FLIRTING WITH 40

by K. Bromberg

  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 offer a shy smile.

  The answer is always yes.

  I study him unabashedly. I take in his easy nature and charming smile, his drop-dead gorgeous looks, and how it feels as if I’ve known him forever . . . and I tell myself it’ll never happen.

  Him. This. Pretend boyfriend. None of it.

  “Just like that? You’d decide to accompany a random stranger on a company retreat for no other reason than you’re bored? I mean . . . that’s odd to me.”

  “Maybe to you it’s odd, but where I come from, in my circle of friends, we’d do it for each other in a heartbeat.”

  My smile widens and then falters as I try to convince myself of all the reasons I should thank him and then leave. “You’re lucky to have that, but—”

  “Or maybe it’s as simple as there’s something about you that makes me want to get to know you better. Maybe it’s that side of you that peeks through when you aren’t trying to figure out who to be and you just are. I want to know her better . . . and maybe, maybe it’s as simple as I like you, Blake.”

  After everything I went through with Paul, I should take the compliments, the kind words, and let them fill all of the dark places my divorce emptied, but it’s so much easier to refute them than accept them. So much easier to hide in the depths of my insecurities than to really hear his words.

  I open my mouth, and my sarcasm gets me in trouble.

  “Well, I like ice cream, too, but that doesn’t mean that I’d jump at a chance to go and lick every cone my mouth comes in contact with.” That sounded way worse than I meant it to, and I blush fifty shades of red at how stupid I sound. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

  His lopsided grin is like summer and sunshine, and where the hell did that Hallmark-card comment come from? Jesus. A man tells me he likes me, and I turn it into licking ice cream and dying of embarrassment.

  “Licking is never bad, huh?” He takes a long glance at my lips before coming back to my eyes. There’s desire darkening in his gaze, and of course, my brain scrambles over what to say so I can at least sound witty. “Does that mean you do or you don’t like me, then?”

  “No. I didn’t say that.” So much for trying to sound intelligent. “I like
you. A lot.” For the love of God, stop talking. “Or what I know of you.” I’m rambling. “It’s more that . . . I mean, I just don’t understand.” I’m making an idiot out of myself. “Why would you even . . . people just don’t do that.”

  Silence falls over our table when I finally stop talking, and everything and anything is more interesting to look at than Slade. Anything.

  The burgundy logo on the to-do list napkin. His fingers playing over the base of his glass . . .

  The silence stretches until I look back up and meet those light bluish-gray irises of his.

  “Some people do.” His voice is soft, and the amusement in his eyes is taunting. “What would it hurt? You get to save face with the ex and also show the new boss you’re there to play her game.”

  I shake my head. “I know they say never look a gift horse in the mouth, but . . .”

  “Then say yes. What’s the worst that can happen? You get a friend out of the process?”

  A friend. Okay. So, yeah, mixed message central.

  “No one will ever believe you’re my boyfriend.”

  “They just did,” he says, lifting his chin in the direction of Paul and Barbie.

  “That’s different. He’s blinded by her.”

  “The way she flashes that ring around like a trophy that denotes her importance, it’s easy to be blinded.”

  My smile is soft. “The people at my work . . . there’s no way they’ll think you’d date a woman like me.” Talk about humiliating saying the words.

  “Like you?”

  I nod, my cheeks heating.

  “You mean a gorgeous, well-rounded, obviously smart woman?”

  “Thank you.” He’s lying. “But that isn’t what I mean.” He’s just being nice.

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “There’s an obvious age difference between us.” The words feel so stupid coming from my mouth.

  “Yeah, I’m thirty-one, and you’re whatever age you are that it’s bugged me so much I haven’t asked you because it doesn’t matter.”

  Thirty-one. Jesus.

  “And no, you aren’t old enough to be my mother,” he says, reading my unspoken thoughts. “So screw you, Hillary.”

  “Hillary?” I laugh, totally thrown by the name.

  “The woman in the bar who chased you off the other night.” I struggle with how to respond. “Because that’s why you left, right? She added age to the mix because she was threatened by the fact that I was much more taken with you than by the come-fuck-me eyes she kept giving me all night long.”

  “You were?”

  He turns so that his knees are on either side of my chair. I hold my breath as he leans into me, his lips so close I can feel the warmth of his breath. “In case you hadn’t noticed”—the tip of his nose hits the shell of my ear, causing chills to dance down my spine—“I was.”

  He pulls back some, and for just a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. Our eyes hold, lock, tease.

  “The way I look at it, you owe me one.” His voice is just loud enough for me to hear over the din of the restaurant.

  “I owe it to you?” I sputter.

  “Mm-hm.” He nods resolutely as he puts more space between us, and my lungs find a way to breathe. “You ran out the other night without giving me a chance. I could be the best thing that ever happened to you—platonic or otherwise—and you might have missed that opportunity if we hadn’t run into each other on the street this afternoon.”

  Or otherwise?

  He’s talking nonsense but is doing it so convincingly that I try to talk myself out of what he’s successfully talking me in to. “I don’t—”

  “Does my age unnerve you?” he asks.

  “Your age doesn’t matter.”

  “Exactly.” He smirks. “So, why are you making it matter?”

