I don’t look up at him as I walk to our shared bathroom. Once I’m done washing my hands, I look at my reflection for a few seconds, willing myself to act calm and professional. I pull my long, brown hair out of the bun it’s been in all day and run my fingers through it, detangling the bleached ends. I’d unpacked my toiletries and set them near the second sink earlier, so I quickly swish some mouthwash and reapply my cream blush and lipstick. My skin is tan and sun-kissed from utilizing the beach in San Diego most weekends, and though I’m exhausted, my large gray eyes are bright and clear.
Turning to the side, I wince when I realize I was at least twenty pounds lighter when I bought this dress, because despite always being a curvy girl, I’d gained weight over the last three years. I wasn’t firm and flat—I had large hips, a big ass, and boobs I wish I could tape down most days. The dress is flattering, but it does pull across my fluffy tummy.
Too late to change,I think.
I take a deep breath and exit the bathroom, and Doctor Devil is pulling on a casual leather jacket over his white button-up.
So help me God…
“You might want a jacket,” he says sternly, his eyes briefly skimming over my long hair.
“I’ll grab one.”
I walk into the bedroom and dig through my suitcase for my tan trench coat, pulling it on as I walk out. I can barely hide my wince as the blisters on my feet rub against the patent leather of my heels, but I half grimace as Dr. Kincaid holds the door open for me.
The elevator ride down is tense and quiet, and I look down at my feet the entire time. We walk out of the Four Seasons,and we’re immediately in downtown San Francisco. I follow Dr. Kincaid across Market Street, smiling when I see a vintage streetcar rolling down past us. It’s dusk, so the sky is a light pink color, and the tree-lined main street is serene yet bustling at the same time. Turning right almost immediately, he leads us down Kearny Street. I can’t help but love everything about the city—from the Peet’s coffee bars, the businessmen rushing home, and the commuters waiting for the bus.
It’s not until three blocks later that I begin to limp.
Dr. Kincaid doesn’t notice at first, but when I whimper in pain after nearly twisting my ankle, he spins around mid-intersection.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, a crease forming between his brows.
I shake my head and limp to the other side of the street. “It’s nothing. I’m just getting blisters from these shoes,” I tell him, sticking one patent-leather-clad foot out to show him.
His nostrils flare when he glances down at them, and at first I think he’s going to reprimand me, but instead he looks over my shoulder.
“Wait here,” he says, walking back out into the intersection.
I think he’s going to hail a taxi, but instead he disappears into a small clothing boutique. A minute later, he’s walking out with a brown paper bag, and my mouth drops open when he hands it to me.
“I had to guess your size,” he says matter-of-factly. “But they should fit.”
I look inside and see an UGG shoe box. Pulling the top off, my heart flutters when I see a snuggly pair of fur-lined boots.
“This is… these are expensive,” I tell him quickly, handing the box back to him.
He pushes it back to me. “Wear them, Francesca. It’ll get cold later, anyway.”
I open and close my mouth in surprise. Pulling them out—size eight, which is my exact size, by the way—I groan as my swollen and sore feet are met with soft, warm fur.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, closing my eyes once both feet are inside the boots. “So much better. Thank you.”
He nods, but he doesn’t smile. I put my heels inside the bag, and to my utter surprise, Dr. Kincaid takes it from me so that I don’t have to carry it.
I can’t help but blush as we continue our walk to dinner.
Downtown soon evolves from a bougie financial district to something much more lived-in, and soon we’re walking past delicious-smelling dim sum restaurants, as well as Vietnamese and Cantonese establishments. My mouth waters as we pass a fancy-looking place with white tablecloths and I get a whiff of something fried. When Dr. Kincaid guides me through a nondescript door, I assume he must be mistaken. There are a couple of chefs in the kitchen chopping vegetables, and a pulley carrying food up to the next story. A set of very narrow stairs comes into view up ahead, and my boss—one of the most pretentious men I know—starts to speak to the chefs in Mandarin.
“Up, up!” a female server yells at us, gesturing to the stairs. “You look hungry,” she says, giving him a brief smile before patting his arm with a frown. “Nice to see you, Dante.”
I laugh as Dr. Kincaid quickly moves up the stairs, which look more like a ladder than anything, and then we go up another, even more narrow staircase. But not before I see the five or six tables full of people laughing, yelling, and gesturing wildly. It’s loud and chaotic, andwaymore casual than I expected. This almost feels like someone’s house, and I absolutely love it.
He grabs us a table near an old factory-looking window and takes our coats, hanging them over the back of his chair. As soonas I sit down, the female server from earlier in the kitchen comes sauntering over to our table.
“Drinks?” she asks impatiently.
“Uh…” I look down at the menu that says Sam Wo Restaurant, and my eyes go wide when I realize it was established in 1906.
