Page 2 of The Doctor's Surprise Family

Blake’s brows shot up. “You asking me out?”

I laughed, loud and nervous, but I didn’t deny it. Because,wasn’tI? Hadn’t I been hoping he might ask me? I’d feel bad for anyone spending a lonely Thanksgiving, but the thought of Blake doing it, that hurt my heart. I pictured him in a booth at Joe’s Diner, eating his turkey loaf all by himself, and it just about made me want to cry.

“I’m asking you to lunch,” I said. “And maybe Thanksgiving. I guess the question is, are you hungry?”

Blake grinned at that. “A man my size, what do you think?”

“I think… Olivieri’s pasta buffet?”

“Bottomless pasta? I’d say, let’s go.”

Ten minutes later, we were twirling spaghetti. Blake pointed at my spoon and shook his head.

“You know, strictly speaking, you shouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Use your spoon to twirl spaghetti. You’re supposed to use just your fork and take smaller bites. But with Thai noodles, youdouse a spoon, because that comes with thin sauce and you need to scoop it.”

I laughed. “What are you, the pasta police?”

“Wee-oo, wee-oo.” Blake mimicked a siren. I set my spoon down and tried twirling without it. Then I looked Blake’s way and hollered, outraged.

“You’respooning spaghetti!”

He laughed. “Yeah, I am.”

“But, you just said?—”

“I do a lot of things wrong.” He took a bite of spaghetti. “Like, back in first grade, I had this teacher, used to come by and smack my hand with a ruler. Said I held my pencil like a mountain gorilla. But guess who won the prize for neatest handwriting?”

I’d seen Blake’s handwriting. “You did,” I said.

“Damn right I did.” He flexed his big hands. “I got these big meaty paws, all wrong for a surgeon. At least, you’d think they’d be, but I know how to use ’em. I do what works for me, not what looks right. But I thought it was interesting, the whole… noodle etiquette.”

“Where’d you even hear that?”

“One of my foster moms. She was big into manners.”

I took a sip of my soda, unsure what to say. Blake smiled.

“How about your mom? She know which fork goes with what?”

“She, uh…” I hesitated, choosing my words. Blake didn’t seem self-conscious about how he grew up, but I guessed our childhoods had looked pretty different. The last thing I wanted was to rub that in his face. “She probably does,” I said. “Gran was strict. But Mom doesn’t care so much which fork you use as she does about everyone cleaning their plate. Her love language is food, so you better come hungry.”

Blake smiled. “I get that. I like feeding folks too. Not that I get much chance, but not to brag, I’m a great cook. If I flame out as a surgeon, I’ll always have that.”

“Don’t even say that! Come on, knock on wood.” I knocked on the table, but Blake laughed.

“That’s plastic.”

“Well, what’s wood in here?” I cast about, frantic. The floor was tile, the walls painted plaster. Our chairs’ frames were metal, their seats molded plastic. “There’s literally no wood in here.”

“Are you that superstitious?”

“When it comes to my dreams, I am. I don’t have a fallback. I’m like those hitchhikers from those old postcards — VEGAS OR BUST, except switch medicine for Vegas. I’ve got to be a doctor, or else, or else…”

Blake’s lips twitched. “Or else what?”

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