Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
He’s charming enough that it doesn’t sound like a command, even if it isn’t exactly a question. I want to spend more time with this gorgeous man and revel in the intoxicating chemistry we share. Why would I argue with him about his imperious manner when I’m eagerly hanging onto his every word?
“What kind of medicine do you practice?” I ask, anticipating more intimate confessions from him. “You must really care about helping people if you chose to move to a strange city and start from scratch.”
The slight shake of his head is a touch self-deprecating, and I think he’s going to dismiss my enthusiastic description of his altruism.
“Like I said, it’s just a job,” he reiterates. “I chose plastic surgery because I’m good at it.”
He might as well have dumped a bucket of cold water over my head. All of the giddy excitement drains from my system, leaving me strangely hollow. I’d been so caught up in the fantasy of what I might share with Dane that I didn’t even stop to consider the fact that he might not be as perfect as I’ve imagined.
For months, I’ve been idealizing this man. The reality of his imperfection crashes down on me, and my heart sinks.
“Oh,” I reply, and my voice is a touch colder than I intend. “I didn’t realize that’s your area of expertise.”
His brow furrows. “It bothers you.”
I’m far too easy to read. I take a small breath and summon up a genial smile. My shoulders straighten, and I’m too focused on navigating the disappointing moment to assume a more relaxed posture.
“You must’ve worked very hard at school to get accepted at Johns Hopkins.” I avoid his insightful remark with a polite statement. “What made you want to go into plastic surgery?”
Maybe if he tells me that he’s just in it for the money, I can dispel the last of my attraction to him. He’s chosen a profession where he gives people fake masks to present false perfection to the world. I’m torn between feeling sorry for his patients’ insecurities or disdaining them for choosing to live inauthentically.
The image of my grandmother’s strangely stretched features fills my mind. She’d never looked like herself after the facelift. And my mother’s perpetually frozen expression haunts my most anxious nightmares—even when she’s feeling especially cruel, her face remains disturbingly serene from years of Botox treatments.
We need to get that large freckle on your cheek removed, Abby. Imagine having the blemish in your wedding photos. You don’t want that. And you’ll find a husband more easily once it’s cleared up.
The snide comments about my own physical flaws tease at the back of my mind, but I manage to ignore them and focus on Dane.
His dark brows are still drawn together, and the slight pinched lines around his mouth suggest frustration rather than regret. I suppose I’m being a bit rude, but I can’t bring myself to pretend I approve of his profession.
“I specialized in plastic surgery because I’m skilled at it,” he reiterates.
We clearly aren’t a match, and it’s best for me to leave before I get more foolishly attached to him. I’ve been thinking of him like he’s an idealized fairytale hero, but he’s just a man. A gorgeous, undeniably charming man, but imperfectly human, nonetheless. The longer I stay on this date, the more awkward things will be at the café when we inevitably accept that we aren’t right for each other.
I drain the last of my Champagne.
He gestures at my empty glass. “Another?”
“No, thank you.”
“Ah, yes. Your strawberry daquiri.” He says it with warm indulgence, as though he’s savoring yet another of my secrets. The way he delights in the knowledge is every bit as erotic as his sexy smirk.
He grasps my hand and starts leading me toward the bar before I remember to dig in my heels.
“I don’t need another drink,” I assert.
Even if I choose to stay, buying a cocktail simply isn’t possible on my budget.
“I’m buying the drinks. Order whatever you want.”
My spine straightens, and a shadow of the anger I felt at the market tightens my gut. Just like when he’d tried to buy my paintings in exchange for a date, now I bristle at the prospect that he might use his money to hold sway over me.
“No, thank you.”
He frowns at my frosty tone. “I want to pay,” he insists. “I want to take care of you, Abigail. There’s no need to deny yourself out of some misguided sense of pride.”
“It’s not pride,” I refute, even though that’s not exactly true. “I don’t want to owe you anything.”
His jaw tightens with a shadow of his own anger. “Is that the kind of man you think I am? That I’ll expect some sort of favors in exchange for a few drinks?”
“No!” I say quickly. This situation is spinning out of control. I’ll still have to see him at the café every morning. I don’t want to leave on a sour note. “I don’t think you’re like that.”