It sounded just as unreal the second time. So I just stood there, stunned.
One time, a patient at the clinic had asked me out. So had Jim, our four-foot-tall IT guy. But this?
“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” the man said quickly. “I’m Daniel.” He held out his hand.
His eyes dropped to my neck, taking in the long, ragged scar. My face flushed, and I instinctively tugged the collar higher before taking his hand.
“E-Emily.”
He smiled, warm and open. His short brown hair ruffled in the breeze. “You feel like grabbing a coffee?”
I gently pulled my hand back. “I-I’m sorry. But I have to stay at the registration table. There’s no one else to cover it.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” He nodded, respectful. “Maybe another time?”
My palms were starting to sweat. Was he asking for my number?
“Or what about after your shift?”
I glanced at the group of older men, clearly waiting for him. But Daniel Winthrop didn’t seem to care one bit.
“Umm . . .” I hesitated.
“Oh—I’m sorry,” he said. “You probably don’t even know when the race wraps up.”
I shook my head. I really didn’t. It could be early, could be late afternoon, depending on the cleanup. There was no official end time.
“Well, thank you for the coffee shop recommendation.”
He smiled and left.
I watched him chat with the group of men, shake a few hands, and then head off toward Tremont.
A young woman rushed up to the stand, clearly flustered.
“Damn it, is it too late for the race?”
“It already started.”
“Shit,” she muttered. She looked genuinely disappointed.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said, grabbing one of the last bibs. “Take this and just go. I’ll sign you in later.”
Her face lit up. “Oh my God, thank you!”
She took off, and I folded some of the T-shirts that had been tossed back into the box. Laughter from the group of men drifted over again. Low and relaxed.
I grabbed the last working pen and wrote the date on the sign-in sheets, but the ink sputtered out. So I jogged over to the refreshment tent and borrowed another pen.
When I returned to my stand, I froze.
Daniel was back.
He stood there with two trays of drinks and a large brown paper bag. I blinked, stunned, as I stepped behind the table again.
“I”—his eyes dropped to the trays—“I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I got a little bit of everything. Coffee, tea, and lemonade.”
Still speechless, I watched as he opened the bag.
