“Yeah, it’s cool. We call him Dorian, though. Rian is his stage name.”
Josh low-whistles. “Is that weird? Having someone so famous in the family?”
I shrug, picking at my shrimps. “We had paparazzi camped outside the complex for a while after Dorian serenaded Josie in the courtyard last Christmas. Mrs. Patel kept bringing them cookies, which only encouraged them to stay.”
“I bet that was fun.” Josh bites on a spring roll and a smidge of sauce rolls down his chin. He licks the bit at the corner of his mouth and cleans the rest with a paper napkin. It should be disgusting. I find it sexy.
“The excitement has died down.” I tear my gaze from his lips and lock it on my food. “But Penny enjoys the perks. Private movie nights in a home theater with the best candy. He introduced her to Taylor Swift. And she loves swimming in the pool at the mansion.”
Josh’s eyebrows knit together as he asks, “Is something wrong with the pool here?”
The genuine concern in his voice makes me smile. “No, unless you’re scared of a little chlorine. But Dorian’s pool has color-changing lights and underwater music. Hard to compete with when you’re eight.”
“Makes sense.” He nods. “The perfect weather and year-round swimming opportunities were another reason I moved to California.” He waves his arm with the bandage. “Even if my nurse still hasn’t cleared me for pool activities.”
“You’ll be taking up surfing next,” I tease. “Become a perfect Californian cliché.”
“Oh, cruel.” His eyes widen in mock shock, but he’s smiling. “Wetsuit shopping was next on my list. What about you? Born and raised in LA?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “I’m the American cliché of not owning a passport.”
“Never got the travel bug?”
“More always been too busy. I started my nursing degree straight out of high school, then my first job, and we had Penny young, so…” His jaw hitches when I say “we.” Before he can ask me any difficult questions, I change the subject. “Do you miss anything about Delaware?”
“The quiet.” Josh turns thoughtful. “There’s a stillness back home you don’t get in a city this size.”
The answer surprises me. I expected him to mention a favorite restaurant or landmark, not something so… introspective.
“What about you?” he asks. “What do you love about LA? What would you change?”
“Love the weather, when it doesn’t bake like this week.” I tap my fingers against my beer bottle. “The ocean. The nature up the hills, there are a lot of great hikes. Being able to go from the beach to the mountains on the same day is awesome. I’d change the traffic. And the cost of living.”
He nods. “Fair enough. Traffic here is its own special circle of hell.”
We move on to talking about his work, steering clear of any mention of Daniel. I listen as he tells me how he’s adjusting to his new station.
“Everyone’s been good so far,” he says, reaching for more curry. “But I’m still learning who takes their coffee black and who will murder me for touching the wrong mug.”
“Hospital politics are the same,” I reply with a tiny smirk. “Except you have to add blood, and things get medieval.”
He laughs, and the sound lands square in my chest like a melting bomb. My sternum forgets how to be a bone and applies for a position as emotional jelly.
“Thought I saw a few battering rams the other day.” He grabs a hot sauce packet, fighting with the stubborn plastic, pulling until it breaks open, and squirts a reddish-brown streak across his pristine white T-shirt.
“Perfect.” He eyes the blotch with faux despair. “Now I can live my dream of joining a boy band called The Stains.”
His expression is crestfallen, cute, ridiculous. Laughter bubbles out of me, rising too fast to catch. I snort mid-breath, eyes prickling with tears as I double over. “The worst part,” I manage between chuckles, “is that I’m not even sure there isn’t a band with that name already.”
His eyes crackle and sparkle, at once surprised, relieved, and a little smug—the look of a guy who solved a Rubik’s Cube in record time but doesn’t want to brag. “I’d ruin a closet worth of clothes if it meant you’d laugh like that again.”
The words are too earnest, and they pierce straight through me. My laughter dries up instantly, extinguished by an ugly twist in my stomach. I look away, unable to hold his gaze.
The only person who ever made me laugh like this was Daniel.
Daniel, who would invent fake medical trivia and slip them into my lunchbox for me to find on my break. Daniel, who knew how to pull me out of my head when I got too serious. My husband who never let me go to bed sad or angry.
And now this man—this stranger who wears Daniel’s title and sits at my kitchen table—has found that same button, that same frequency that makes me laugh unrestrained. It feels like a betrayal and a gift at once, and I don’t know how to handle either emotion.
