Page 27 of Resisting the Handsome Doctor
"Owen?" she says, not looking at me.
"Yeah?"
"Do you... would you want to come in? For tea?" She says it quickly, like she might lose her nerve if she doesn't get it all out at once. "I know it's late, and you probably want to get to your grandfather's, but I have this really good chamomile blend, and I just thought—" She cuts herself off. "Never mind. That's stupid. It's late. You should go."
"Ivy." I wait until she looks at me. "I would love to come in for tea."
"Really?"
"Really." I'm probably smiling too wide, but I can't help it. "I'm not ready for this night to end either."
She lets out a breath that sounds like relief. "Okay. Good. Just... don't expect too much. The house is small, and I wasn't expecting company, so it's probably messy—"
"Ivy."
"What?"
"Stop apologizing. I don't care if your house is messy."
"It is, though. There are books everywhere. And I left my breakfast dishes in the sink this morning."
"Two dishes in the sink. The horror." I open my door. "Come on. Show me this house you're so worried about."
We get out of the car, and I follow her up the path to her front door. She fumbles with her keys for a second before getting it unlocked. She flips on the light as we step inside.
"See? Books everywhere," she says, gesturing around.
She's not wrong. There are books on shelves, books stacked on the coffee table, books piled next to an overstuffed armchair that looks like the most comfortable thing I've ever seen. But it's notmessy. It's lived in. Cozy. The kind of place that actually feels like a home instead of just somewhere to sleep between shifts.
My apartment looks like a hotel room by comparison.
"I love it," I say honestly.
"You're just saying that."
"I'm really not." I take in the details: the throw blanket draped over the couch, the mug on the side table with a bookmark sticking out of it, the framed photos on the mantle above a small fireplace. "It looks like you, Ivy. It feels like you."
She bites her lip, that nervous habit again, and looks away. "The kitchen's this way. For the tea."
I follow her into a small kitchen that's exactly as she described. Two dishes in the sink, a couple of cookbooks on the counter, a calendar on the wall with neat handwriting marking library events and what looks like a Sunday dinner.
She fills a kettle with water and sets it on the stove, then pulls out two mugs from a cabinet. Her hands are shaking slightly.
"Ivy," I say gently. "You don't have to be nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You're shaking."
"I'm cold." It's not a convincing lie.
I move closer, but not too close. Giving her space. "Talk to me. What's going on in that spreadsheet of yours?"
She lets out a shaky laugh. "There are too many variables. Too many unknowns."
"Like what?"
"Like... what happens tomorrow? You're only here for the weekend, and then you go back to the city, and I stay here. Andwe'll text for a while, maybe talk on the phone, but eventually, you'll get busy with work, and I'll get busy with the library, and we'll just... fade."
