Page 53 of Doctor Enemy

Lagoona sits directly on Elliot Bay, the view of the water from the balcony is stunning.

Soaking in the view, we sit down and Kurt orders what I can only assume is an expensive bottle of wine. Supposedly, it’s been aged in a barrel with leather. I’m not a wine girl so I don’t knowexactlywhat that means but I can easily infer that it’s more expensive than the $4.99 bottle you can pick up at the supermarket.

After that, we’re given menus to look over and left alone for the time being. My stomach gives a traitorous growl. “I love seafood.”

Kurt gives me a charming smile. “I know.”

He orders lobster risotto and scallops in a brown butter sauce, and I’m drawn to the salmon, served up with fresh snapped garlic green beans, and white asparagus tips, and a red wine mushroom sauce over the vegetables.

It takes no time at all for the food to come out, and even less time for me to realize that coming out on a date with Kurt might have been the best decision of my life.

I had already been starting to reevaluate what I thought about him before, but this just reasserts it.

He’s funny, and smart, and a much better guy than I had been giving him credit for. Maybe sleeping with him before, giving him my v-card, hadn’t been a mistake after all.

God, I’m falling fast for the guy, aren’t I? It should throw up alarm bells, but it doesn’t.

“Did I tell you how gorgeous you look yet?” Kurt asks.

“You mentioned it,” I say, with a flattered huff of laughter.

“And you look handsome tonight yourself. I would say that I’ve never seen you out of work clothes before, but—" I gesture to the button-down that he’s wearing and give a sly smile. “We both know that's not true.” That gets a laugh out of him.

“Well, thank you, I like to dress to impress.” Kurt spears a scallop with his fork, reaching across the table and setting it down on the edge of my plate. “Clearly, you do too.”

My cheeks go even more bright red than they already had been. “Considering you normally see me in scrubs, I think that anything would impress you.”

Kurt counters, “Everything about you impresses me.”

“Flattery,” I scold, but the flush is creeping down the curve of my neck. “Nothing but pure flattery.”

“I’ve been told that it will get me everywhere,” Kurt says, teasingly. He reaches across the table and brushes his fingers over the back of my knuckles.

Trying to tease back, I ask, “And where do you think that it’s going to get you tonight?”

“Preferably, I’d like it to get me all the way to a second date,” Kurt says.

I’m surprised by the honesty in his words. I had been expecting it to be a pickup line, or something lewd. Instead, his strong jaw tightens, his gray eyes practically smolder, as he continues, “I was thinking that it could be to the art exhibit next week. They’re going to be representing some local and upcoming artists. I think that you’ll like it.”

Stunned by the brazenness of that request, I give a slightly meek sounding, “Maybe,” and then end the conversation by pointedly turning back to my food. Not that the “end” of the conversation lasts for long. No matter how pissy, caught off guard, or flustered I get, Kurt has a way of making sure that I start talking again.

It’s a definite talent, and one that I’m not sure whether I should appreciate or be annoyed by.

We’ve just finished our dinner and are waiting on our dessert—apricot souffle—when his foot knocks against mine lightly.

I let out a huff of laughter. “Really?”

“What?” Kurt asks, smiling. It’s a good look on him. He doesn’t smile this much at work, always sporting a serious expression.

His foot knocks against mine again. The white tablecloth that hangs down to the floor means that I can take it a step further, slipping my foot out of my heel and knocking it lightly against the inside of his calf. He has to muffle his laugh with the palm of his hand.

Our souffles are brought out, perfectly risen and with a sweet cream sauce to top them with. I slide my foot back into my heel and pour the cream sauce over my souffle. “I can’t believe you brought me somewhere this nice.”

“You said that you wanted a reminder of real food,” Kurt tells me, using his spoon to dig into the top of the loamy dessert. It’s golden brown on the outside and creamy in the middle. “I don’t think that you can get any more real than this.”

“It’s expensive,” I admit.

Kurt wags his spoon at me. “Trust me, that’s not an issue.”

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