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“If it bothers you—”

He shakes his head. “No. No, you should go.”

It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince me.

“I know I can trust you. It sounds nice. You should do it.”

“You really don’t mind?”

He tucks his chin slightly, eyes narrowing—adorable and unsure all at once. “Let’s just say . . . I’m trying not to mind. You know my history. It makes me a little skittish.”

My heart urges me to stop right here. Walk away from Benedict Calder. Forget closure. Run into this man’s arms and stay there—in a relationship finally heading in all the right directions.

But my brain chimes in, Mortal Kombat–style: Finish him. I need to understand what went wrong. With Benedict. With all of it. If I can do that, maybe I can finally get it right with Isaac. As long as I remain clear about my intentions, we all walk away better. At least . . . that’s the goal.

“I know,” I say, quietly. “And I would never do that to you. That’s why I’m telling you. I want to be aboveboard.”

“I appreciate that.”

I take a breath. If I’m going to be honest, I need to be fully honest.

“And in keeping with that theme,” I say, “I think you should know that we used to date. For a while. It didn’t end badly, it just . . . ended. I hadn’t seen him in years—until he walked into my clinic with his dad.”

Isaac’s eyebrows lift. “You dated him.”

I nod once. “Years ago. It mattered . . . at the time.”

He leans back slightly, watching me, assessing. Not cold. Quiet.

I fight the urge to fill the silence and let him take his time.

Finally, he exhales through his nose. “Thank you for telling me.”

I nod again, unsure what to say next.

“I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t twist something in me,” he admits. “But your honesty helps.” He looks down, then back at me. “So . . . do you want to go to dinner with him?”

It’s not an accusation. It’s a real question.

“Yeah. I think it’ll be good. Cut the loose ends, clear the air.”

He holds my gaze a moment longer. I can see the question behind his eyes—what kind of loose ends?—but he doesn’t ask it.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. I can’t say I love the idea. But I’d rather you get closure than carry around unfinished business.” He gives a tight, tired smile. “Besides, you’re not the kind of woman a guy can control.”

“No, but I’d respect your wishes.”

This pleases him. “Then all I ask is, if anything shifts . . . tell me. I don’t want to be blindsided. Again.”

“I will. I promise.”

Something softens between us.

“You better be back at a decent hour, though. I’m not above texting you passive-aggressive memes.”