CHAPTER FOUR
Why do I feel like I’m the one who has to make this work? I text Hayley from the back of the car currently speeding its way through Manhattan, heading for the restaurant where my first doctor date is about to take place.
Xavier—a great name, the perfect name for a romance hero—is a cardiologist at Mount Sinai. He is thirty-four, loves playing basketball with friends when his schedule permits, and is a sucker for romantic comedies.
Okay, even I don’t believe that last part. I want to believe there’s a perfect guy out there in the world, one who isn’t afraid to admit he’s a fan of things that are supposed to be strictly for women, but his supposed love of that genre strikes me as pandering.
He wants to make it look like he’s into the same sort of things I’m into. Not exactly the worst thing in the world. The guy is trying.
Though if he thinks I’m not going to ask for the name of his favorite romantic comedy, he has another thing coming.
Hayley texts me back. Maybe because you are? I mean, we’re modern women. The onus isn’t completely on the man anymore.
Why did I think you would be any help? I text, anxious. Aren’t you supposed to tell me how gorgeous and sparkling and witty I am and how stupid he’ll be if he doesn’t see those things?
The fact that she replies at first with a string of laughing until I cry emojis doesn’t go a long way toward making me feel any better.
She follows it up with, Why bother? You already said all those things yourself.
Go and have fun and don’t put so much pressure on this one single date.
That’s a surefire way to ruin any chance that things will go well—and I’m telling you this from experience.
Yes, even a goddess like my best friend has had some truly disastrous dates.
She’s right. If I go into it with expectations and pressure, there’s no chance things will go well. This is supposed to be fun, isn’t it?
He’s waiting outside the restaurant. I recognize him from his picture. At least he was accurate with that. I know some people tend to choose photos that don’t look much like the way they look now. But Xavier is just as tall, dark, and handsome as he is in his profile pic.
I step out of the car, glad I chose a slightly fancier outfit for our dinner. My gauzy blouse and pencil skirt are a step up from what I’d normally wear on a first date—a little more formal, but this is a pretty formal sort of restaurant.
Xavier’s wearing a dark suit and tie and carrying a single red rose. I try not to think of Blake when I see it. He used to love buying me roses.
My gaze travels over his face. Immaculately groomed but not to the point of fussiness. He has a nice, healthy tan, too, and a rugged look to his features that contrasts with his impeccable appearance.
“Xavier?” I ask. “I’m Kitty.”
His brows lift as he takes half a step back, like he needs his space to get a good look at me. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting to be bowled over.”
Very nice, very nice. He’s scored a point.
“Thanks.” I smile, ducking my head a little.
“Seriously, you’re gorgeous.” He doesn’t bother lowering his voice either, so everybody who walks past knows what he’s thinking.
“Okay, you’re making me blush,” I murmur, and it’s the truth. I’m surprised my hair hasn’t gone red.
“Sorry. It’s just that I haven’t met many women who’ve knocked me out the way you just did.” He thrusts the rose my way. “For you. Now, I wish I’d bought a lot more.”
“This is beautiful,” I assure him. “And more manageable during dinner.” Yes, I’m nothing if not practical.
We go into the restaurant, and I note how careful he is to open the door for me, how he keeps glancing down at me while we wait to speak to the host behind the podium.
It’s a Thursday night, so the restaurant isn’t as crowded as it might be on the weekend, but there are still people waiting for their tables.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
He looks sheepish when he grins. “Sorry—again. You have no idea how different you are from some of the women I’ve met.”
Okay, maybe this loses him a point. Nobody wants to hear about their date’s exes.
“I’m sure I’m just like most of them in a lot of other ways.” I shrug. I then look around, trying to find something else to talk about that doesn’t involve me. “I’ve always wanted to come here. When you suggested it, I figured it was a good sign.”
“They have some of the best seafood in the city,” he praises before stepping up to speak to the host.
While he’s distracted I have a chance to study him. He carries himself well with the sort of commanding energy I would expect a doctor to possess. Then again, what do I know?
Other than when I was sick as a kid, most of my experience with doctors comes from what I’ve seen on TV, and I can’t imagine much of that being true to life.
I don’t know what he says to the man behind the podium, but whatever it is, it gets us seated right away. There’s no shortage of frustrated muttering coming from the others who’ve been waiting since before we arrived, but Xavier waves it off.
“I come here fairly often,” he explains when I shoot him a puzzled look.
Hmm. The host didn’t look like he was thrilled to see Xavier standing there, to be honest. Not the way I’d expect someone to treat a favorite regular. But it worked.
“Good thing because I’m starving,” I confess. Maybe that’s not the coolest thing for a girl to say on a date, but I’ve never had much patience for pretending. If I’m hungry, what’s wrong with saying I’m hungry? I’m a human being. If I don’t eat, I’ll die.
