Page 11 of Blind Date with a #Doctor
I shake my head, but I’m smiling.
And so is he.
I make it to my car. Barely. I have to sit for a second, both hands gripping the wheel, my coffee forgotten in the cup holder. Because what the hell was that? Carter was looking at me like he wanted me.
I blow out a slow breath, willing my heart rate to settle. My phone buzzes and I grab it quickly thinking it might be Carter. It’s Kendra.
Kendra: Stop thinking about him.
I snort. Too late. How she knows that’s what I’m doing I’ll never know. It’s like she has a sixth sense.
Me: It’s not like that.
The problem is it’s exactly like that.
Chapter Seven
Carter
By Monday morning, I’ve officially given up pretending this thing with Aspen is casual. I’ve tried.
I spent Sunday telling myself that bumping into her at the farmer’s market and the coffee shop was just coincidence. That the little thrill I got every time I saw her was normal.
Then I caught myself checking my phone every five minutes, wondering if she’d text. I even debated texting her first, just to say something ridiculous, but I held back.
I had a plan—a simple, solid, not-at-all-desperate plan. I planned to wait until Monday to call her like an actual adult and ask her to dinner.
Which is exactly what I do. When she picks up on the second ring, voice warm and teasing. I’m screwed.
“Carter,” she says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I grin. “I was just wondering how long I should wait before asking you out again. Thought I’d at least try to play it cool, but I’m realizing I have no idea what that actually means.”
She laughs. “Two days. Not bad.”
“So does that mean I can buy you dinner this weekend?”
“Hm,” she hums, pretending to think. “Idoenjoy food.”
“That’s a good start.”
“And I suppose the company wasn’t terrible last time.”
I chuckle. “Wow. High praise.”
“Alright, Carter. Saturday night it is,” she answers with a giggle.
“Perfect.”
For the first time in a long time, I actually spend the week looking forward to something. Not just because Aspen is beautiful. Or smart. Or because she keeps surprising me. But because I know this thing between us? It’s something special.
* * *
I pull up outside her house, expecting her usual polished, professional vibe. Something sleek. Classic. I’m not prepared for Aspen’s dress.
The dress is black, low-cut, and clings in a way that should be illegal. Her hair is soft and loose around her shoulders, and her lips are painted some deep, rich shade that makes my brain short-circuit.
She climbs into my truck and smirks at me like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “You good?” she asks innocently, buckling her seatbelt.
