I broke off a corner of the scone for myself and passed the rest to Cal. He gave the pastry a resigned grin and said, "Can we start over? Please? You're so beautiful and I can't think. I've wanted to talk to you for the longest time and you'd think that would've been enough to decide on something smooth to say but nothing is coming out right."
Biting my lip to keep my dimples under control, I studied Cal. How did I miss this man at the pond? There were laugh lines around his eyes and just a few silver-white hairs on his temples, and the hint of a tattoo hiding under the sleeve of his old t-shirt. How could I have missed this?
"Okay, let's start over." I reached across the table, my hand outstretched. "I'm Stella Allesandro and I zone all the way out on my morning walks. I blame *NSYNC."
Cal laughed, but he didn't release my hand. "I'm Cal Hartshorn and I approach women by mowing them down to see if they like being underneath me."
A shocked laugh burst from my lips and I felt heat rising to my cheeks but I couldn't focus on the obvious innuendo he offered when there was more curious business at hand.
"Hold it right there," I said, leaning closer to peer at him.
"You can hold it anywhere you want it," he murmured.
"I'm sure." I held up a finger as my shoulders shook with silent laughter. "You keep them coming, Cal Hartshorn."
"I keep them coming like you wouldn't believe, Stella Allesandro," he replied. "Like you would notbelieve."
Laughing, I said, "Stop being obscene for a minute."
He had the balls to pull an appalled face. As if I was the one with all the bawdy comments here. "Obscene? I'm not obscene at all."
"You hide behind all your shy-boy awkwards but you're filthy," I said.
"Would you rather I hide with you in your cool-girl pretties? It might not look like I'll fit but you let me worry about that."
Another surprised laugh rumbled in my throat. "You…you should've talked to me a long time ago."
"I suppose that's as good as I'm going to get this morning," he said. "I mean, you haven't dumped coffee in my lap or run screaming."
"Not yet," I said. "But—wait. Go back. You'reDoctorHartshorn? The one on the cover ofBoston Magazine'sBest Doctors in the Bay State edition? The one who worked on the Patriots' defensive line coach when he had a heart attack last winter?" I tapped my hand—the one not currently swallowed by Cal's bear paw—to my breast, as if he didn't know how to find the organ in question. "You'rethatcardiothoracic surgeon?"
"Oh, hell," he muttered, cringing. I thought he was going to crawl back into his shell again and take his fresh comments with him but he didn't. And he didn't release my hand. "You saw that?"
"Did Iseethat?" I cried. "Hate to break it to you, but that magazine is on every newsstand and checkout line in New England. But I didn't recognize you without the scrubs and white coat and theI really hate this pose but I'm tryingsmile."
He hummed in agreement as his thumb passed over my palm in a smooth, rhythmic motion that sent goose bumps down to my toes and…other places.
"On behalf of the Patriots Nation, I want to thank you for looking after Coach Torres," I said, and it was a weak attempt at preventing myself from turning into a pile of pudding in this man's hands. All it took was his thumb stroking my palm and my game was crumbling like the scone between us. "And you've got the perfect name for cardiology.Hart-shorn."
"I've heard that once or twice," he said with a wry laugh. "But I'm not interesting at all. I want to hear about you. What do you do? Where are you from? What are your favorite flowers and now that I've nearly assaulted you, when can I take you for a proper night out?"
I reached for my latte with my free hand because I needed more palm rubbing in my life. The entirety of his focus was on me, completely ignoring the morning rush around us. If there was a world beyond this table, he was unaware of it and I wasn't far behind.
I hadn't felt this inkling—the little tingle in my chest, the swoop and roll in my belly—since my twenties. Early twenties. Sitting here today, a thirty-five-year-old woman, I couldn't reach back far enough to grab those memories. I couldn't hold them up alongside this morning and determine whether they were the same or different. And I wasn't sure that mattered. I was different now. Even if these inklings and tingles were the same, I didn't experience them the same way anymore. I didn't melt into them, didn't let them surround me like a shawl.
I didn't want them.
But I didn't want to stop them either. I didn't remove my hand from Cal's grip, I didn't grab my latte and go back to the comfortable, organized life I'd created for myself. I stayed. I stayed because I wanted his thumb on my palm and I wanted to share this scone with him, and I didn't want to think beyond those simple desires. There was no room between his thumb and my palm for my work, my stress, my no-strings, no-futures relationships, my history of holding on too long or fucking it up with good guys who deserved more.
"Tell me something, Cal."
He replied with a crisp nod and I saw a quick flash of that military discipline in the gesture. "In my wallet, in the glove box, and in my first aid kit. Always prepared."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing. It's nothing." His ears were pink again and—oh shit, was he talking about condoms? "Go ahead. What did you want to know?"
I eyed him. "You keep them in the first aid kit, huh?"
