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“That’s insulting,” he says.
“And being called a lawyer is a compliment?”
He shakes his head. “I give up.”
“Good.” I grab more sashimi. “I accept your defeat.”
He huffs. “There’s a difference between losing an argument and not wanting to waste more time on it.”
I roll my eyes. “‘I don’t want to waste more time on an argument’ is what someone who’s lost said argument usually says.”
“Anyway,” he says pointedly. “Am I still taking you to the beach tomorrow? The one without waves. Or are you too traumatized after today? If so, we can start with Sealand. Or?—”
“No, I can’t.” Why does it pain me to say the words so much? Could it be the quickly multiplying physical pains that I’m feeling?
He frowns. “Why not?”
“You’re a busy homeowner. You can’t use up so much of your valuable time on a renter.”
Of course, if I’m honest, the bigger problem is that going on relaxing outings with Evan would feel too much like going on dates. In fact, this dinner feels like a date—or if looked at from a different angle, an imposition upon his Southern hospitality.
Yeah. I shouldn’t have accepted this dinner. Jolene and Dorothy are my best friends, and I barely let myself accept this vacation from them. In Evan’s case, I was the opposite of a friend when we met.
“I’ve already done all I needed to do for the rental,” he says with a smile. “In terms of my other commitments, I don’t plan to skip my volunteering gig tomorrow morning, but since you’re on vacation, I’ll probably be free by the time you wake up.”
“You’re a volunteer?” I ask.
“Lifeguard and surfing lessons,” he replies. “But don’t change the subject.”
I purse my lips. “I don’t need to change anything because the subject was already closed. You saved my life, not the other way around. If anyone should be doing any favors, it should be me doing something for you.”
I drop my gaze to my plate, flushing again as I realize that I made that last bit sound like I was offering sexual favors. And… maybe I should?
No. At least not for a couple more days. Aunt Flo is still torturing me.
Wait. Period or no period, the answer is no, period.
Realizing I’m still staring down at an empty plate, I sneak a peek at my gracious host.
He looks more perplexed than intrigued, so he probably didn’t take my words as an indecent proposal. Or he might be perplexed as to why I think he’d want said sexual favors.
“What if I were going to that beach anyway?” he asks. “What would be the big deal if you joined me?”
Before I can reply, my phone rings.
I snatch it out of my pocket immediately, in case it’s the camp calling about Reagan.
Shit. The area code is local, so it just might be that.
“Hello?” I say, my heartbeat skyrocketing.
“Ms. Marquez,” a familiar voice says. “This is Dr. Hugo.”
My whole body relaxes, and I lean back into my chair—which causes the skin on my back to scream out in agony. “Hi, Doctor,” I say with a wince.
My words seem to piss off Evan for some reason—that or he just put too much wasabi on his tuna.
“Please,” the doc says. “Call me Vic.”
