Page 17 of Blind Date with a #Doctor
“Sugar,” she says softly, “Carter is not Ryan.”
I exhale. “I know that.”
“Do you?” Sally asks. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like you’re punishing Carter for something he didn’t do.”
My throat tightens. She’s right and I hate it.
“You know he’s different,” Marie says gently. “And you know you feel something for him, but that’s not enough. You have to let yourself have it.”
I stare at them, at the women who know me better than I know myself sometimes. I do want this. I want Carter and I want to see where this leads. Maybe, for the first time in a long time, I’m ready.
I let out a breath. “I hate that you’re right.”
Nan beams. “We often are.”
Sally clinks her wine against mine. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
I hesitate. Then, finally, I smile. “I guess I’m going to stop being scared.”
Chapter Nine
Carter
Aspen stands in my doorway, holding a basket of popovers and a smirk, and I already know I’m in trouble.
She looks so damn good—jeans hugging her curves, a soft, oversized sweatshirt that drifts off one shoulder just enough to make me crazy, and her hair loose and wavy, like she didn’t put in too much effort but still somehow looks perfect.
The second she steps inside, the whole house feels different. Lighter. Warmer. Like it’s been waiting for her to show up.
She holds up the basket. “I come bearing gifts.”
I take it from her, lifting the lid. The smell alone is enough to make me groan.
“Jesus, Aspen.”
She grins. “I figured I’d distract you with desert in case my assistant chef skills turn out to be subpar.”
I shake my head, already reaching for one. “You could burn the entire meal, and I’d still keep you around just for these.”
She smirks, toeing off her boots. “Duly noted.” And that’s how it starts. Just the two of us, in my kitchen, cooking like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
I chop vegetables while Aspen stirs the sauce, and we fall into our usual rhythm—talking, teasing, letting the conversation drift wherever it wants.
She tells me about her latest case—some disaster of a real estate deal involving a couple who broke up but refused to back out of their house contract—and I tell her about a kid at the clinic who asked me dead serious if I could install laser vision in his glasses.
“And?” Aspen asks, raising an eyebrow.
I smirk. “Told him I’d need a different degree for that.”
She snorts, taking a sip of wine. “Smartass.”
“You like it.”
She smirks but doesn’t deny it.
Dinner is slow and unhurried. We sit at the small table in my kitchen, plates between us, glasses of wine half-drained, and at some point, the conversation shifts. We get quieter, more real.
Aspen traces the rim of her glass, eyes focused but distant.
