Chapter 12
TWELVE
WINNIE
Winnie woke up feeling fantastic. No fuzziness, despite her cocktail and wine the night before, no jet lag, no urge to stay in bed.
She pulled up Yoga with Adriene on her laptop for half an hour of yoga—her legs ached pleasantly from walking up and down the hills of San Francisco.
Adriene had a session for that, of course, and Winnie stretched and bent and balanced.
The part of yoga she disliked was the meditation. She’d never been able to empty her mind as instructed. As she lay there in corpse pose, a thought circled that she wasn’t sure she wanted to push away.
Dinner with Lorenzo last night had felt like a date. A really good date.
Not that she’d had much experience with that sort of thing.
Before Mitchell, she’d tried the automatic go-to for single people—online dating.
Bumble had directed her to a carpenter in Provincetown (gay, looking for a woman to create a threesome for him and his apparently bisexual husband).
Hard pass. The next guy had had social anxiety to the point where he actually slid under the table to avoid talking to a server.
She’d gotten him up, walked him to his car and recommended therapy, texted him a day or so later to see if he was okay and learned that he’d moved to Arizona to live with his sister.
The next man only wanted to text, not meet, which Winnie thought was ridiculous.
For her business, she’d actually run a couple of singles nights, but as the person in charge, she just watched. Had some guy approached to chat her up, she would’ve been game, but no one had. No one ever did that kind of thing anymore. Not to her, at least.
And then there had been Mitchell-Tanner.
In hindsight, it was so clear—he’d asked her to the restaurant at closing only, or have her come to his place to cook for her.
But he’d never taken her anywhere. He’d also love-bombed her…
flower arrangements, special desserts, five-course dinners made at his condo.
Dozens of texts every day telling her he missed her, couldn’t stop thinking about her, had never felt this way before about anyone.
You’re so beautiful. I dreamed about you last night.
Is it wrong that I’m picturing our wedding?
He’d bought her pearl earrings (which she later returned and donated the money to a homeless shelter).
Silk pajamas and sexy underwear. He told her she was beautiful, sexy, addictive, and she fell for it.
She felt like a different woman, the Winnie loved by this fictional man.
But last night with Lorenzo, she’d been completely herself…
just the best version. Maybe because it wasn’t a date, though it was their second dinner together in a week.
He was simply her boss, and he hated schmoozing, and they both simply needed to eat.
There was no pull between them, as there had been with Mitchell-Tanner.
Granted, Satan’s looks were growing on her.
Initially, she’d thought of him as bland as, oh, one of those suit models in GQ, chiseled but unremarkable.
But when he granted her the upward tug of a smile, she felt a little like she’d just won a prize.
His hand, as he’d helped her off her stool at the end of dinner, had been warm and firm.
There was also the fact that she liked talking to him.
He was interesting and a little quirky. She liked his stiff, almost old-fashioned way of speaking.
But she’d had actual fun last night. She’d been his PA for seven weeks now, and while most of her work had been without him there, she was getting to know him.
His love of precision and order, which doubtlessly was part of his surgical talent, was something she could relate to.
Her little house in Wellfleet was always immaculate, everything in its place, tidy and comforting.
There was more to Lorenzo than a condescending asshole with God complex, that was for sure.
Last night, she’d had the sudden thought that it wasn’t just his sense of superiority that kept him from other people…
it was that he was socially awkward, not intending to put people off, but unaware of how to put people at ease.
He’d essentially been put on a path at the age of seven with one goal and one goal only—to be the best. He didn’t know how to converse, relax, or spend time with people for the pleasure of their company. He’d been trained not to, in fact.
An idea struck her, and she leaped off the hotel-provided yoga mat and flipped open her laptop. It took all of ninety seconds. She saved the file, sent it to Lorenzo via email, then texted him.
Just sent you an updated version of your PowerPoint. Make sure you use this one.
There was no answer. She took a shower, got dressed in her fabulous new clothes—the black suit with the blindingly white shirt made her feel like someone to be feared and avoided, which she could definitely lean into.
She added the red lipstick she’d bought at CVS, and yes, she was absolutely a force to be reckoned with.
