“I haven’t…” She gave a guilty laugh. “Okay. I have. But I drove with my dad today and he had to do a site inspection for,” she lowered her voice and stage-whispered, “another potential client. He said he’d be back around six, so I’ll go another round with the clubhouse.”
“Why don’t you text Eli and tell him I’ll bring you home?”
“You?” The word came out like a croak.
“I know, I know. Scary to drive with me.” He lifted his arm. “I take off the cast and I’m fine.”
“No, it’s…okay. I’ll wait for my dad.”
“We could stop and get a drink or a bite to eat.”
For a minute, she wasn’t sure what he meant. Get…a drink?
“I could use some air and a change of scenery,” he said, sounding far more casual than she felt. “Let’s go down to the harbor and find some fried food and…whatever you drink.”
Wait.What? What was this? Just two co-workers getting a drink after a Monday that had started rough and got worse…or was it something else?
Whatever it was, Meredith was tempted. So much so that she tapped her mouse, shut down the computer, and lifted a shoulder.
“Sure. Let me text my dad so he can go straight home after his meeting. Thanks.”
He grinned. “You’ve needed to chill since Vance came in with his roof-pitch issues.”
She couldn’t argue that.
Connor turned out to be a great driver. He’d been using his dad’s SUV since his own car had been totaled and Peter drove a sheriff’s vehicle for work.
They parked and made their way to Breakwater, which was close enough to the harbor to catch the breeze on the outdoor deck. It wasn’t too crowded, and they found a table in the corner where the noise level was low enough to talk.
It felt a little date-like, but Meredith put that out of her mind. They were friends and co-workers, that was all. She ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc and Connor got a ginger ale.
“You didn’t drink at the Fourth of July party, either,” she noted.
“No, but the jerk who hit me did.” He ran his fingers through his too-long waves and sighed. “I never touch the stuff, actually.”
“Why’s that?” As soon as she asked the question, she regretted it. “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s probably way too personal.”
“Not at all. No issues, just a general career thing.”
“Dentists don’t drink?” she asked.
“Oh, plenty do—and a lot. It’s stressful knowing that every patient you have would rather be anywhere else than in your chair and they all expect you to send them to pain hell.”
She angled her head. She’d never thought of it that way. “I guess that is stressful.”
“For some. For me, the stress comes from wanting to be perfect.”
Their drinks came and as the server set them down, his words echoed.
“You want to be perfect?” she asked when they were alone.
“Maybe not quite as much as you do,” he teased, lifting his ginger ale to tap her wine glass, “but I respect the art of perfection, control, and never getting a B. Which, for the record, I haven’t.”
She toasted him back, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. “Showoff.” Except, he wasn’t. And that was…yep. Number fifty on a growing list of things she found attractive about the man.
“Anyway,” he said, “in dental school, you do these simulations—mock procedures on mannequin heads with fake teeth. Very…humbling.”
“At least your patient isn’t giving the armrest a death grip.”
