My heart kicks a little too hard at that. “You first. Where’d you go to school?”
“Undergrad in Connecticut. Medical school in Boston. Residency in New York.” He speaks about it plainly, not bragging, just stating a fact.
“And your favorite color?” I press.
There’s a pause. “Blue.”
I smile to myself. “Predictable.”
“I thought so. That’s why I hesitated to admit it. But I like what I like. How about you? School? Color? Etcetera.”
Not such a great topic for me. “I tried out a few different schools, trying to find myself, I suppose. But all I found was guys who liked treating me like a pretty hobby. Eventually, I graduated with a degree in literature, as if I could do anything with it. Oh, and I don’t have a favorite color.”
He scoffs. “Everyone has a favorite color.”
“Not me. Can’t choose between platinum, gold, or sage.”
“I notice a theme. Is sage because it’s the color of money?” he teases.
“How very United States-centric of you. And yes.”
He laughs hard. “I like a woman with priorities. What were your grandparents like?”
We talk about nothing and everything for almost twenty minutes. The twins shift and murmur around me, but he doesn’t comment on the background noise. Doesn’t ask.
Good.
His voice is warm. The kind that makes you lean closer without realizing you’re doing it. It is way too soon for me to like this. But I do.
By the thirty-minute mark, I’m pacing. Not because I’m nervous. Because if I sit too long, everything stiffens in protest. Postpartum is a scam. No one explains that your body feels like it got into a bar fight and lost.
“You’re quiet,” Damian says.
“I’m mobile,” I correct.
“Are you walking?”
“Yes.”
“Should you be?”
“I pushed out twins, not a grand piano.”
He laughs, low and unfiltered, and it travels straight through the phone and into my bloodstream. It’s unfair how attractive that sound is.
“So,” I say, steering us back to safe territory before my brain wanders somewhere it physically should not, “what do you do when you’re not saving lives and hosting intimidating brunches?”
“I don’t host brunches.”
“You attended one.”
“Under duress.”
I grin. “Noted.”
There’s a brief pause, and then he answers properly. “I raft.”
“Raft?”
