Chapter 4
Nine years earlier
The dive bar is just as dive-y as I imagined it would be. Christmas lights—which I assume serve as year-round decor and not because it’s November—drape the walls, casting colorful shadows across the dimly lit array of sagging booths and mismatched tables and chairs lining the wooden walls.
It’s mostly empty, save for two men wearing flannel shirts and trucker hats perched at the bar, watching us with the same morbid interest as one might watch a roadside accident. It quickly becomes apparent that the green tube top Abby coerced me into wearing definitely doesn’t match the vibe.
I knew this was a bad idea.
“I think we’re a little overdressed,” I whisper as the men at the bar cast us dubious looks.
“Who cares,” Abby says, tossing her long brown hair over her shoulder. “We look hot.”
While I’m sure we do look hot—or at least we would if we were at a hip nightclub in Prague and not a Seattle dive bar on a Wednesday—a double date with Abby’s latest situationship and his reclusive roommate is pretty much the last thing I want to be on right now.
I’d much rather be on the couch while Netflix asks if I’m still watching like I’ve done since dropping out of med school two weeks ago. But Abby was sick of watching me mope, so here I am, dressed like I’ve been cast as the mean girl in an early 2000s Disney Channel show.
I’m just hoping my date isn’t as boring as Abby thinks. Apparently, he’s a grad student who holes up in his room studying for days, making appearances only for food and bathroom breaks. Sounds like a real party. Lucky me.
“Look, I see them,” Abby says, nudging me in the direction of a booth toward the back.
Kevin waves, but Kevin’s friend has his back turned to us.
I crane my neck, attempting to get a better look at my company for the evening.
Despite only getting a glimpse of his profile, I can tell he has broad shoulders and a sharp jawline. Okay, not bad.
Abby must be thinking the same thing because she elbows my ribs and murmurs, “See? I told you this would be fun.”
I don’t know about fun. So far Netflix is still winning.
“Do I have to?” I whisper. “Can’t we say I don’t feel well or something?”
“Come on, at least give him a chance,” Abby says. But when I continue to make a face, she adds, “But if he sucks, text me the word pizza, and I’ll make up an excuse so we can leave, okay?”
I agree, resigning myself to at least thirty minutes of conversation before I use our code word as Abby’s forceful hand propels me toward their table.
Kevin stands to greet us at the same time his friend turns around, and I swear my breath catches in my throat because this is not the geeky grad student I’d prepared for.
Well, to be fair, he might be that, but he’s also gorgeous.
The type of gorgeous that makes me want to pluck a strand of his dirty blond hair and run tests on him because surely that kind of hotness must have come from a lab.
Or the cutting-room floor of a Hollywood movie.
The first thing I notice is how tall he is.
My gaze has to travel up, up, up just to meet his eyes as he stands.
The second is how put together he is. Not a hair out of place, or a wrinkle in his perfectly pressed button-down rolled meticulously up his (noticeably veiny) forearms. He looks like the kind of man who sends thank-you cards after interviews and shows up to meet your family with a perfectly curated hostess gift.
He’s so shiny, I think. Like a marble statue at a museum. Something to look at, but not touch. And suddenly I hate the green tube top I’m wearing even more than I did three minutes ago.
“Roslyn, this is my roommate, Liam,” Kevin says, turning to Gorgeous Man. “Liam, this is Abby’s roommate, Roslyn.”
Liam’s eyes flash as he holds out his hand to me. “Hi, Roslyn. Nice to meet you.”
And if the stubborn strand of hair draped over his brow wasn’t enough of an aphrodisiac, he’s got a British accent.
My knees quite literally go weak.
I take his hand, (A) to be polite, and (B) because I’m having trouble staying upright.
Kevin and Abby take drink orders then head to the bar, leaving me helplessly alone with the most stunning piece of male specimen I’ve ever seen. He slides back into the booth and gestures for me to take the seat opposite him.
Be cool. Be cool.
But apparently growing up on a steady diet of nineties girlboss media isn’t enough to spare me from brain-crippling speechlessness at the hands of this gorgeous man.
Thankfully Liam speaks first. “So you live with Abby?” he asks.
“I do. And you live with Kevin?”
“Regrettably.”
A nervous, jittery laugh bubbles out of me. “You’re not really friends?”
“I’d use the term loosely,” he says. “He’s nice, but what really drew us together was the fact that he was subletting a decent room close to campus and wasn’t a serial killer.”
