Page 82 of Blindside Sinner

I nod. “I apologize. It’s been a tough day.”

He nods and hands me my license and Beck’s insurance card. “Slow down. Take your time. Don’t risk other people’s lives.” Heshakes his head. “Second time in a week I’ve pulled a Beckett Daniels car over.”

I blink in surprise. “You pulled Beck over?”

“Sure did. He was speeding the other morning.”

I cock my head. “He didn’t mention a ticket.”

“I didn’t write him one.”

“Of course not.” I shake my head because the world is truly unjust. In a just world, I’m not on my way to a date with a doctor I couldn’t care less about. In a just world, Beck doesn’t hate me and I don’t enrage him and the song we were dancing to at the fundraiser lasted forever in a half. That’s the world I want to live in.

Unfortunately, it’s not the one I have.

I take my ticket, shove it into my handbag with my license, and then look back at the cop. “Can I go?”

“Have a nice day.”

41

SLOAN

The maitre d’ glances up from his tablet when I walk in. He’s got a skinny little pencil mustache and way too much grease in his hair. He looks flammable.

“Can I help you, madam?” he asks in a nasally French accent.

This is worse than I thought. “I’m here to meet, uh…”

“Yes?” he prompts, tapping his pen against his counter impatiently.

“Dr. Love,” I say in a half-mutter.

“Ah.” He smiles. I wish he wouldn’t. “After me.”

I follow the maitre d’ through the restaurant to a primo table in the dead center. The whole place is rippling with chandeliers and candlelight. I see more greasy Frenchmen bearing silver platters from the bustling kitchen and women draped in furs and jewels chatting with their fat, old, Rolex-clad dates over white tablecloths. I’m several orders of magnitude too poor to be in here.

But here I am, for better or for worse.

Mostly for worse, if I had to guess.

Dr. Christian Love is blonde and strapping, with hair cut close so that he looks semi-bald where the light hits. When he sees me, he stands, smiles, and walks around to hold my chair for me as I sit. It’s old-school romantic and kind of flattering.

Or at least, it is when Beck does it.

When Dr. Love does it, he shoves the chair hard into the back of my knees and I flop down into it with an ungainly “Oof.” I do my best to smile up at him. “Thank you.”

He laughs and moves back to his own side of the table. “I have been looking forward to this date all week, Ms. Reeves.”

I have been looking for a wayoutof this date all week,I want to say, but I smile some more instead. “I’m glad. Sometimes, blind dates like this can be so awkward.”

“No, no, of course not. I have a thousand jokes to lighten the mood.”

And then I say the phrase that will haunt me for the rest of my life. “Oh? Let’s hear ‘em.”

And that is how the longest, worst dinner in the history of dinners begins.

“Why are urologists great at sorting out your internet connection?” He waits a second for me to answer, but I can only shake my head and shrug. “They can get anything streaming.”

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