Page 44 of Just One Look
She told Luka, as she picked up her menu, “I’m going to have a glass of wine. I feel I deserve a glass of wine after the events of the evening. The events of theday.Also, I have another day off tomorrow. That’s novel. I could have two glasses, you never know.”
“You deserve wine,” he said. “I won’t have much, because I already had my beer and I have training tomorrow, but you should. Why not? Here you are in En Zed, saved two lives today and who knows how many before that, and had your undies eaten for your trouble. I’d say it’s time to indulge.”
“Rugby could be even worse than surgery,” she said, “if one beer’s all a man of your size allows himself. I didn’t think anything could require more discipline than surgery.”
“Food is fuel,” he agreed. “But as the food’s pretty choice here, I’ve got no complaints.” He picked up his own oversized white menu and scanned it. “Do you want a suggestion, or are you good to choose? They have some standards, and I’ve probably eaten all of them.”
She was thinking two things at once. First, that everything on the menu sounded amazing, and second, that the prices were jaw-dropping. Yes, they were in New Zealand dollars, but still. What did it mean, that he’d brought her here?
That this was clearly one of his wow-date standard destinations, for one thing. That hehadwow-date standard destinations. That he could afford them, too.
She wasn’t used to wow-dates. To put it mildly. She was used, with Kristoff, to skating around the delicate subject of earning power, of future prospects, of power, period. At first, it had been fine. Hehadmade more than she did when they’d met, because a surgical residency was an endurance test in more ways than one, but now? Now, she was the one with the townhouse and the credentials and the ever-growing compensation package, and she was also the one who was always choosing yet another mid-priced restaurant, and when she put her credit card in the plastic tray along with his after the meal, that was just one more part of the delicate dance they did.
It wasn’t that she minded paying. It was that she minded a man caring so much about it that she couldn’t just go ahead and pay for what she wanted without it hurting his ego, and that meant they could never go someplace really wonderful, where she could allow herself to be spoiled and lazy and to eat food that was so perfect and so beautiful, it was a sensual experience. Could never sit under white fairy lights surrounded by the sound of water trickling into a rock-lined pond, with a man across from her laying down his own power for the night the same way she was laying down hers, both of them letting go of being the most and the best and the toughest, because they were focused on each other, on this moment, and what they were doing here wasn’t a power struggle.
That was why she’d thought Kristoff would be perfect. Because he wasn’t a surgeon, so it wouldn’t be a power struggle, and it wouldn’t be a competition. And yet, somehow, that was what it had turned out to be. Like she had to slice off pieces of herself to make herself fit with him, because she was at once too much and never enough.
Before Kristoff? It had been fellow doctors, and before that, fellow students, all of them nearly quivering with ambition, most of them trading partners like musical chairs, as if bodies were too utilitarian to be taken seriously, and time and energy were too short to spend them on something as frivolous as romance. So, yes, her life had been decidedly short on glamour, on white tablecloths and trickling pools and candlelit spaces and men in white shirts and open sport coats, with craggy, tough faces and shoulders a yard wide. It was too easy to have her head turned, which was why it was happening.
You could call that the third thing. That this wasn’t even close to what she’d expected to find here. Not creepy dolls and huge, goofy dogs, and not rugby players, either. This reboot was throwing her, for sure.
Also, why was she thinking about Kristoff? The wholepointof this was not to think about Kristoff.
And then there was that fourth thing. That she needed to tell him who she was, and who she was related to.
She set the menu down and said, “I’d like a recommendation.”
“Do you like fish?”
“I love fish. I’m from the old part of Georgia. The Deep South. Think soul food and shellfish. Oyster stew, fried green tomatoes, shrimp and grits, crab cakes.”
“The sexy accent,” he said.
“What?”
“I thought that the first time I met you. With Webster. All that take-charge attitude in that soft, sexy accent.”
How could his eyes be so warm? This hadn’t even been supposed to be a date. Not a real date.Definitelynot a romantic date. She was in so far over her head here. She said, “Uh … recommendations?”
“Three kinds of fish on here, amongst the mains,” he said. “But I’d go for the hapuka and lobster with coconut porridge.”
“Hapuka?”
“Sweet. Mild. White. New Zealand sea bass, but it’s not so much sea bass as hapuka.”
She sighed. “I want it.”
Lots of smile from his eyes now. “And a bottle of Chardonnay, I’d say. Rich and sweet, eh. I’ll choose that, if that’s OK, but you should choose an entrée.”
“I thought you just did.”
“No. That was your main. Choose your own veggies and such.”
“Oh.” She was losing the plot here. “What are you having?”
“Duck. Also sweet and rich. Seems I’m in the mood for sweet and rich.”
“If that’s meant to be a cheesy pickup line,” she said, “I should tell you that I may be rich—although I’m not really, not yet—but I’m definitely not sweet.”
