Page 38 of Give & Take

I can do this.

Chapter 12

Lana

“And that’s when I told him he’d used the wrong surgical stitch.”

Daniel’s smirk, which I know is supposed to be sexy, drops when I can’t make the laughter happen.

I smile politely, and say, “That’s so funny,” because it’s the best I can manage. I can’t muster the enthusiasm I need to be here.

All I can do is count.

Three hours since the doorbell rang and I left the happiest, most feel-good Saturday night at home to step into this man’s car. I could still taste the single forkful of Bolognese Raphael had made me taste before I left.

“It’s the best I’ve ever had,” he’d said, then stared at my lips as I swallowed.

An hour before I can politely suggest going home.

Forty minutes more until we’re back in Redbeard Cove.

“So tell me about the new clinic,” I say to Daniel. He’s mentioned several times that he’s opened a newsurgical clinic in Vancouver. That’s where he lives, thank God. That’s why I called him, in particular, even though Shelby said she knew an architect in Swan River and Annie told me about the new middle school teacher who’d moved to Redbeard Cove. I’d rummaged around in my vanity drawer and pulled out the phone number the man in front of me had slipped me last summer when I’d served him at the Rusty Dinghy.

I’d tried to throw the scrap of paper away immediately. He’d been a polite customer, good looking in a corporate kind of way. But I’d had zero interest. Chris made me keep it. “No closing doors!” she’d insisted. She’s been trying to get me to date for as long as I’ve known her.

Of course, she meant I should hang onto his number for a few weeks. Not a year, like an absolute weirdo. To be fair, I’d forgotten I had it until these weird, inappropriate feelings I have for Raphael started cropping up.

I clamp down hard on that line of thought, trying hard to focus on Daniel as he goes on about how in-demand they are amongst local celebs. He gives me Mike déjà vu.

I’d been relieved Daniel wasn’t married by now when he picked up the phone. Even more so when he told me yes, he was at his summer place, and was definitely available for a date on Saturday night.

Now I know why. If it wasn’t the slightly pitying look he gave me a few minutes ago when I answered his question about what I like to do for fun with ‘read by myself’, it’s been the endless stories that heavily feature his medical prowess.

“So you like books, huh?” Daniel asks me. I think it’s the second question he’s asked me all night. No, third, after ‘Don’t you just love new car smell?” When we’d left my place in his Land Rover.

“I do.” I don’t tell him that ever since I left law, and outside my kids, books and reading have become my whole personality. That stories of love were healing during my divorce. I don’t tell him because all I want to do is go home, like I have since the minute I saw Raph, looking up at me from the bottom of the stairs.

A headiness heats me as I think of how he looked at me. I could have become drunk on that feeling.

Unfortunately, Daniel took me to a restaurant in Swan River, where it’s a little tougher to make up some excuse and head home.

“You ever considered writing a book?” Daniel asks.

I wasn’t expecting the question. He looks genuinely interested. Maybe I’ve been giving him too hard a time. Maybe he’s only talking so much because he’s nervous.

Feeling no small amount of guilt that I’ve been thinking about another man the whole time I’ve been on this date, I let out a breath. “Actually, yes. I’m writing one now.”

“Is that right?” Daniel asks. “What’s it about?”

Oh God. Why did I tell the truth? I hate this question. Especially because if I tell the truth, nearly everyone has an opinion. And it’s not usually a good one.

Still, it’s as good a test as any. “It’s a romance,” I say, keeping my chin up, holding his gaze and daring him to say something disparaging. Or worse, to laugh. If he does, I’m calling a cab. It’ll be worth the cost of one from hereto Redbeard— approximately that of a short-haul airplane flight.

“There any money in that?”

I force a smile, reminding myself it’s not the worst question he could have asked.

“I’m not trying to make a career out of it,” I say. I’m really not—but it’s too hard to explain why I’m doing it. He wouldn’t believe me anyway.

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