“What do you mean?”

“He stares openly at people. It’s as if he has no fear—that or very little understanding of normal social behavior, or a complete disregard for it. Maybe it’s a bit of all three.”

“Hmm….” was all I said because I agreed with her on this point, but I didn’t want to confirm her suspicions. Sounding a bit loftier than I intended, I added, “Your concerns have been noted, and I still need to go pee.”

“Ah—okay. Sorry.” She smiled up at me as I stood. “Go pee!”

I returned her smile mostly to put her at ease. As I walked to the bathroom and completed my business transaction with the toilet and sink, her words of warning filled my ears and divided my thoughts.

I was smart. I knew this with as much certainty as I knew the underwear I was wearing was yellow. I wasn’t looking at Alex as a potential long-term relationship or partner of my future life. If something progressed between us, it would have to be purely physical.

And this was a big if.

In fact, it was an IF.

Because he had me curious about him, interested in him, and fascinated to find out who he was.

The zings were disconcerting as well, and could not be ignored.

I’d never had a purely physical relationship before; in fact, I didn’t even know if I was wired that way.

Part of me didn’t think so. For all my bravado, when I fell, I fell hard. I fell fast. I fell stupid. I invested too much too soon. My capacity for giving was matched only by their capacity for taking. My emotional intelligence took a backseat to my emotionality, and the end of these relationships always took me completely by surprise.

They needed me and I helped them, but when I was no longer needed, I was left with a massive heartache and fifteen pounds of kummerspeck.

Kummerspeck, of course, being the German word for emotional weight gain; literally translated, it means grief bacon.

Afterward, with the passing of time and emotional distance, I worked off the grief (bacon) and the heartache and found my romantic optimism again. I dissected the relationship and tried to turn it into a positive learning experience.

All this explains why this time I had no interest in dating a man with rampant and unresolved parental issues (failed relationships numbers 1 and 2) or with other unresolved emotional baggage related to past relationships (again, failed relationship number 3).

I didn’t want to be a bitter person, but it was a fine line to walk without inviting more heartbreak. After the last fiasco I made a promise to myself that, though I refused to succumb to woman-scorned syndrome, I was going to be smart about the next guy.

I wanted to fall into stupid love. I wanted to give myself without fear. This meant the next guy was going to be scrutinized, vetted, and evaluated before I jumped, heart first, into another disaster—which was likely how Thomas had ended up with such a thriving practice.

All of this meditation led me back to Alex.

Was it possible to do this, do him, without risking my feelings? Was I even on his to-do list? Did he like me or despise me, or what? He was the king of mixed signals.

I was swimming in my conflicting contemplations, attempting to exit the bathroom, when my progress was wholly impinged and impugned.

By Alex.

He stopped me. Meaning, he put his arm out and barred my way forward as though he’d been lying in wait. His eyes bounced between mine before settling on my mouth with completely unapologetic brashness.

“Hello, Sandra.”

“Hello, Alex.”

He smiled, slow and a little wicked. He leaned a fraction of an inch closer—which, as a percentage of the close distance separating us, was quite a lot. “Did you enjoy your butter chicken?”

“Yes. Did you enjoy serving me?”

His gaze flickered to mine, held. He had the most unusual eyes: dark, dark blue—like cobalt—with black and gold specs radiating from the pupil at the center. “Serving you is always a pleasure.”

Of course, his voice and words sent an enchanting shivering awareness down my spine all the way to my nerve endings. Unaccountably, all my previous concerns evaporated, and I was left with a single thought.

Alex naked.

Zing.

I returned his smile and hoped mine rivaled his for wickedness. “Glad to hear it.”

“So, Sandra….” He hovered, dipped his chin so that I had to lift mine to maintain eye contact. If I took a deep breath, our chests would probably touch. “You owe me one, right?”

I nodded with casual indifference, but my outward appearance of nonchalance was the complete opposite of the building apprehension and excitement twisting in my middle. “That’s right. At this point, after what you did for Marie, I might even owe you two ones.”

