Page 9 of Fix Me Up

“As I was saying,” he starts again. My eyes fall to the movement of his thumb through the condensation on the outside of the cup. I never noticed how good-looking his hands were. “I should not have approached you to ask for a date the way I did.”

Is he apologizing? Mercifully, he isn’t bringing up anything that he or I did on the blind date months ago, and I’m relieved about that. We both acted like weirdos that night. I’m also impressed. Maybe I’ve been on way too many bad Hinge dates, but it’s been a long time since a man took immediate responsibility for messing things up.

A slight dip of my chin begs him to continue. I like this feeling of being apologized to.

He goes on to say, “It was not a good idea to use the pretense of an appointment with Graham to get your attention. And you were right when you said it wasn’t healthy to keep him cooped up in a waiting room with a bunch of sick people. I just want you to know I’m a good dad, and I wouldn’t normally put my child in danger.”

Now, I need him to stop talking.

Waving my hand, I signal him to give himself a time-out.

Bless his heart.

“I didn’t say no because of Graham. He’s obviously healthy and happy. I don’t think you’re a neglectful dad or even all that underhanded in the way you asked me.”

Owen’s shoulders seem to relax a bit.

“It’s good to hear you say that. I was worried,” he says.

“You have nothing to worry about. But let’s be clear. I said no to a date because you’re a patient.”

Owen squints at me, not understanding.

“My son is the patient. I’m not.”

I nod. “But it’s a family practice. We treat more than just babies and children.”

“Yeah, but I’m not one of them.”

And that’s where he’s wrong.

I set down my coffee and lean across the table, weaving my fingers together.

“After you left, I looked through the files we have on record. It looks as though you are indeed a patient of this practice. You saw Dr. Smyth about seven years ago for a torn ligament?”

“You looked me up,” is his only response.

“Yes. And?”

Just then, Rebel saunters up to the table again.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Red velvet cake pop for my friend,” Owen says.

The way he says “friend,” combined with the glint in his eye, is fraught with meaning, and all kinds of wrong. He remembered my choice of dessert at the New Year’s Eve dance—the cake with so much red dye in it that my teeth turned red, and nobody told me.

“You want one for you?” The way my friend is tilting her head, I know she’s catching on to the flirtation between Owen and me. Well, Owen’s flirtation. I am not reciprocating. I wouldn’t even know how to flirt—even if I were attracted to him for anything other than his big shoulders. And rough hands. And gorgeous cobalt eyes.

Owen pivots that broad torso, aiming a blank stare at Rebel.

“No. Just for her,” he rumbles. It’s a sound that churns up a feeling in me that it has no business churning up.

Under the table, I cross my legs.

Rebel lightly taps her notebook against his broad shoulder. “’ Kay. Be right back.”

“So, we were talking about how you looked up my file,” he says, his eyes dark. His whole demeanor has changed from sheepish to…something else.

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