Then I realize what he just said—that he called the number on the card thinking it was me.
Should I say something? Apologize? Explain?
That would only make me look like more of an idiot. Panic has me opting to pretend as if I didn’t just have that revelation.
“But, seriously,” I murmur, “you didn’t have to step in. You’ve been more than kind. I was just a little stunned by seeing them, by you coming to the rescue—”
“Do you have a pen?” he asks.
“Uh, sure. Why?” I ask, uncertain whether I should be miffed that he isn’t acknowledging what I’m saying, but by the sudden urgency in his voice, I let it go, dig through my bag, and hand my pen over to him. He takes it, and without saying a word, starts writing on the cocktail napkin in front of him. I’m trying not to read it upside down, but the curiosity is killing me.
As I wait, I glance around the restaurant. If the delicious scents coming out of the kitchen weren’t enough to win someone over, the dark décor, the cozy seating, relaxed vibe would be enough to warrant the line of people waiting outside to get in.
“There,” Slade says as he pushes the napkin across the table to me.
“There?”
“Yep.” He leans back with a smug smile on his lips as he motions to the waitress, but I don’t hear what he says to her because I’m too lost in the words on the napkin written in his chicken-scratch.
I read it three times, seeing what it says but trying to understand why he would write it down.
“What’s this?”
“Our to-do list,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Our?”
“Yep. Ours.”
“Blade’s?”
“Blakely and Slade’s.” He shrugs and gives me an adorable little-boy grin that makes my throat constrict and my heart race. “All awesome couples have to have a combined nickname. That’s ours.”
“Fall hopelessly in love?”
“There should be a reward. You know”—he shrugs—“like me.” I laugh and stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s for real or not. “I’m just teasing, Blakely.”
He gives me that smile again.
“By the end of the retreat, this is what we need to accomplish. I always find it works better when you have something to cross off so you can see your progress.”
By the end of the retreat?
“I’m sorry, am I missing something?” I ask with a laugh.
“You’ll need to give me details on what to pack. Oh, and we’ll have to do some prep work to sort out our history. You know Barbie’s going to run straight to Heather with this gem . . .” he says before glancing toward where Barbie and Paul are sitting. “She’s probably doing it right now. So, we need to get our ducks in a row.”
His directness throws me, and for what feels like the hundredth time in the past thirty minutes, I fumble for words. “Ducks?”
“Yes.” He smiles. “Ducks for the retreat,” he carries on as if this is the most normal conversation ever. “It seems you’ve backed yourself into a corner since Barbie knows your boss. There’s no way you can back out and not go now.”
I snort and down the rest of the wine in my glass. “How did Kelsie find you?” I ask, part joking, part wondering if my best friend somehow tracked him down and put him up to this to test me.
“Kelsie?”
“Never mind.” I roll my eyes, chuckle, and thank the waitress for refilling my glass, but when I look back at Slade, he’s still looking at me. “What?”
“I’m serious. I only make lists when I’m serious.”
“And I think you’re crazy.”
“Why? Because I like to make lists and cross items off them to feel like I’ve accomplished something?”
“I’m not talking about the list.” I’m dumbfounded that he sounds dead serious. “You’d really just pick up your life and go on a business retreat for me—a woman you don’t really know?”
“You said mountains. You need help. I like you.” He ticks each thing off on his fingers. “That’s all I need to know.” I’m so envious of his ease and surety, but I still don’t understand why he would do this.
“I’m being serious,” I say.
“So am I. I have time on my hands and could really use some outdoor therapy. You have to go and need a boyfriend to go with you. Seems pretty self-explanatory to me.”
“I thought you said you were a doctor.” I eye him and am not immune to the emotion that flickers momentarily in his eyes. Emotion that makes me want to ask more about it, but I know there’s no point. “Or was that just part of the whole game we’re playing?”
“Would it matter?”
His question throws me. “No. Why?”
“Just asking,” he says as if I just passed a test I wasn’t aware I was taking. “It’s the truth. I’m in the middle of my cardiac residency, hence the shitty penmanship,” he says, motioning to his handwriting on the napkin before averting his eyes to his hands for a beat. “I’m on sabbatical for the time being and am bored to tears.” There is a soft tug on one corner of his mouth that clears whatever emotion it is out of his eyes.
“That bad, huh?”
“You can only stare at so many textbooks and rewrite so many articles before your eyes want to burn out of their sockets.” His chuckle is soft.
“Is there a medical term for that?” I ask.
“No, but I’m serious, and we have a list to tackle. Why are you so hesitant to say yes?”
“For a lot of reasons . . . I just can’t. You’ve already done more than enough.”
Kelsie is going to kill me.
“This is coming from the same woman who’s sitting in a bar with me to prove to her ex that we’re a legitimate couple, right?”
“Guilty,” I say and
