Ettie doesn’t have a job—or, not a nine-to-five like me. She does freelance graphic design, picking up jobs when she feels like it. I try to keep my jealousy of her very real trust fund at bay.
But even though she has more time than I do, and far more flexibility, I always feel bad about asking her to watch Gus, even when we frame it as play time or a sleepover for the boys.
“Yeah, go,” she says, then her head snaps up, a sparkle in her eyes that tells me she’s just had a very dumb idea. “Hey,” she says, dropping her voice and raising her eyebrows at me. “Didn’t you meet…” a pointed look at Gus here, “…yourmystery manat a hospital thing? Wouldn’t that be, like, crazy serendipitous?—?”
“No.” I’ve made peace with the fact that I’ll never know who it was that night. And, if I’m honest, the wholesex with a masked strangeris sexy when you’re twenty-seven, but not so much of a fun back story when you’re supposed to be a mature mother of thirty-two. “That guy wasa lotyounger. You watch way too many telenovelas.”
“You’re just jealous.”
I stand, throwing my purse over my shoulder, “You sure you’re good?”
Ettie waves her hand at me, returning to her buff Santa drawing. “Go ahead. You know we’ve got it handled.”
Giving Gus a quick kiss on the head and telling him to be good, I turn and make my way through the market, heart already thumping at the thought of seeing Russell Burch in his office alone. I pull my phone out and text him back.
Jules:Sure. On my way now.
The west wing of the hospital turns out to be mostly offices, and of course, Dr. Burch’s is in the corner, overlooking a few older buildings and the vast swath of Lake Michigan beyond that. The lights are down low, nothing like the fluorescent, stinging overheads in my office at the firm.
“I’m glad you could make it,” he says, meeting me at the door when I knock. I, strangely, feel like I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office.
When I walk in, my eyes skip to the cream couch against the window, and an image instantly flashes to my mind—Dr. Burch lowering me down onto that, pushing up my skirt and pulling down my tights?—
Jesus.
“Me too,” I say, realizing a moment has passed while I’ve been objectifying him in my head. I clear my throat and stand behind one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.
It takes some work to keep my eyes from wandering. This room has the energy of a brand-new apartment, but I can tell there are things that have traveled with him from somewhere else. A potted plant that’s mature and well-cared for. Awards that, from here, I can’t quite make out, but which shine gold and silver in the gentle light. Little knick-knacks, like a tiny blue crab on the desk, pincers raised.
“What’s this?” I reach forward and tap it.
“Oh,” Dr. Burch’s gray eyes flick to it for a moment, and he laughs. “My dad was a huge Baltimore fan. So I am, too. He got that for me on a trip we took to see a game out there.”
“Huh.” For the first time, I feel some details sliding into place. The name of the hospital. His last name. “Was your dad…Franklin Burch?”
He looks like he saw that coming. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” The medical world has its own community and politics, and it’s not like I’m within them. But when I saw that Franklin Burch passed in the newspaper, I recognized the name. Anyone would, with BHC being so ubiquitous in this town, and Franklin being known for his charity work. I’m pretty sure they’re putting up a statue somewhere for him.
And I’m pretty sure he was at that party in Manhattan. Where I met my mystery man. Gus’s father. Franklin Burch gave a speech there, announcing his cancer diagnosis.
Ettie’s voice rings in my head.Wouldn’t that be, like, crazy serendipitous?
Yes, it would. It would also be impossible. The guy I hooked up with had to have been around my age, maybe a little older. Dr. Burch easily has a decade on me, if not more. And surely Gray would have mentioned if it washisfather who’d just announced something like that.
“Thank you,” he says, then clears his throat. “Speaking of my father—or not, actually—” he laughs and runs his hand through his hair jerkily, and I stare at him.
Is he—nervous?
“Let’s cut to the chase,” he says, lacing his fingers together and lifting those gray eyes to mine. “Juliette, I brought you here to ask for your hand in marriage.”
Chapter 9
Russell
Ask for your hand in marriage? What the fuck? Am Iancient?
I like to think of myself as the kind of guy who’s well composed. In most situations, I can handle myself without letting any nervousness show, but now, with this woman sitting in front of me and the prospect of what I’ve just said, I know that trepidation is affecting me.
