“This is nice,” I said, taking it all in.
He smiled like that had been the point all along.
James crouched to open the cooler. “I figured it was either this or eating off our laps in the call room. I wanted to win points.”
“You already have.” I reached to help him. My gloves were still tucked into my pocket, forgotten, which felt like its own tiny rebellion.
He laid out food with care, arranging things so nothing tipped, pausing to adjust the blanket where a fold threatened to send a container sliding. There was a small bakery box tied with twine that immediately caught my attention.
“That looks suspicious,” I said.
His mouth curved in a way that told me everything. He opened it to reveal lemon shortbread cut into neat wedges, the surface dusted with sugar fine enough to cling to fingertips.
He held one up between us. “Before you ask, I did not bake them. I know my limits.”
I took a bite from the wedge he held out, and closed my eyes despite myself. Bright, sweet, the kind of thing that lingered on the tongue without demanding anything else from you.
“These are sinful.”
He watched me with an expression that made the rest of the park fade into background movement. It got even worse when his thumb caught the corner of my mouth, wiping a smearaway with an ease that startled me more than the touch itself. His hand stilled, lingered, then dropped as if he’d remembered where we were.
“Sorry,” he said, though his eyes stayed on my face.
I shook my head. “Don’t be.”
He leaned in just enough to close the space, his mouth meeting mine with a gentleness that felt intentional but cautious at the same time. The kiss was delicate, didn’t escalate, but it left my pulse working overtime as he pulled back and smiled.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he murmured, and I felt my cheeks flood with heat.
We ate with our knees angled toward each other, conversation skipping easily from residency gossip to childhood Valentine’s Days, the kind with construction paper hearts and questionable candy. He told me about his mother insisting on red shirts every February fourteenth. I told him about my dad pretending not to care while saving the good chocolate for himself.
“So,” I said, tapping my fork against the edge of my container. “Tonight.”
His shoulders shifted, a fraction of a second where his attention slid inward. “The gala.”
I nodded. Landon’s suggestion had worked, and I’d managed to score two tickets that now sat folded in my bag, the corners already soft with how much I’d been gawking at them.
“I’m so excited I could scream.”
“I know,” he said, and the sincerity there made what came next hit a little harder. “I don’t think I’m your guy for that, though.”
I laughed, a reflex, then stopped when his expression didn’t change. “You’re serious.”
He reached for his water, twisted the cap, and took a drink to buy himself time. “I spend my nights in arenas when I’m on call. Bright lights. Noise. People yelling. When I get an evening off, I want quiet. Besides, I’ve never been that into sports. I don’t want to spend my night pretending I’m into something I hate.”
Not even on Valentine’s Day. Not even for me.
I nodded stiffly, because it was easier than admitting the disappointment prickling under my ribs. “That’s fair.”
His knee nudged mine, an attempt at reassurance. “Skip it. Come over to my place instead. We can order something terrible and watch whatever you want.”
“I already told everyone I’m going,” I said, though that wasn’t the real reason. “I think I’ll use the ticket. Show my face, then I’ll come over to your place after.”
He studied me, searching for something I wasn’t offering. “You don’t have to do that for me.”
“I’m not,” I said, and meant it, even if the words didn’t carry the whole truth.
The first drop of rain landed on the back of my hand, cold enough to register immediately. James glanced up as another followed, then another, darkening the blanket in uneven spots.
