonna spill my guts now.
“I take after… nobody? My parents are really interesting. Very accomplished. My dad used to work for SETI, and now he teaches at Caltech. My mom’s one of those script doctors.
My sister owns a restaurant, and she’s also the head chef there, and my brother is a stuntman. ”
He slowly shakes his head. “I didn’t understand half of that, so it must mean they’re really cool.”
I snort out a laugh.
“SETI?” he asks.
“Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence.”
He stares at me. “Like… aliens or something like that?”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “Like aliens or something like that. It’s a respected scientific field. Not the ‘flying saucer sucked me in and aliens used probes to do research on me’ kind of thing. There’s scientific method and verifiable data and research involved.”
“So there really are aliens?” he asks.
“Not as in The X Files kind of thing. More that it’s a vast, vast universe out there, and we’re just a speck of dust, so it’d be highly arrogant and somewhat stupid to think we’re the only ones here.
Not that I’m saying you’re stupid if you don’t agree.
You’re allowed to have your opinion about it.
I’m just saying I’m geared to believe what I believe, but so is everybody else. ”
He's grinning at me by the time I’m done.
“What’s a script doctor?” he asks.
It kind of feels like he’s teasing me, but also not.
“Studios and production companies hire her to rewrite or improve an existing script.”
“Wait, for real? What about the person who originally wrote the thing?”
“They sold the script, so then the studio owns it and can do whatever they want with it. If they decide they need more humor, for example, they’ll bring somebody in to deal with that.
Sometimes they want more clarity. Maybe the A-list movie star they hired wants to punch more aliens in the face in the action sequences.
Or sometimes they want extensive rewrites. It all depends.”
“I had no idea that was a thing.”
“Totally is. Mom writes her own stuff, too, but she’s also really good at rewrites, so she does that a lot.”
He nods. “And your brother is a stuntman?”
“Jumps out of planes and lets people set him on fire and stuff like that.”
“Cool,” he says, but he doesn’t follow that up with a ton of questions about Hollywood like a lot of people do.
“And… a restaurant for your sister. Did I remember that correctly?”
I nod.
“Wow. You’re all, like, the textbook definition of a family of high achievers.”
I make a face. “I’m just—”
“A pediatric surgeon in the making?” He raises a brow at me.
I look away. “It sounds like a bigger deal than it is.”
“Agree to disagree.”
He gives me a look, and something about it feels different. Again, I feel like he’s teasing me, but not really. I meet his gaze, and we look at each other in silence for a bit.
“You have a lot of tattoos,” I blurt.
He looks down at his arms and then his chest. It’s covered by his T-shirt right now, but that just makes what it’s hiding that much more intriguing. It absolutely shouldn’t, though.
I try to remember what I saw of him when I walked in on him plowing into Chris, but nothing comes to me. I remember thinking he was ridiculously hot and in shape, but that’s about it. Most of my attention was on Chris back then.
Kinda wish I’d looked.
I shake my head to get rid of those thoughts.
His lips twitch. “Not into it?”
“No, I like tattoos.” I feel my cheeks go scorching hot. I did not mean to say that.
“Do you have any?”
“None.”
“Never been tempted?”
“I’m kind of boring like that.”
I wait to see if that word rings any bells for him. It does not.
I glance at his forearms again.
“It’s a map,” I say when I’ve inspected his sleeves. It’s not the world or anything, it’s a coastline of some kind. There’s a compass and ships on a stormy sea. Cliffs and seabirds. There are geometrical shapes sprinkled in everywhere, tying the whole thing together.
“Is that of a specific place?” I ask.
“My grandfather’s property in Alaska. He was a fisherman. We used to spend vacations with him.”
“I’ve never been to Alaska. Have you seen a polar bear?”
“Once.”
“Really?” I lean forward. “What’d you do?”
“Shit myself,” he deadpans, and I snort. “Nah. Got in my car, prayed a lot, and got the fuck out of there.”
“Smart.”
He smiles at me, and I… I smile back. For some reason. And the reason is that I… I kind of like him.
This is an unwelcome development.
I mean, of course it doesn’t matter. He’s connected to the shittiest moment of my life, so doing anything other than getting out of here and saying goodbye to him is out of the question.
I still kind of like him, though.
Crap.