Page 24 of Holidate Scramble
"You've done all the hard work. Everyone knows what to do." He took my hands in his. "After that encounter with Adrienne, neither of us will enjoy staying."
He had a point. The prospect of watching for Adrienne's reappearance would drain any pleasure from the evening. "Where would we go?"
"My house. It's quiet, private." He paused. "We could order takeout, recover from this unpleasantness."
The invitation hung between us, weighted with possibility after last night's interrupted moment. Part of me knew I should decline—maintain the boundaries we'd just reaffirmed. But a stronger part wanted to see where he lived, to be alone with him without pretense or performance.
"Chinese food?" I suggested, making my decision.
Relief and something darker flickered across his face. "I know a place that delivers."
Thirty minutes later, we pulled up to a small cottage overlooking the harbor. Stone chimney, weathered shingles, a porch wrapping around the waterside—classic Cape Cod architecture made intimate by its modest size. Inside, the furnishings were minimal—a leather couch showing signs of rental wear, a coffee table with medical journals stacked neatly to one side, bookshelves with medical texts interspersed with a few paperback thrillers. No personal touches beyond a single framed photo of his children and mother on the mantel.
"It's a rental," he explained, noticing my assessment. "Didn't see the point in decorating."
"It's nice. Great view." I walked to the windows facing the water, watching boats bobbing gently in the moonlight. "Peaceful."
He moved to stand beside me, not touching but close enough that I could feel his warmth. "I come here sometimes, just to look at the water. Helps me think."
"About what?"
"The future. What comes next."
I turned to face him. "Have you figured it out yet?"
"Not entirely." His eyes met mine. "But I'm starting to see possibilities I hadn't considered before."
The space between us hummed with expectation. I should have stepped back, changed the subject, maintained the line we'd nearly crossed last night. Instead, I found myself asking, "What kind of possibilities?"
His gaze dropped to my mouth. "The kind that make me reconsider everything I thought I wanted."
Before I could respond, the doorbell chimed. "That's the delivery," he said, the moment suspended. "I'll be right back."
While he went to the door, I slipped off my coat and boots, trying to calm my racing heart. This was dangerous territory. We'd already agreed our kiss was a mistake, yet here I was, alonein his cottage, wanting nothing more than to pick up where we'd left off.
He returned with paper bags fragrant with garlic and spice. We arranged containers on the coffee table—kung pao chicken, vegetable lo mein, steamed dumplings—and settled on the couch, closer than necessary.
"So," I said, breaking open my chopsticks, "tell me something I don't know about you."
"Like what?"
"Anything. Something not in your professional bio."
He considered, twirling noodles. "I wanted to be a pilot before I decided on medicine."
"Really? What changed your mind?"
"My father started having heart problems." His expression softened with memory. "I spent a lot of time in hospitals, watching doctors work. Seeing them diagnose the issue, implement solutions—it resonated with how my mind works. I wanted that ability to repair what was broken."
"Is that why you chose cardiothoracic surgery?"
He dipped his head in agreement. "The heart is fascinating—this complex, essential machine that keeps everything else functioning. When it fails, nothing else matters."
"That's wonderful," I said, genuinely moved. "Most people fall into their careers. You found a calling."
"What about you?" He turned the question back to me. "Did you always want to plan events and run marketing campaigns?"
"God, no." I laughed. "I wanted to be an artist. I majored in graphic design, but the job market was awful when I graduated. Started doing social media for friends' small businesses, and it just... grew from there."
