Dante's Shock Proposal. Amalie BerlinЧитать онлайн книгу.
being fixed up on five blind dates by the more insistent nurses on Eight Blue.” The neurological unit at Buena Vista. Their unit. “None of them have been all that thrilling, though. The first two couldn’t carry on a conversation if their lives depended on it. Then that jerk, and, you know, I don’t care if he didn’t show up, he counts as number three. They get two more fix-ups, not three. Not my fault they picked so poorly.”
“Why have they focused their attention on you?”
The question she’d been dreading—it had started to feel like a trap anytime anyone asked it—but Lise liked to live her life in the open, so she’d answer. She didn’t hide things. She didn’t keep secrets. She didn’t lie. If someone called a woman Large, Lise would’ve at least made commentary on people being rude. Unlike Dante.
Whatever. She couldn’t waste time working out what was going on in his head. Better to be open, and let the chips fall where they may. It was preferable that people reject her for who she really was than to be fooled into loving her then turn her life inside out when they found out she wasn’t perfect.
“Because I decided to start a family on my own, and they’re all basically horrified that I’m sperm-shopping or, as they call it, ‘giving up on love’ and ‘not waiting for my soul mate.’” She rolled her eyes, and looked back at the dance floor.
Chatting with Real Living Dante was much less satisfying than sharing the sexy imaginary banter that occasionally took place in her head when she wasn’t busy doing something important. Imaginary Dante would’ve already convinced her that she was perfectly shaped and that he loved the way she looked. Imaginary Dante would’ve compared her to Venus, and Venus would’ve come in second.
Imaginary Dante was definitely better.
“I see.” He said it like he agreed, pulling her gaze back to him, and there was a look—not The Look, a judgmental look. “That’s why you have yellow duck nursery photos in your phone?”
“Maybe...”
“Sounds like you’re having a bad evening, Bradshaw.” He leaned his elbows on the table, like they were close friends who talked close. Definitely not like he was about to kiss her, that’d have been an Imaginary Dante move.
So she leaned back again. “Lise. If I’m calling you Dante, call me Lise.”
First he failed to discount the notion that she was overweight, and now dissing her Maternity Manifesto and the awesome, adorable, happy and cheerful ducky room?
Enough.
She didn’t have to sit with him, pretending not to be bothered by Jefferson’s abject failure to arrive, followed up by his text-based slap in the face. This wasn’t the hospital, it was a dance club. Dr. Valentino wasn’t even there. He was probably off being cold and indifferent while heroically and brilliantly saving lives somewhere, and she didn’t like Dante, dance club owner, bar band pianist.
“This night’s getting less thrilling by the minute. If you’re going to try and speed up the evening’s deterioration by lecturing me too, you can...you can just shut it! Because you’re rude, and I was going to tell you how wonderful the music was too. But now I’m not going to!”
Because her good friend mojito said it didn’t count if you said it like that.
“And, for the record...” she lifted a finger when he opened his mouth to speak, shouting over the music from across the small table “...if a woman says someone called her Large, Big, or even Rotund, and she’s not, you’re supposed to say that other person is delusional. And even if she is, you have to say something about the other person being rude. That you did neither means you think I’m a Large Woman too, with all the capitals. I’m not. So...good day, Dante.”
Another song popped onto the house system, perfectly timed. Lise grabbed her purse, slung it back across her torso to leave her hands free for Mr. Mojito, and stepped past him toward the dance floor.
She’d gotten only one foot onto the polished tile floor when a large, warm hand clamped around her free wrist, stopping her escape.
“You’re not a Large Woman, Lise. But you do a good job of hiding in oversized scrubs at work.” She didn’t look back at him, but he spoke the words over her shoulder, so near her ear that goose bumps raced up her arm, away from that warm, talented hand.
Even if he was taking up for Sandy. Sandy, the one who’d picked Jefferson. Sandy, who must’ve been the one to label her Large.
“They’re scrubs. And, if you haven’t noticed, I’m just a little top-heavy.” She turned to face him, and he took the opportunity to catch her mojito before she sloshed the contents on one or both of them, then tilted it back to drain the rest of the minty liquid before dropping the tumbler onto the tray of a passing server.
The man had drunk her mojito. What did someone even say when their mojito was stolen from their own hand?
Keep talking. Being speechless only proclaimed, I’m out of my depth and not smart enough to keep up with this insane conversation.
Anything that would keep her from staring at his mouth, and thinking about the kind of lusty crush fantasies that mouth definitely could fulfill if he were so inclined.
Pathetically adolescent and showing how badly she wanted company—enough to go on blind dates. Enough for drinking-glass-inspired lust. Pathetic.
Just. Say. Something.
“These stupid things affect what sizes I can wear, but the scrub tops are standard design, and everyone—even people who are actually proportionally built—looks dumb in them. Except you, you look good in scrubs for some reason. I’d say you sold your soul for it but we’re both already in The Inferno. Besides, they’re comfortable, so it’s easy to work in them. And if I ever got tops fitting my hip dimensions I’d suffocate in my own cleavage.”
Great. Great visual, strangled by bosoms.
Dante grinned down at her, her second brush with amusement in his eyes, twice in fifteen minutes.
She still couldn’t tell if he was laughing with her, or at her.
Before she could say anything else to embarrass herself, he slipped his arm around her waist and took her newly mojito-free hand, flawlessly maneuvering her into dancing position and steering her backward onto the dance floor.
Breathless, and more than a little gobsmacked, Lise allowed herself to be led. “We’re dancing now? Arguing makes you feel like dancing?”
Maybe it was good he’d drunk her mojito, she’d clearly had too many.
The firm arm around her waist pulled her close enough to demonstrate the need for her admittedly tent-like scrub tops—her lower half didn’t touch his, but her breasts pressed against the heat of his chest, and her still-free arm went automatically around his shoulders.
“That dress is spectacular, and it fits you very well,” He said, hand firm on her waist to turn her into some dance her feet didn’t know. “Follow me.” He slowed down, stepped back enough for her to see his feet, and after she’d mimicked the pattern a couple times, his firm hands were on her again and he steered her in slow steps around the edge of the now much more crowded dance floor.
Why was she going along with this? She’d gone to the dance floor to get away from him. And because she wanted to dance.
But even with that rude phone business, the man was still incredibly sexy, and she’d been stood up. Dante was a satisfactory stand-in for sure.
Don’t overthink it. Just dance with him.
“Why this dress when you don’t know Jefferson?” he asked again, like she hadn’t heard him before and had chosen to answer the other, more important part of his question.
Trying to understand him over the loud music meant she had to stare at his mouth, the corner of which had quirked up.
Everything