Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
DREW
“That was a memorable evening,” Ally remarks. We’ve just said goodnight to the Tates, and we’re finally alone in my car.
“It sure was,” I agree, as I turn out of their driveway onto the road. “Thanks again for coming with me.”
I owe Ally big-time. With the way Nina behaved tonight—strutting around in a bikini like she was auditioning to be a Bond girl—I can only imagine how she’d have acted if I’d gone alone.
“No problem,” Ally says. “I think we convinced the Tates.”
“Yeah.”
“You put on a pretty good act, Drew. I almost believed you myself.”
“Thanks. You, uh, did pretty well too.”
“And Danielle was doing everything she could to emphasize that we were together,” Ally says. “She must be hoping Nina will accept that you’re taken and move on. Wanting a guy she can’t have will only make her unhappy.”
“Either that, or Danielle and Peter really don’t want me as a son-in-law,” I quip.
“Oh, sure, they’re trying to keep you away from their daughter,” Ally says sarcastically. “It explains why they keep donating to your hospital, and why they invited you to their cottage.”
She isn’t wrong. I suspect that if I wanted to date Nina, Danielle and Peter would be all for it. I’m lucky they’ve been so reasonable about it.
“What’s the deal with the Spring Fling Gala?” Ally asks.
Right. As we were leaving, Danielle mentioned she’d see us at the Spring Fling.
“It’s the hospital’s big annual fundraiser,” I explain. “Basically dinner and dancing at the Somerset Club. It’s two weeks from Friday.”
“And you’d like me to come?” she asks.
“If you don’t mind, I think it would be a good idea. If we were really in a relationship, I’d take you. And I think Nina’s going with her parents, so it would help me out.”
Ally hesitates a beat.
“But it’s fine if you have other plans,” I say quickly.
“No, I think I’m free. How much are the tickets?”
“I’ll cover your ticket, Ally. You’re doing me a favor by coming with me.”
Another pause. “Drew . . .”
“I’m not letting you pay for the ticket, Ally. It’s not up for debate.”
“Okay,” she agrees, but I can tell she isn’t entirely happy about it.
“I will need you to promise me something, though,” I say.
“What?”
“Promise you won’t call me Honeybun at the Spring Fling. Or ever again, actually.”
Ally bursts out laughing. “You liked that, did you?”
“No,” I reply, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“Would you prefer something else? Boo bear? Studmuffin? Loverboy?”
Boo bear? “I’d prefer to never speak of this again.”
“Oh, come on, Drew,” she says playfully. “I think Honeybun suits you.”
“Is that right?”
“Sure. And it seems like something I’d come up with. Unlike you, I don’t keep Shakespeare quotes in my back pocket. Where’d that come from, anyway?”
“All’s Well That Ends Well,” I reply, deliberately misinterpreting her question.
“I got that much,” she says. “But why can you quote Shakespeare? Being a neurosurgeon isn’t impressive enough?”
I hesitate for a second. It would be easy to lie here. I could say I took an English course in university because I needed an arts credit for med school.
But I don’t want to lie to Ally.
“My mom was a high school English teacher,” I explain. “Growing up, she dragged our whole family to those Shakespeare in the Park plays every summer. I think I was eleven the first time I went.”
“That seems young for Shakespeare.”
“Uh huh,” I nod. “It was Twelfth Night. After the first scene, I asked Mom what language they were speaking.”
Ally laughs. “It does kind of sound foreign.”
“Yep. Anyway, I couldn’t follow it at all, and I hated it. Then, the next year, Mom said we were going again, and I begged her to let me stay home. Breanna was fourteen, and she offered to stay home with me. I might have pretended to be sick.”
“Drew Malone!” Ally feigns disbelief. “You lied to your mother?”
“I was twelve, okay? And she saw right through it, and insisted we were going as a family. If I didn’t like Shakespeare, I could pretend to enjoy it, because it was something she loved.” Over twenty years later, I can still picture her saying it.
“And did you pretend to enjoy it?” Ally asks.
“Oh, probably not, but I still went every year. I think All’s Well That Ends Well was a couple years after that. I remember thinking the main characters were all crazy.”
“Hmm,” Ally says thoughtfully. “But that must have been ages ago—”
“Not that long,” I interrupt.
Her brow furrows. “But you’d have been a teenager, so—”
“Yeah, not that long,” I repeat. Only twenty years ago, give or take. I almost ask how old she thinks I am, but I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“Okay,” Ally says slowly. “But you’re over eighteen, right? Don’t tell me I’m pretending to date a minor.”
It takes me a minute to realize she’s teasing. “I’m thirty-four.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” she says with a grin. “We could date for real if we wanted to. Legally, I mean.”
