First Real Kiss

In the amount of time it took me to accept a date with a guy I never intended to go out with, Dad had pelted poor Luke Hotwell with about a dozen questions and had not let him answer a single one.

Next, Dad broke into his own personal history. “You see, Luke. Can I call you Luke? When I was a teenager, my career plan was to be a surgeon, and I’d just settled on heart surgery. There were rumors of breakthroughs in the field of artificial hearts, and I wanted to be involved in that, but one day I was helping my dad in his cabinet-making business and zip-scritch!” Dad lifted his palm to show the lack of pinky and ring-finger and half his middle finger on his right hand. “That ended that.”

Luke’s eyes lingered on the damaged hand. “That’s … a real shame, sir.”

Well, knock me down with a feather! The last thing I expected to come out of Dr. Luke Hotwell’s mouth was a sympathetic phrase. Shouldn’t he have said, You should have been more careful? So much for no sugarcoating.

“Excuse me, Dad? Can I get a word with Dr. Hotwell, please?”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hijack your date.”

“He’s not my date,” I ground out through clenched teeth, my spine an iron rod. “Come on, Hotwell.” I took his sleeve and dragged him through the kitchen and out the back door to the porch, which wrapped around the entire house. Mom and Dad had a manicured yard and a great view of the ocean through a notch in the hills from back here and atop their ridge. But I had no time for scenery. “What on earth are you thinking, showing up here?”

“I’m not really sure.” He pulled a weird smile, as if he hadn’t used one for a while—too busy practicing his villain look.

“Are you here to ask me not to take you to court about Roland? Because this is my parents’ anniversary party, and it’s not a good time to discuss business. Nor is it a good time to threaten me to get me to drop the lawsuit.” I was on a roll of accusations, which wasn’t my normal M.O., but my stupid mouth wouldn’t stop. “My attorney is here. You already met her. In a hot minute, I could have her out here to record this conversation.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s …”

He really did sound bewildered, disoriented almost.

A string plucked inside me, telling me to slow my roll. It might be from his injury. “Are you, by chance, lost?”

“Is this 5656 Stony Brook Lane?”

My eyes narrowed into slits I could barely see out of. “You came here on purpose? To my parents’ house? Do you know them?”

“Your dad seems like a great guy.”

“He is. But I am starting to be in Jane’s camp, considering calling the cops on you for party-crashing. How did you even know about their party? What did you think to accomplish by coming here?” Are you thinking at all?

The constipated smile-frown came back, and it shut me up. I waited—as if I were in a therapy session with one of my clients. Silence was key. I should’ve remembered that from the get-go.

Dr. Hotwell makes me forget myself and who I really am. He affected me. Big time.

“I’m thinking a lot—about that day you came into my office.”

“Did my tirade help you develop a conscience? If so, I’m glad to hear it.” My tone sounded a lot more bitter than I felt. I met his gaze, and his left eye was twitching. A remnant of the attack?

Oh, I needed to be nice! I’d made soup for him and everything. But when I realized he’d probably expect it to be poisoned and dump it out, I’d eaten it myself instead.

“To be honest, your hiring a guy to teach me a lesson in the parking garage certainly taught me a thing or two.”

“What? Hiring what guy?” Was he kidding? “What are you talking about?” Wait a second. He thought I’d hired some guy to attack him? I had to grab the porch railing to keep from falling over.

“Isn’t that the last thing you said to me?” His bewilderment faded, and a fire kindled in his eye. “That I had better watch out? Next thing I knew, I ended up in the hospital for the next several days. It’s either coincidence or causation.”

“No!”

“Which one is it, Ms. Chandler? And while we’re at it, what’s with the Ms. thing? Call me dense, but even though I made it through medical training, I can’t ever tell what women mean by Miz. Is it to signal that you’re single, that you’re married, or that you want to be mysterious?”

He leaned toward me. It might have been meant to intimidate me, but all it did was fill my head with that Dove+Men body wash he’d been wearing the other day that had discombobulated my thoughts.

“I … was widowed.”

The words landed with their usual clunk. But at least in his case, they called off all his dogs. Thank goodness.

“I—I’m … sorry.”