Page 592 of Hell Hath No Fury
But it’s not.
As he urges me through the double front doors, I push The Sanctum—and the man—from my mind. This man is here, he’s real, solid. Based on the butterflies fluttering like mad in my stomach, this could be the kind of man I’ve always dreamed of. There’s no use pining for the fantasy when reality is standing right in front of me.
I didn’t expect the piercing burn of longing that stabs me straight through the heart when the lights begin to dim and we take our seats in his box. Furious to find hot tears prickling my eyes, I blink rapidly and focus on studying the man next to me instead.
I didn’t expect to like him either, and I don’t know what to make of that.
He’s the man I always imagined I’d be with. The perfect man, in fact. Steady job, polite, sense of humor, considerate. He not only paid generously for the meal beforehand, but even bought champagne and had it brought to our seats.
Sipping on the bubbly concoction, I ask, “Okay, I have to ask. How have you not been snapped up already? What? There aren’t any women in the south interested in a handsome doctor?”
He glances toward the stage where the opening act begins with soft, romantic music. When he looks back, he says, “Well, one did, but we aren’t together anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.
When he doesn’t say anything, I worry I overstepped an invisible line, then he wraps an arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer on the bench seats and I brush my doubts away, determined to enjoy tonight.
“You’d be great on stage,” he says.
I take a sip of champagne, carefully considering my response. “Thank you. Though it’s not as glamourous as it seems.”
“Neither is being a doctor.” He pauses for a second, taking a drink from his own glass. “Following your dreams is rarely easy.”
My back stiffens and I frown. “I know.”
“Do you think you’ll ever go back?”
“Maybe, someday,” I say after a moment. “But I’m not sure. A couple years out there with no success is hell.”
“Never accept defeat,” he says.
I turn to him, taking in his dark hair and blue eyes, his thoughtful expression. “I’m sorry?”
He laughs at himself. “Sorry, just something my grandpa used to say that got me through med school.”
“Sounds like a smart man,” I say.
“Oh he’s the best. Maybe I’ll take you to meet him,” he glances at me with heated eyes. “Next time.”
My belly tenses, butterflies revitalized. “I think I’d like that. Depending on how the rest of the night goes, of course.”
He leans closer, all pine and warmth, “Upping the stakes, huh? Is this like a performance evaluation?”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “So far you’re getting rave reviews.”
For once, I’m too distracted to focus on the actors bounding across the stage in front of us. My brain is too clogged with memories of my own performances, the longing stirring a sugar-sweet ache deep in my chest. I counteract the yearning by leaning in to the white-hot heat of Mikhail’s side, enjoying the comforting embrace of his strong arm wrapped around my shoulders. The ease of his touch erases some of my self-doubt.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
I duck my chin. “Nothing, just wondering how we end up where we do.”
“Grandpa would call it luck,” he says.
“Bad luck.”
His fingers trace a pattern on my arm as he watches the play and considers his response. “Well, didn’t you say the other day you have to take the good with the bad?”
Laughing, I say, “Already turning my own words against me.”
