When I get home and start dinner, I spot the loaf of whole wheat bread on the counter and wonder if I should keep making his lunch. I’m a white bread eater myself, and I bought the wheat for him.
I pull out my phone and tap out a text.
Me: Would you like me to keep making you lunch? I don’t mind.
His reply comes back five minutes later.
Dr. Malone: No, it’s fine. You’re working for Heather now.
I remember him saying he doesn’t eat at the hospital cafeteria, so I wonder if he’s going to make his own lunch? Or just skip it altogether? Which can’t be healthy, especially since he clearly works out regularly. He’ll need the fuel. . .
I give my head a shake. I’m being ridiculous. He’s a grown man, and he was obviously managing to feed himself before I showed up.
I realize I haven’t spent all the money he gave me for groceries this week.
Me: Okay. I kept food receipts, I owe you about $40. I’ll give it to you Wednesday.
Dr. Malone: Don’t worry about it.
I tap his name to pull up his contact, and change his name to Drew. I need to get used to using his first name.
Drew arrives at exactly six-thirty on Wednesday to take me to dinner at the Tates’. I’ve been watching out the window, so as soon as the black Volvo SUV pulls up at the curb, I hustle out to meet him.
He gets out of the car to open my door. “Hey, Ally,” he says. “You look very nice.”
“Thanks.” I spent a while yesterday debating what to wear, since none of my clothes seemed appropriate for a dinner party with billionaires. I finally settled on a pink sweater, navy slacks, and black ballet flats.
After all, we’re going to dinner at a cottage, not to the symphony.
And I think I called it right, because Drew’s wearing his black leather jacket over a gray Oxford shirt and dark blue jeans. From a formality standpoint, we fit together pretty well.
I decide to return his compliment. “You look nice too.”
“Thanks.”
We get in the car, but before Drew pulls off the curb there’s a commotion at the house next door. The front door opens, then slams shut behind an obviously angry woman. She screams something at the closed door, then stomps over to a rusting Honda Civic and peels off down the street.
“Interesting neighbors,” Drew remarks as we drive away.
“Yep,” I agree. “I think she and her boyfriend are having some problems.”
“They don’t bother you?”
“Not really,” I say with a shrug. “And as you pointed out, they keep things interesting. I considered living in the Esplanade, but I figured the neighbors would be dull.” The Esplanade is a swanky condo building by the lake.
The corner of his mouth hitches up a little. “You’re not wrong.”
My stomach sinks. “You live in the Esplanade.” I say it as a statement rather than a question, because the look on his face gives him away.
“Yeah,” he confirms. “I don’t mind boring neighbors.”
“To each his own, I guess.” I’d prefer a boring neighborhood too, if I could afford one. “And I didn’t mean to imply you were dull.”
The side of his mouth hitches a little higher. “Right.”
“Do you have a view of the lake?”
He nods. “It’s the main reason I bought the place. The sunsets are great.”
