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She studies me in the dim light of the cab, her eyes dropping briefly to my mouth.

My body responds like we aren’t sitting twelve inches from a stranger with a rear-view mirror. If we’re not careful, I might end up taking her right here in the backseat.

“I need to think,” she says.

“Okay.”

“You’re not going to argue?”

“Would arguing improve my chances?”

“No.”

“Then look at me, making emotionally mature choices.”

That gets a faint smile.

The cab stops outside her house. Bea reaches for the door, then pauses with her hand on the handle.

“Thank you,” she says. “For tonight. For John. For”—she gestures between us—”everything.”

“I had a great time, Doc.”

She opens the door, but I catch her hand before she can get out.

Bea looks down at our joined fingers, then back at me.

“For the record,” I say, “I’m going to be thinking about that kiss while you’re doing all this thinking.”

Her cheeks flush. “Good night, Cal.”

“Good night, Doc.”

I watch until she’s safely inside before giving the driver my address.

As the cab pulls away, lyrics start forming in my head. I’m itching to get writing again, and the live music has almost nothing to do with it.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Bea

Itold him I needed to think.

It sounded very sensible in the cab.

I even nodded to myself after I said it, like a doctor delivering a treatment plan. We’ll monitor the situation. Run some tests. Circle back.

For three days, I’ve been thinking. Intensely.

Here’s what three days of rigorous, systematic thinking has produced:

His hand at my jaw. His tongue in my mouth.

Because if I get you alone, I’m going to take my time.

Sooo, I guess you could say that science has failed me.

By Monday afternoon, I’ve thought so hard I’ve developed a headache behind my left eye. I’m attempting to fix it with coffee when Gianna texts me.