He shook his head, momentarily thoughtful. “No, I don’t think so. Your friend Fiona seemed to be perfectly capable of handling the situation. What’s her story anyway? What does she do?”

“She’s a former engineer for the State Department. Now she’s a stay-at-home mom.”

His face darkened, and his eyes lost focus for a split second as though he were absorbing this information. “The State Department, huh?”

“Yes. Why?”

“No reason. Anyway….” His eyes ignited again as they moved over my face. “You owe me one.”

“Yes, as you’ve stated previously.”

“A big one—that’s what you said, isn’t it?” His eyes were steady, unflinching. It should have been unnerving. Instead, I found it strangely adorable—like he didn’t know any better.

“Yes. I believe those were the words I used.”

“What time will you be done with your friends?”

“Now, actually. I need you to bring our check.”

“Good. The restaurant closes at ten tonight. Can you be back here by nine fifty-five?”

I tipped my head backward as I studied him, my eyes narrowing into surveillance slits. “I’m confused.”

“Confused?”

“Yes. Your behavior is confusing.”

An eyebrow arched above his overtly nerdy glasses. “How so?”

“You run hot and cold. You sit with me on Friday and act confrontational, and it’s clear you have a genuine dislike of psychiatrists, but now you….”

“You’re right, I do dislike psychiatrists.”

“Then you kiss me, and….”

“You kissed me first.”

“But you offered first. And then you walked away.” I paused to allow my statements to marinate for a few seconds before adding, “But tonight you’re very solicitous, and you’re flashing those sexy eyes again.”

He didn’t respond immediately, and I was somewhat surprised to find an expression of obvious admiration warm his gaze as it moved over my face. Finally, he said, “Correction of my previous statement: I usually dislike psychiatrists.”

“Why?”

“But I like you.”

“Why?”

“And I’d like to apologize for sending mixed signals. Will you come tonight?”

My lips twisted to the side. I wasn’t yet satisfied. “First, answer me this: why did you decide to sit down with me on Friday? I’ve been coming in here for over two years. If you like me, despite my unfortunate profession, why’d you wait so long?”

Without hesitation, he said, “It was the dress.”

“The dress?”

“Yeah—the red dress. I was compelled to act. I had no choice.” His nod was gentle, but his barely-there grin was wicked. It did things to me.

I hadn’t thought about the red dress having so much power, but it made sense to me. I’d bought that dress because I wanted a man to admire me in it. The fact that the dress had compelled Alex into action gave me all the silly girl feels. Also, the fact that he was unflinchingly honest about it, about liking me, about the seduction of the dress, stunned the heck out of me.

Paired with the sexy eyes, this time looking at me with full intensity, I was basically sunk in a shallow pool of hot lust. His hand—the one not currently blocking my way—fiddled with the tassels of my scarf where they hung to my abdomen.

“Will you come tonight?” He repeated the words, but this time they were softer, intimate.

“Yes,” I said, because I wasn’t quite thinking, and it just tumbled out. I was mesmerized, caught in his web. “Where are we going?”

“Here. I live upstairs.”

“Oh!” The earlier shyness I’d experienced attempted to rear its ugly head, but I beat it back with my broomstick. “That sounds—oh, bukakke!”

His eyes widened, and I knew at once that he was familiar with the word bukakke.

I didn’t give him an opportunity to comment on my usage of it as a curse word. “I can’t tonight. My friend Kat is staying the night.”

I tried to impart the disappointment I felt with my expression, a despondent shoulder slouch, and with every fiber of my being. I didn’t want to be one of those losers who put roosters before chicks, but the thought of giving up an invitation from Alex—when he’d been so taciturn and aloof in the past, but was now feeling compelled to act because of my miraculous red dress—gave me a serious case of the disenfranchisement glums.

I was relieved to witness sincere disappointment cast a shadow over his features as well. “That’s too bad.”