“Just about everything here is perfection,” he assures me, pushing the chair in behind me as I take a seat.
A gentleman.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I grin when he sits. “Thank you for asking me out tonight. I guess your schedule must get pretty busy, being a cardiologist.”
“It can be, but I make it a point to take my free time seriously,” he explains. “You don’t know how many patients I’ve seen over the years who’ve led fairly healthy lives aside from one thing.” He holds up a single finger.
“What’s the one thing?”
“Overwork. It’s just as dangerous as anything else, if not more so, especially when a person works a stressful job. That sort of lifestyle takes its toll. We might not be able to see it on the outside, but you can’t lie to your body.”
“I’ll be sure to remind my editor of that the next time she gets on my case,” I offer with a grin.
He chuckles, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. I’m a sucker for a guy with dimples, I have to admit. “Do you need me to provide a note, just in case she’s not convinced?”
“I’ll keep you posted,” I promise with a laugh.
Okay, a sense of humor. Now that we’re past the awkward first moments of our date and he’s not staring at me like a serial killer imagining what he’ll look like while he’s wearing my skin as a mask, he seems like a nice guy.
“So”—he leans in a little after we order a bottle of wine, his eyes sparkling in the light thrown off by a candle in the center of the table—“you’re a romance writer, huh?”
“Wow, you managed to wait this long before asking about what I do for a living.” I wink. “That has to be a record.”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to offend you.”
“No, I’m not offended. Sorry, sometimes, my humor comes off the wrong way. Which is why I’m not a comedienne. And I mean it; usually, people practically jump on me when they find out what I do for a living. I don’t know why.”
“It’s interesting.” He shrugs. “It’s different. You don’t meet a romance writer every day.”
“Maybe you do, and you just don’t know it,” I suggest with a raised eyebrow. “I mean, some of us get a lot of grief over what we do for a living, so we choose to keep it to ourselves in mixed company. Most people don’t take us seriously.”
“I don’t see why. The romance industry is insanely popular, isn’t it? What are the figures I read? Over a billion dollars were spent last year alone on romance novels?”
Another point in his favor.
“You did your research.”
“I thought it was the least I could do since I had no idea what it meant to be a writer for a living.”
“Should I have researched cardiology?”
We share a laugh over this, and I’m already feeling really good about him. I can see writing him into a book. The tall, dark, and handsome cardiologist who literally makes the heroine’s heart go pitter-patter.
Yes, I know how corny that is. I wouldn’t write that. At least, not anymore, not now that my editor wants me to participate in a three-way for the sake of my career.
“I’m a pretty laid-back guy in general,” he tells me over wine. “When I’m not working, I like to go running, and I swim at the local club.”
Yes, he definitely takes care of himself. I would like to see him out of that suit, and it’s not the wine leading me to think that way.
“I’m surprised you can find the time.”
“I make the time. I believe that’s what a person has to do or else the rest of the world will tell them what to do instead.”
“You’re so right,” I agree, Maggie’s image floating around in the back of my mind.
I’m only out with him because of what she told me to do, because I have to date around for the sake of refreshing my career. He doesn’t need to know that, of course. Besides, for once, being told what to do has worked out in my favor since he’s bordering on dreamy.
“To taking control of our time,” he announces, raising his wineglass.
I lift my glass with a smile, reaching across the table to touch it to his.
And somehow manage to light my sleeve on fire in the process.
“No, no, no!” I whisper, batting at my sleeve, dropping the wineglass and sending chardonnay spilling across the table and onto Xavier’s suit.
He pushes back from the table with a cry of surprise while I pour the contents of my water glass over my arm.
By now, everybody in the restaurant is watching. Xavier is cursing to himself just loud enough for me to hear, mopping the wine off his suit while I check my arm for burns.
When a server comes over to see if everything’s okay, Xavier barks, “Does it look like everything is okay?”
“I’m fine,” I whisper, and that’s partly true. I managed not to burn my arm. But something tells me our date is over. I’ve never seen anybody get so upset over a white wine stain.
Finally, he looks up at me. “Did you burn your arm?” he asks while mopping wine from his jacket.
I shake my head, almost too embarrassed to speak.
“I’m more than happy to pay for the dry cleaning,” I finally get out.
“I don’t need you to do that,” he sighs, sounding about as disgusted as a person would if they found a roach crawling across the floor of the restaurant.
“I really am sorry. I’m always doing stupid things like that,” I confess with a shaky laugh. “Good thing I’m out with a doctor, huh?”
He stares at me, blinking in silence for a painful moment before understanding dawns in his dark eyes. “Right. Sure.”
Yep, I was right. The date is over.