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His head jerks.“Why?Never believe anyone that says they don’t have a little baggage hidden away somewhere.If they say they don’t, they’re lying.But you know whatdoeshelp someone process a feeling they’re stuck on?Talking about it.”
Tilting my head to the side, I study him and wonder how this twenty-eight-year-old gorgeous specimen of a man, and adoctorto boot, is still single.
“Are you studying psychology?”I ask, rubbing my chin, still trying to work him out.
He chuckles and shakes his head.“Nope.I’m an ortho-addict.Bones and tendons and ligaments are where it’s at for me.”
“Hmm ...OK then, Perfect Brock,” I start, and his brow lifts but he doesn’t interrupt me.“How about we split the bill and order another bottle ofthatand we can talk.What do you think?”
“Sounds like a plan.I’ve got a shift starting tomorrow but I’m more than happy to be your sounding board, advice-giver, and conscience all in one,andI’ll even make sure you get home safely.How about that?”
“Deal!”I say, shaking his hand and feeling a little sad that this date couldn’t have gone in a different direction—one where I didn’t think about all the ways Luca was not like him, or compile a pros and cons list between the two men in my head for most of the night.I mean, I didn’t even finish my bone-in filet mignon with Hasselback potatoes and steamed greens, for God’s sake.
I definitely lucked out with my very first blind date.Because Brock was never going to be a dick about this.He’s being the consummate gentleman and even offering me a shoulder to moan into.Because he’s Perfect Brock.
An hour, two glasses of wine, and one snifter of cognac later—at Brock’s insistence when I told him I’d never tried it—I’m rather tipsy and giggly, and Brock and I can’t stop laughing as we swap stories from college despite the man having stopped drinking after one glass during dinner.
A loud shout from behind the kitchen door grabs our attention just moments before the fire alarm wails and the whole restaurant is shocked into action.Waiters abandon their tasks, and there’s a rush for the front doors.Brock stands and presses his hand to the small of my back, guiding me in the same direction.
“Everything’s under control,” a suited man I assume is the restaurant manager calls out, addressing the patrons as the stench of smoke starts to seep in to the room.“If you could all just make your way outside in a calm manner.”He moves toward the doors, holding them open and ushering people through.
A woman in chef whites comes running into the room.“Is there a doctor in the house tonight?”
Brock stops and looks down at me.“Duty calls,” he says just as we reach the manager’s side.“Let me go see what they need me for, and I’ll come find you as soon as I can, okay?”
“Of course.Go.”
He looks to the manager.“Can you please see my date out?I’m a resident at Chicago General so I can administer first aid until the first responders arrive.”
The manager looks relieved and nods.“Absolutely, doctor.There’s a first-aid kit in the kitchen.”
With a terse chin lift my way, Brock turns and strides toward the chef before disappearing through the swinging kitchen doors.
I join the crowd waiting anxiously on the opposite side of the street to the restaurant, watching the doors and looking out for Perfect Brock to emerge.When he does, he’s side by side with a chef, holding a bandaged wrist in his hand and guiding him my way.
Why can’t Perfect Brock be perfect enough for me?I chastise my stupid, love-dumb heart just as the telltale wail of sirens hits my ears.
And while we all wait for the fire department to arrive, I close my eyes and cross my fingers that Engine 101 is busy tonight andnotheading our way right now.
A girl can hope ...that’s until I see the familiar firehouse number on the truck door as it comes to a stop.