“Uh huh,” I reply, fighting to keep my voice even.
“Don’t look so alarmed, I’m not suggesting we should,” she says quickly. “Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Just pointing out that if we did, I wouldn’t be corrupting an innocent.”
“Right.”
We’re stopped at a red light, so I have the chance to look at her properly. In the dim light from the streetlights, Ally barely looks legal herself. Those huge eyes, and that cloud of glossy blonde hair spilling around her shoulders. Wide mouth, full lips . . .
And I don’t even think she’s wearing make-up. She doesn’t need any.
“You’re not going to ask how old I am?” she asks.
“Twenty-six,” I say without thinking.
“Yeah.” She looks a little surprised. “How’d you know?”
“I think I saw it online somewhere,” I say with a shrug. She was the runner-up at the Wimbledon Juniors when she was seventeen, and that was nine years ago. The math wasn’t hard.
“Hmm,” she says thoughtfully. “You’ve got a freakishly good memory, huh?”
“Not really.” The light turns green, and I start through the intersection.
“Come on. You can quote lines from a play you saw as a teenager.”
“I saw it again last year,” I admit.
“Your mom still drags you to Shakespeare in the Park, huh?”
“No, I went with Breanna and her daughter. My mom died when I was eighteen.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I Ally’s eyes widen. Her hand shoots out toward me, then stops abruptly over the center console.
I reach over and take her hand, tucking her fingers firmly into mine.
We held hands earlier tonight, at the Tates’, but this feels different. That was a performance, but this . . . well, I don’t know what this is. Instinct.
“I’m sorry, Drew,” she says.
“It was a long time ago.”
Ally doesn’t answer in words, but her fingers squeeze mine. It’s a small gesture that says a lot. She gets it. It was a long time ago, but it still hurts like hell to think about it.
And I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not really sure why I brought it up at all, and dumped it on her out of the blue like that. I guess on some subconscious level, I wanted to tell her.
“Do you have any plans for the weekend?” I ask, in an effort to change the subject.
“Nothing too exciting,” Ally says. “Laundry, groceries, and Netflix. Hopefully a long run, too, if the weather’s good.”
“Do you want to play tennis?”
“Yeah, we could. Keep up the illusion of a relationship, right?”
“Right.”
“What day works for you?”
“Saturday morning again? I could pick you up at ten?”
“You don’t have to pick me up,” she says. “I’ll bike down, it’s not that far.”
But we’ve made it to her neighborhood now, and I hate the thought of her biking through here. Or walking through here. Or living here.
I turn a corner and pass a couple of strung-out looking guys on the sidewalk.
I’m sure Ally can look after herself, but she’s a beautiful young woman. And call me judgmental, but this is not a good neighborhood.
“I’ll pick you up Saturday,” I tell her. “We can go for brunch after tennis. You can pick the restaurant.”
She hesitates, and for a minute I think she’s going to argue.
“Okay,” she says on a yawn.
“Tired?” I ask.
“I think it was the tiramisu.” She yawns again. “Rich food always makes me sleepy. Is there such a thing as a tiramisu coma?”
“Never heard of it. I think tiramisu is supposed to keep you awake, because of the coffee.”
That’s why I didn’t eat any of it, even though it looked delicious. I really need to sleep tonight, because I’m operating tomorrow.
And sleep still isn’t coming easily. It doesn’t help that when I do fall asleep, I have feverish dreams of a blue-eyed blonde with cat-eye glasses.
A girl who looks a hell of a lot like the one who’s currently sitting in my passenger seat. The one who’s still letting me hold her hand, making me feel like all the nerve endings in my body have moved to that point of contact.
The one I promised I wouldn’t try to get physical with.
“I don’t think there was actually much coffee in the tiramisu,” Ally says thoughtfully. “It was really good, though. I can’t believe you didn’t try it.”
“Too much lasagna,” I say with a shrug.
I pull up outside her house, then let go of her hand to put the car in park.
Ally looks surprised when I hit the button to shut off the ignition. “Oh, I’m good from here, thanks. You don’t have to walk me to the door.”
At ten-thirty at night in this neighborhood? I absolutely do.
“Don’t worry,” I say lightly. “I won’t try to kiss you goodnight or anything.”
I walk around the car to meet her at the curb, and after a brief hesitation, I take her hand again. At this point, it feels like the natural thing to do.
“I’m in the basement, so my door’s around the side,” she says as we walk toward the house. A moment later we’re there, and I reluctantly let go of her hand so she can unlock her door.
“Thanks, Drew,” she says as she pushes the door open. “Have a good night.”
“You too, Ally. I’ll see you Saturday.”