  I walked right into that one.

  “We’re at different phases of our lives. You’re in your residency. I’m a divorcée with baggage—”

  “Everyone has baggage. It just looks different from person to person.” He leans back in his chair. “What are you afraid of? Getting to know someone new? Taking a chance? Stepping outside of the box for once? Finding yourself again?”

  His words root deep into me and take hold. “I appreciate you trying . . . but we’ll never pull it off.”

  “Yes, we could.”

  “No one would ever believe it.”

  “Quit letting them—whoever they are—put you in a mold, Blakely. Make your own damn mold. You might surprise yourself in the process.” His dimples deepen, and his eyes are as unwavering as his resolve.

  “How do I know you aren’t some Ted Bundy in waiting?”

  His laugh is throaty and rich and draws the stares of those around us. “I’m in the business of saving lives, not taking them.” He takes a sip of his beer. “Next excuse?”

  “I’m . . .” I’m at a loss, and a small thrill of adrenaline shoots through me. This isn’t something I’d ever do, and yet, the idea of it is invigorating, almost freeing. I chew the inside of my cheek as I contemplate agreeing to Slade’s crazy scheme.

  “What do you say?”

  Say yes.

  “It isn’t a crime for a younger man to think an older woman is attractive.”

  I bite my bottom lip as the smile creeps around it.

  He is drop-dead handsome.

  “We go as friends. I help you out. No strings attached.”

  The answer is yes.

  “When’s the last time you threw caution to the wind? When’s the last time you did something unexpected no matter how small?” he asks.

  It’s always yes.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I mutter.

  “Saying what?”

  “Fine. Yes. Okay.”

  Blakely

  Slade: Just making sure the number you gave me really is yours.

  Me: Smartass.

  Slade: Can you blame me?

  Me: It’s me. I promise.

  Slade: Sorry I had to bail from Metta’s.

  Me: You had plans. No big deal.

  Slade: You aren’t going to back out now, are you?

  Me: No.

  Slade: I know where you work. If you bail, I’ll just show up and cause an even bigger scene there, playing the doting boyfriend.

  Me: You wouldn’t dare.

  Slade: Something you should know about me is that I’m a little pushy.

  Me: No shit.

  Slade: But only for the greater good.

  Me: Lucky me.

  Slade: And when I say I’m going to do something, I do it. And I love to take dares.

  Me: I thought you loved making lists.

  Slade: Those too. I’ll touch base so we can get together.

  Me: For?

  Slade: Details.

  Me: Details?

  Slade: About our trip. If we’re going to play the part, we at least have to know something about each other.

  Me. Yes. Right.

  Slade: That didn’t sound convincing.

  Me: Yay. Go team.

  Slade: That’s more like it.

  Me: Thanks again, Slade.

  Slade: Just call me Ted Bundy for short.

  Me: Funny. Very funny.

  Slade

  “ICU.”

  “Amy Gannon, please,” I say as I lean back in my desk chair and stare out the window to my backyard.

  “Nurse Gannon is out sick. This is Nancy Weaverman, I’m filling in for her today, may I help you with something?”

  Fuck. A new nurse, but she could possibly be a temp nurse who doesn’t know Ivy’s story. I try to figure out how to play this with Gannon, the only one willing to break the rules and give me updates, not there today.

  “Yes, this is Doctor Henderson needing to get an update on a patient. An Ivy Keller.”

  The sound of fingernails clicking on a keyboard filter through the line, and I cross my fingers, hoping either she hasn’t been warned no
t to give me information or that she won’t read the notes deeper in the file. This can go either way.

  “And what department are you with?”

  “ER. I was on call when she came in. Her case has stuck with me, so I’m following up on her recovery.”

  “It has to be hard being in the ER and never knowing how things end up,” she murmurs as her fingers continue to click over keys.

  “That’s for sure.”

  “You docs down there are a special kind of breed. Not everyone can handle what you guys see.”

  “It takes some getting used to, that’s for sure.”

  “It’s definitely refreshing to know you care about your patients enough to follow up on them.”

  C’mon, Chatty Cathy. Just give me the update.

  “Oh, here she is. Let’s see how you’re doing, Miss Ivy,” she murmurs to herself as she reads the computer. “I’m not seeing any change on her status in her chart. Looks to be the same.”

  “Okay.” Shit. “Thanks.”

  “And your name again?”

  I end the call without answering, fisting the cell in my hand and bringing it up to my forehead while I will Ivy to get better.

  That damn little girl stole my heart.

  Blakely

  “So, let’s talk about the state of your coochie?”

  I level a glare at Kelsie, who is sitting perfectly content on my chaise lounge while I move around the family room, fluffing any and every pillow I find.

  “I’d prefer if we didn’t.” I laugh.

  “This is more than important. Did you shave it? Trim it? Or are you just full, screw-all-men beast mode down there?” she asks.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because in fewer than twenty-four hours, you’re leaving on a five-day retreat with your fake boyfriend. The state of your bikini line tells me all I need to know about what you expect to get out of this trip.”

  I stop mid-fluff and stare at her. “No. I haven’t shaved it.”

  “Jungle bush.” She lifts her eyebrows. “That’ll definitely make a statement.”