Page 13 of When the Smoke Clears

“I’m just trying to be sexy. You said smart women are sexy.”

“Touché, Everleigh. What else do you know that I might find sexy?”

That was a trick question. How was I supposed to know what information was sexy versus intimidating? My intelligence often intimidated men. Will’s finding it sexy was not only thrilling, it was rare.

“What are you into?” I asked. “Sports are my weak area. I’m not saying I’m weak. I have athletic skills, I just haven’t taken the time to study any particular sport.”

I loved Will’s laugh. It wasn’t like he was laughing at me. No, there was genuine joy in his reaction. “Well, I don’t study sports, but I love watching them. Are you hungry?”

I was starving, but I thought we were supposed to have sex.

“I could eat,” I said instead of mentioning sex.

“How do you feel about clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl?”

“I feel like you’re speaking my love language.”

He playfully nudged my arm. “Good answer.”

I felt his body heat cling to me like lava sliding down a hill.

For someone who didn’t live in the area, Will led me straight to a place with outdoor seating. He ordered us drinks and two clam chowders in sourdough bowls.

“Have you considered a specialty other than dicks?” he asked.

“Stop.” I giggled. “I’m considering psychiatry.”

His eyebrows jumped up his forehead. “You’re going to medical school to counsel people?”

I averted my gaze, thinking about my answer, and then I just said what came naturally. “I’m going to medical school because my dad expects me to become a doctor. I’m specializing in psychiatry because I find the mind more tolerable than any other part of the body.”

Will barked a laugh. “You don’t really want to be a doctor.”

“It’s an okay profession. Do you really want to be a firefighter?”

He sipped his water, then nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Well.” I drummed my fingers on my legs. “Good for you.”

Will had a way of smiling without really moving his lips. It was all in his expressive blue eyes, and the way the small mole under his left eye almost disappeared when he squinted. Were we really going to have sex?

Would it make me a better doctor? I thought it might. How could I genuinely understand patients with sexual issues if I had yet to experience a penis inside of me?

“Does your family live in California?” Will asked.

“No.” I paused for a moment, thinking about Will spending two weeks in Yosemite with his father, and I felt a pang of envy. “My father is a brilliant neurosurgeon in Delhi, and my mom is an artist in New York. They never married,” I said.

His brow furrowed. “That’s interesting. Who raised you?”

I liked Will so much, and I wanted him to like me back. “Both. I traveled back and forth. Three months with one, three with the other.”

“That’s a lot of time on a plane.”

“Yes. Sometimes one or the other would make the trip with me, but most of the time, a flight nanny escorted me. There were two I got to know pretty well.”

“How did your parents meet?”

I drew lines with my fingertip in the cool condensation on my water glass as dishes clinked and clanked behind me. This was my favorite story. “My father spoke at a medical conference in New York. One of his colleagues invited him to a private exhibition at an art gallery where my mom’s ‘tastefully painted’ nudes were on display.”