No answer to her text. Maybe he was in the gym or had gone for one of his punishing runs. She checked his location, and nope, he was here in the hotel, and from the look of it, still in his room.
Did you have breakfast already?
If not, she could grab him something from the buffet. Still no answer.
It was nearly eight o’clock, and the workshops started at 8:30. He wanted to attend one about crush traumas (she kind of wanted to sit in on that one, gruesome though it would be). Then he had a panel at ten, with his own presentation at 1:30, right after lunch.
She gathered up her laptop and slid it in her backpack, which held a printed itinerary, three bottles of mineral water, a tin of tea bags she’d assembled—peppermint, licorice and ginger, in case all this talking would bother his throat, and a protein bar.
She also had twenty business cards, which she’d nabbed from his study in Boston in case he forgot them.
Chief of Special Surgeries,
Mass General Brigham Hospital
Moseley Professor of Surgery,
Harvard University Medical School
She’d looked up those titles and found out that Lorenzo was the youngest person ever to hold those titles. Dr. Satan was pretty badass indeed.
That being said, Satan had yet to respond to her text, and his blue dot was not moving. She walked down the hall and knocked. There was no answer. Texted him.
Open your door, you’re late.
No response. She knocked harder. “Lorenzo? Are you in there?” She knocked again.
“Jesus! Coming!” He opened the door, and her eyes widened. He was wearing boxers, an open hotel bathrobe, and his hair was sticking up in odd places.
“Are you sick?” she asked.
“Yes. I have a horrible headache, my stomach feels like something died in there, and the light hurts my eyes. You’ll have to cancel my talks.”
She smiled. “Lorenzo. You’re hungover. Come on, let’s get you human again.”
“I’m not hungover.”
“Oh, yes, you are.”
“This must be meningeal irritation or a migraine.”
“Or a martini and two glasses of red wine for someone who rarely drinks alcohol.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. “I guess that tracks. Can you close the curtains? The light is like a knife in my head.”
She obliged, then dug around in her bag and took out a bottle of Excedrin and got a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge. “Take two, drink all the Gatorade and get in the shower. I’ll run down to the breakfast buffet and get you something to eat.”
“I never want to eat again.” He tossed back the aspirin and chugged the Gatorade, grimacing.
She went to the first floor, where a gorgeous breakfast buffet spread out, and loaded up a tray with an everything bagel, a bowl of yogurt, two bananas, and a hefty plate of scrambled eggs and bacon.
Added a large glass of orange juice and two mugs of coffee, then went back to his suite, letting herself in with the keycard he’d given her.
“Breakfast has arrived,” she said, setting the tray on the coffee table.
He came into the room wearing pants and holding his shirt.
All righty, then. Lorenzo was, um, very fit.
His muscles rippled under his skin as he pulled it on, and Winnie watched, a little…
hypnotized. Fascinated. She obviously knew his workout and running schedule.
She just hadn’t pictured it manifesting so… nicely.
“Sorry, what?” she said, forcing her eyes away.
“I don’t eat that kind of breakfast.”
“Trust me. I have experience in treating hangovers.”
“Is someone in your family an alcoholic?”
Rosie was, sober for more than two years now, but that was none of his business. “A former roommate,” she said, which was also true.
He ate the yogurt and bananas, drank the orange juice, and took one bite of the bagel. “Do you want anything?” he asked belatedly.
“No, thanks. I’m fine. I’ll get something downstairs.
By the way, the crush injury workshop you wanted to see is in the Stanford Room.
That’s on the mezzanine level.” She handed him his very gorgeous, buttery leather bag, and they walked down the hall to the elevator.
When they arrived on the ground floor, he looked at his watch.
“Thank you for waking me up,” he said.
“Do you feel any better?”
“I do. Thank you.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome. I’ll check in with you before your panel. It’s in the Six Continents room, also on the mezzanine.”
“Very good. Thank you.” Off he went, once again the consummate professional.
* * *
A few hours later, Winnie sneaked into Lorenzo’s panel, which was on diversity, equity, and inclusion in surgical programs. The room was packed, so she stood at the back.