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1
“It’s like something out of a horror film out there,” the hostess says to me as I step inside the restaurant, shaking excess rainwater from my hair and shirt. Another flash of lightning streaks across the sky immediately followed by a loud crack of thunder. She jumps, stifling her loud gasp with her hand. “Sorry,” she apologizes, her face flushing in embarrassment. “I hate thunderstorms.”
The lights flicker and she tenses. So do half the people sitting at their tables and in the bar.
Today has been an epically shitful day and this thunderstorm is the coup de grâce.
“Any chance at a table for one?” I ask.
“Your usual table is taken, Dr. Barrows. Are you okay with one more in the center of the room?”
She gives me a contrite smile and all I can do is sigh and nod. A table in the open isn’t my favorite thing and if I had the buffer of my friends with me, I wouldn’t care so much—they garner far more attention than I ever do—but right now, all I want is my favorite sushi, a couple of glasses of something alcoholic, and a quiet moment to sort through my thoughts.
With any hope, I won’t be recognized, but that’s not how this day seems to be going for me so far.
“Thank you,” I say as I take my menu that I don’t particularly require and sit down, dropping my napkin onto my lap. The hostess walks off and immediately my water glass is filled by a busboy just as the lights flicker again. Thunder rumbles loud and aggressively enough to be heard over the din of Friday night diners who were brave enough to say fuck you to the storm.
That’s not what I am.
I’m a man on the edge of his sanity.
I wasn’t in any state to be around my friends who offered to come and join me or have me over for dinner, or even to go home alone and drown myself in a bottle of bourbon. Today is not just an insane summer storm. Today is also the summer solstice and with it, I desperately tried to save a group of doomsday cultists who took a crap load of cyanide before feeding it to their children.
Out of all fifteen who came through my emergency room doors, I was able to save two children who are now up in the ICU fighting for their lives.
As if that wasn’t tragic or disturbing enough, I received a call that my Harvard Medical School mentor dropped dead today. It was a standing joke that Dr. Lawrence would die in his classroom and that’s exactly what he did. He’s the reason I got into Harvard, as he was my neighbor growing up. One of the reasons I wanted to become a doctor in the first place.
Even when I was off touring the world with my best friends as the drummer for our band, Central Square, my dream was to become a doctor, not a rockstar.
But his death came with a huge request from the medical school administration. One I can’t say no to because I feel as though I owe Dr. Lawrence. The last thing I ever wanted to do was teach medical school, but now it looks as though that’s happening. Starting on Monday.
So yeah, crappy fucking day.
My eyes scroll along the menu just as movement captures my attention along with the scent of something sweet. Cherries and almonds. My gaze climbs up my menu, latching onto a pair of vibrant blue eyes that appear a little manic.
“Hi. Are you sitting here alone?”
“Pardon?” I blink at her.
She puffs out an exasperated breath, her long golden-blonde bangs flying up along with it. “Sorry. Dumb question, as clearly, you’re alone at the present time. What I’m asking is are you alone, alone? As in dining solo? As in not expecting a friend or lover or significant other or date to arrive in the next few minutes?”
“Why?” I hedge because she wouldn’t be the first pretty woman to approach me after recognizing me.
She shifts her weight to her right foot as her head flies over her shoulder, catches on something that makes her grimace, and then she turns back to me. “No time to explain. Just play along and I’ll pay for your dinner as a thank-you.”
“What?” My eyebrows scrunch together. The pretty thing isn’t making a whole lot of sense, and I’m in no mood to decipher whatever the hell she’s trying to say.
“You’re all about the one-word answers and I like that in a man since I talk enough for everyone, but if you could just smile and pretend you adore me, that would be—”
“There you are,” a guy says, half-out of breath as if he’s just sprinted here. “Why did you leave? Our food just arrived.”
The blonde gives him a withering glare. “I never ordered any food with you.”
“Yes, you did. I sat down and we started talking. I ordered you another drink and a round of appetizers.”
“Um. No. That’s not what happened at all.”
“Sure, it is,” the guy protests, moving in closer to her.