I nod sagely. “It’s so hard to find a good non–serial killer roommate these days.”
He laughs and it’s a good one. All low and throaty. The kind I want to hear again.
“So, do you always go on double dates with loosely defined friends?” I ask.
“No, I can’t say that I do,” he says, his mouth slipping into a charming smile. “But I heard that Abby’s friend was very nice and very pretty, so I figured what’s the harm.”
I blink. Is this gorgeous man calling me pretty? Well, technically Kevin said it, but based on the way he’s looking at me, all honey-eyed and curious, I can’t help thinking he might agree.
“But I think the real question here is how you got dragged into coming along,” he asks.
“How do you know I was dragged?”
“Because I believe Kevin’s exact words to me were, I told Abby to drag her roommate along.”
“He actually used the word drag?” I ask.
“He did. Apparently Kevin has very little faith in my ability to meet women,” Liam says, shooting me a self-deprecating grin. “He believed dragging was necessary.”
“I have a hard time believing that’s true,” I say.
His eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “Oh really? And why’s that?”
My lips bunch on one side of my mouth, smothering a smirk.
Okay, so he’s cocky. But with that face and that accent, I’m not surprised.
“You know,” I say, propping my elbows on the sticky tabletop, “I was told you’d be boring.”
Another warm, husky laugh hums in the back of his throat. “And?”
“So far that’s not the case.”
He shifts forward in his seat, eyes flashing with amusement. “Glad to know I’m exceeding expectations.”
I chew on my bottom lip, hoping he can’t see the heat working its way up my neck.
“So what else did Abby tell you about me?” he asks as a dimple emerges in the side of his cheek. “Besides that I’m boring.”
“Nothing really.” She left out the part where you’re gorgeous. “Just that you’re in grad school and have no friends,” I tell him.
“I am a grad student,” he confirms.
“I notice you didn’t contest the no friends part.”
That darn dimple pops again. “I believe that one might be true,” he says. “It’s a bit tricky to have a social life while in the final year of med school.”
I sit back. “Med school?”
“I’m almost done. Just finishing up rotations, then I’ll start residency.”
Something heavy drops into my center.
Of course I end up on a date with a smart, sexy guy who just so happens to be in med school. Like the universe just couldn’t stand to miss out on one more opportunity to remind me of my failure.
“Where are you doing your residency?” I ask.
“Seattle,” he says. “I got lucky and got accepted at a hospital here, so I won’t have to move.”
“And they didn’t have any programs in England?” I ask.
“How do you know I’m from England?”
“I assumed based off the BBC accent.”
“Oh, like you assumed I was boring?”
I laugh, and the corners of his mouth slant up as though pulled by invisible strings.
“You can thank my parents and posh prep school for the BBC accent,” he says. “But I haven’t been back to England since I was eighteen.”
I want to ask why not, but we’ve only known each other a handful of minutes and it’s probably not my place to pry, so instead, I ask, “What kind of medicine do you plan to practice?”
“Gynecological oncology.”
Apparently, I have the maturity of a teenage boy because at the word gynecological, my cheeks flare with heat.
He tilts his chin. “Something wrong with that?”
“No, that’s a great profession,” I say quickly. “Why did you choose that?”
“So I could do cancer research and hopefully save lives.”
Right. Of course this handsome, sexy, funny, perfect man is also going to save the world. God, I’m the worst.
“And yes, I do, in fact, look at vaginas all day,” he says. “For training purposes, of course.”
My breath hitches, catching on a snare in my throat. “Excuse me?”
“Well, you were thinking it, weren’t you?”
“No I wasn’t.” Okay fine, I was a little bit. But he doesn’t need to know that.
His eyes catch the glare of the twinkly Christmas lights overhead, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
“I know it’s in a medical context,” I say. “But is that still weird? Studying vaginas?”
He shakes his head. “It’s just another day at the office really.”
“You should try that line in bed,” I tell him.
A grin sneaks its way across his mouth, and it feels like winning a prize. One I want to win over and over again.
“As much as I wish my area of study improved my bedroom skills, I’m afraid the med school curriculum is lacking in that department.”
“Ah yes,” I say, nodding along. “That’s exactly why I dropped out. Not enough classes on orgasming.”
He shifts back in his seat, eyes sharpening. “You were in med school?”
My stomach churns with the familiar sense of dread, and my gaze falls into my lap.
“I was,” I tell him. “Until two weeks ago.”
If he’s judging me, it doesn’t register on his expression. “Why’d you leave?” he asks.