Page 127 of True Blue

Now, I’m sitting in a cocktail bar down the street from my hotel, decompressing with a drink to try to even out my tangled emotions toward the man who made that experience possible. He bought me a ticket—one single ticket, without expectation of him joining me—for the musical of my favorite movie.

A movie that means so much to me. A movie that got me through some of the toughest years of my life. It’s special, and it means something.

And it’s also just a gesture. Just like the pastries were. But both gestures were loaded with history.

Gifts. Pretty words. Action. Atonement.

The back and forth makes me dizzy once more, so I slam the rest of my French Martini back as the bartender comes over with a sweet smile on her face.

“Another, love?”

“Yes, please,” I say, returning her smile.

She winks, grabbing my empty glass.

A smooth, British-accented voice cuts in from behind me. “Put it on my tab, Lara. My usual, too, please.”

Turning, I meet the blue eyes of a very handsome honey-blond stranger. He’s not very tall, maybe around my height, and more lithe in build, wearing a very expensive-looking black suit and matching tie.

The smile on his devastating face reads trouble. He’s more pretty than handsome, but still incredibly attractive. And it seems like he knows it as he takes the seat next to me.

“Thank you,” I mutter, folding my hands together and resting them on the bar.

His eyes are still on me, and I shift under the weight of them. When I glance over, I feel his eyes trailing down my form, and I look down at the outfit I chose. Another purchase from Harrods.

It’s black, off the shoulder, and lands around my mid-calf. When I tried it on for the girls, being shoved into the dressing room by Genevieve, their eyes lit up. Then I turned around, and they started hooting and hollering like hyenas.

It exposes my entire back, down to my lumbar spine.

And I sure feel a bit exposed right now under this man’s gaze, but not in an unpleasant way. There’s no sexual leering. He looks like he’s appreciating fine art.

“You’re welcome,” he says, nodding to Lara when she drops off our drinks. “Where in America are you from?”

I make a face, and he looks amused.

“What?”

I shake my head. “Is boldness a trait in British men?”

“Not particularly,” he smirks. “I’m a rare type.”

I hum.

“Usually, you introduce yourself to someone first before you ask them personal questions about their location,” I raise an eyebrow, and he chuckles, looking chagrined.

“My sincere apologies, Miss⁠—”

“Doctor,” I correct on instinct, briefly worried that I sound uppity, then realizing that the debt I’ve acquired, hours spent studying, and the gendered bullshit of the world allow me a little uppityness with my title. “Dr. Indie Miller.”

His eyes brighten, the smooth smile growing on his face.

“Dr. Indie Miller,” he repeats. He holds out his hand, and when I place mine in his, he bends to kiss the back of it. Charming. “Sebastian Campbell. There, now we’re introduced.”

I roll my eyes and take a long sip of my drink, the liquor making me feel buzzy and warm.

“I don’t really have a set place I’m from, but I’ve been living in the Chicago area since I finished med school.”

“What kind of doctor are you?”