"My bad, my bad," he said. He flattened his hand on his breastbone. "Forgive me for asking, but what is it you do? I know you're adoctorbut—"
"Surgeon," I interrupted. "I'm a general surgeon specializing in gastrointestinal surgery. I repair hernias, perform solid organ removal and colectomies, and whatever else needscutting."
Riley swallowed thickly and set his beer down. He looked a little green. "Do you enjoy it? Thecutting?"
I laughed self-consciously. It was hard to explain surgery to those outside the medical community. Most people thought of it as a dire, dreaded situation. While I wasn't one to cut without a damn good reason, surgery excited me. I loved exploring new cases and fixing things that only a surgeoncouldfix.
"I do," I said carefully. "It might sound weird, but I enjoy my work, and I'm very goodatit."
I clasped my hands under my chin and shrugged. I'd learned over the years that men who announced their competence were viewed as confident but women who did the same were arrogant. Bitches, every last one of them. I'd also learned that I didn't give a fuck what people thought of me. That had worked remarkably well and never stopped me from rising to the top of my field until I'd found myself in this "But you slept with your intern!"quagmire.
Riley yanked his shirttails from his jeans and twisted to glance at the wound on his back. It was healing nicely. "I'd say so," he murmured. "Thanks for that, bytheway."
"No problem," I said. "And you're anarchitect?"
"Yeah, but not in the way most people think of architects," he said. "Instead of building new structures, I work on the old ones." He pointed to the thick wooden beams overhead. "And the things inside them. My family has been restoring historic homes for three generations. I work with my brothers, Matt, Sam, and Patrick, and my sisterShannon."
I volleyed his earlier question back to him. "Do you enjoy it? Therestoration?"
He traced the edge of his notebook and offered a quick nod. "More than I thought I would," he replied. "I'm, uh"—he held his hands in front of him like he was reaching for something—"I'm good at my work, too. But my good is different from my brothers' good, if that makes anysense."
I ran my fingers over my lips to repress the sigh attempting to break free. I really didn't want to like himthismuch.
Nodding, I said, "It does makesense."
"Right, so," he started. "Anysiblings?"
"One brother. Adam is the oldest," I saidcarefully.
No need to put a finer point on that fact by mentioning my brother was only fourminutesolder. Twin stuff was a novelty to most people, but we were terrible at being twins. He'd once asked our mother why we had the same birthday, and seemed genuinely irritated that we had to share the twentieth of April. Eventually, they'd allowed him to celebrate on the twentieth and bumped me to thefollowingday.
If that didn't sum up my place the family, I didn't knowwhatdid.
"We've covered the superficial stuff. Now I want you to answer a real question. Why aren't you on any one of the ninety-six dating apps out there and using all the guys in this town for some good old rebound sex? Why haven't you moved on yet?" he asked. "From the douchewaffle."
I wrapped my hands around my glass and chewed on my lower lip. I wasn't ready for this level of real tonight. Instead of answering, I punted the question back to Riley. "Why are you still clinging to the soul-sucking ex from college? If we're weighing baggage, I'd say yours isheavier."
He opened his mouth to speak but then stopped himself. Lifting his hand, he gestured to the bartender in the universal signal for another round. He didn't wait for a server to bring the drinks, instead trotting to the bar to collect themhimself.
Riley returned with two pilsner glasses and spared me a quick glance as he settled into the booth. "These are both for me," he said, drawing a circle around them with his finger. "And it's complicated in a way that will always fuck me over, and I'm going to drink these beers because I don't want to talkaboutit."
"How long has it beencomplicated?"
I wasn't sure why I asked. I didn't want to know him and I didn't want to like him, but I felt compelled to heal him. And that wasn't the doctor talking. Medicine hadn't made me a nurturer. But here I was, wanting to gather up his torn edges and bring them back together in a way that would erase all memory of the pain that had put themthere.
He tipped back his glass and drank deeply. "It's been a couple of years, Alex," he said after a pause. "Is that your real name? Or is it your way of distracting people from the fact you're awoman?"
"It's Alexandra," I said tightly. "But I've only ever been called Alex. It's not a ploy to blend in withtheboys."
"That's good," he replied, mostly to himself. Then his gaze shifted from the amber liquid in his glass to my chest. My skin heated under his watch, and though I fought like hell to think warm, flat-nippled thoughts, I sensed them hardening against my bra. "It's not like you could blend in anyway. Not with your"—he took another sip, eyes still mapping my cleavage—"little redshoes."
"My parents were expecting a boy," I said, eager to turn his attention in a different direction. Much more of that staring and I couldn't be held responsible for my actions, which would include rubbing his chest, ordering him to snuggle with me, and nakedness. So much nakedness. "It's understandable that the sonogram was wrong. My balls areprettybig."
He snickered into his beer. He was still working on the first and didn't object when I plucked the second for myself. "So they called you Alex,"hesaid.
"They did," I said. "But don't worry. They weren't disappointed. Just surprised. It all evened out, but they'd taken to calling me Alex before I was born, so it stuck. They adjusted course soon enough, and made sure to slap big bows on my headeveryday."
That was close enough to the truth for now. The reality was that my parents were great but they had this head-tilting, eyes-squinting way of looking at me that clearly said they forgot about me until my existence intersected withAdam's.
