The Romance Revival(2)

“What do you do for a living, Emery?”

His question caught me off guard, though it shouldn’t have, being an obvious conversation starter. Except for me, it was the conversation starter that always made my stomach suffer a small twist.

Tell the truth, I thought, and immediately discarded it. I couldn’t and wouldn’t.

“I work in the design and implementation of medical-grade lasers used in surgical equipment.”

He stilled, pausing our rhythm and looking down at me. “Seriously?”

I nodded, surprised again. It was such a practiced, boring answer, I was rarely asked to confirm. On the off chance I was, this is where I’d veer straight into the technical weeds, using terms like photothermolysis and optimal ablation until the listener lost interest. But here with Luca, for some strange reason, I felt unwilling to expand the lie. It usually rolled right out of me, but tonight, I was sick of it. It felt like a straitjacket.

“What kind of schooling do you have to do to make lasers?” There was a pleasing rhythm to his speech I couldn’t place, a rounded accent like an extra vowel at the end of some of his words.

Laughing at his astonishment, I said, “I went to medical school, but I don’t actually practice medicine.”

Mostly.

“A doctor? You’re Dr. Emery?”

I laughed again, nodding. “I am. Dr. Emery Finch.”

He began moving us again, a slow dance that allowed us to keep looking at each other. “Is it terrible if I tell you I haven’t seen a doctor in, like, five years?”

“Yes, but I won’t tell.” I lowered my voice, confiding with a smile, “I don’t actually know many physicians.”

“I treat everything with ibuprofen and water.”

“You look pretty healthy to me,” I said with a grin. Understatement of the century. “As long as you wear sunblock and eat your veggies, this doctor says you’re probably fine.”

“Smart and hot,” he said, shaking his head and smiling down at me. “I’m intimidated.”

This made me laugh again. “Oh, please.”

“Seriously, now I can brag that I know someone who makes lasers.”

“You say that like it was on your bucket list.”

“Emery Finch, I think you underestimate how much men think about lasers.”

I stared up at him, absolutely charmed. “What do you do for a living?”

It was his turn to grin. “I’m a landscaper.”

My surprise flared and then vanished. Other than the suit and the artificial Vegas setting around us, everything about Luca screamed I work outdoors in the sunshine. “I love that.”

“You do? Why?”

Tilting my head, I studied him. “Because it fits you.”

“Is that a nice way of saying I look like someone who doesn’t read at work?”

I laughed. “I’m saying you look like someone who likes to be outside, in the sun, moving his body.”

These words sent a hot flush of mortification down my spine, but he didn’t seem to hear the overt horniness in my voice.

“I do; I love being outside.”

“That’s nice.”

He correctly interpreted my tone. “And you, not so much?”

“I like to think of myself as indoorsy.”

Luca laughed and it was that infectious sound again. “What sorts of indoorsy things do you like to do?”

Before I could think better of it, I lifted one eyebrow and his laugh ripped from him again, filling the room and catching the attention of people around us, who smiled. “Okay,” he said, “I walked right into that one.”

“To be honest, I’m a bit of a workaholic,” I admitted.

“Okay, but in all fairness, I bet lasers are fascinating.”

I shrugged. “To me, I guess.”

“What made you get into that line of work?”

I wasn’t sure anyone had ever asked me this before, and it meant I didn’t have time to think of a breezier answer. “My parents died in a car accident, and what I do now is a circuitous way of inventing things that could have saved them.”

My own surprise at my answer was replaced by a vague sensation of relief. Like when you’re carrying something heavy and are finally able to set it down, if only for a minute. There, I thought. That’s a hundred percent true.

“Oh shit,” he said, pausing our movements again. “Actually? Damn. I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. Yeah.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Jesus.”

I nodded, and smiled up at him, hoping he read the expression as I’m okay now, I promise rather than I smile when I talk about my parents’ death.

The song changed to a faster number. Guests flooded the dance floor, screaming in excitement, and we eagerly ducked out of their way. Luca took my hand, leading me to an empty table littered with wineglasses stained with lipstick, cake plates with only scattered crumbs remaining, muslin bags of tooth-breaking Jordan almonds that guests had left behind. He turned a couple of chairs to face the dance floor and we sat down, for a minute just watching the crowd jump around to the song while scream-singing the lyrics.

“Pardon me for assuming you wouldn’t want to do the Macarena,” he said.