It’s the best fucking thing I’ve ever had, and I eat the entire thing.
I’ve always loved food, but I hate cooking. I order food way too often at home, but being in a new city, trying the best food it has to offer… it’s a surefire way to my heart.
I haven’t had a single bad meal with my boss—and when he tells me about learning how to cook, I have to ignore the way my stomach fills with butterflies.
Imagining him in the kitchen, shirt unbuttoned, bare feet… the domestic version of Dr. Kincaid would surely get me in trouble.
Dr. Kincaid’s expression almost seemsproudas I push my bowl away, and as the waiter comes by and asks about dessert, I inquire about the tiramisu.
We both order a serving of it, and I sit back with my hands on my stomach. “I’m so full but I can’t pass up tiramisu. It’s my favorite dessert.”
His eyes narrow slightly as he sips his red wine—I opted to forgo alcohol tonight so that I didn’t make any rash decisions about leaving my door unlocked. If we had sex tonight, I’m pretty sure my vulva would fall off.
“Coffee. Cake. Cream. Cocoa powder. What’s not to love?” he asks, finishing his wine and setting his glass down.
“Exactly.”
He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, I chew on my lower lip as I think of how to ask my next question.
“Have you always been a sleepwalker?” I ask casually.
His face doesn’t give anything away. Instead, he leans forward. “No. It started in graduate school. I woke up one day in the kitchen, chopping vegetables.”
“That must’ve been scary.”
“Wielding a massive knife in my sleep? Terrifying. It started to progress. I went on medication. It still happens, but… I can control it now. Mostly.”
He can control it?
I want to tell him that he can’t control it, but I think he already knows. The question is, why lie about it?
Also, is that what the medication in the bathroom is for?
I don’t get to ask that question, though, because our desserts are placed on the table in front of us, and we spend the next five minutes eating in contented silence. He finishes first and leans back as I pick at the last half. I’msofull, but it’s too good to stop.
“Have you always had anxiety?” he asks.
I swallow. “No. It wasn’t until everything happened. It might surprise you, but I’m actually a pretty calm person. Even-keeled. So the anxiety took me by surprise.”
“Or maybe you just learned to mask your anxiety at a young age?” he suggests.
My brows scrunch together as I push my plate away. “Okay, Doctor. Thanks for the diagnosis.” His lips twitch as realization dawns. “Oh my god, you’ve diagnosed me in your head before, haven’t you?”
He smiles at this, and I’m once again taken by surprise at how it changes his face completely.
“I’d need to do a session with you to diagnose you, Francesca.”
I clasp my hands together and give him a conspiratorial smile. “Well, we’re here. Fix me, Doctor.”
It comes out more sultry than I intended, and his lips part. His eyes flick down to my mouth before coming back up to mine, a shade darker.
“Fine. Tell me about your childhood.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s it? You’re really going to ask me about my childhood? How cliché.”
He cocks his head. “It’s interesting. Most people have some sort of unrealized childhood trauma. Some people have done the work to uncover it, but most haven’t. Things that happen to usas children affect us for the rest of our lives. How we were raised impacts how we make decisions, our impulse control, our coping mechanisms, our food habits, and even our love interests. And yet, the people who scoff at that first question about childhood are usually the ones most affected by unrealized childhood trauma. So yes, I start with that question, because it tells me whether or not I need to dig deeper.”
My mouth opens and closes.
