Change of Heart

1

I spot Dr. Ben Loving the moment I step through the door of Two Hearts Café. I'm late, but I don't bother apologizing as I slide into the seat across from him, shooing him back into his own chair when he tries to stand to greet me. He's not bad looking, if you're into the boy-next-door vibe. He's white with thick brown hair and deep brown eyes, plus a wide smile that's a little too friendly and charming. Amazing bone structure, I will give him that.

"Campbell, I presume?" There's no hint of annoyance with me in his tone; it might even be tinged with a hint of humor, but I'm sure it won't take long for the lightness to slip away and the irritation to take hold.

"Cam. Nobody calls me by my full name except for my grandmother." Campbell was my grandmother's mom's last name. It never sat right with her that her mom gave up her name when she got married, and so Grandmother insisted I carry the name in her honor. Agreeing to bestow me with the moniker is one of the few things my mother did right before she left, according to Grandmother.

Now I am the one forced to obey Grandmother's whims. Like go on this date, even though we both know my time would be better served working on my latest acquisitions deal or washing my hair.

"Got it. I'm Ben-"

"Loving. I know." I flip open the menu, my eyes quickly scanning the offerings and landing on something suitable. Normally when Grandmother forces me to go on one of these tedious missions, I at least get a nice meal out of it. But this supposedly charming café was Ben's choice and I didn't have the energy to push back. I gesture to a woman standing nearby, wearing an apron and holding a notepad. "Hi, can we order?"

The woman rushes over to the table. She looks to be well into her sixties, the kind of woman who is wearing her age like no woman in my family would, not a lick of Botox to be found on her pale, wrinkled face. Her face is kind, though, her hair a mass of gray curls, and she smiles as she reaches our table. "Good evening, lovebirds. My name is Mimi, and I have the pleasure of taking care of you tonight."

I flash her a tight smile, deciding it's not worth it to correct her assumptions about me and this man I just met, a man who I will never see again once I walk out the door in approximately thirty-eight minutes, give or take. "Thanks, Mimi. I'll have the Cobb salad, no bleu cheese, dressing on the side, and a glass of chardonnay." I hand her my menu and pull my phone from my bag so I can check my emails while Ben orders.

"Oh, um, I hadn't quite decided yet, actually," Ben stammers when it's his turn. "But I guess I'll just have the spaghetti. And a glass of red."

"Fantastic! I'll be right back with your drinks." Mimi looks between the two of us as if she's missing something before toddling away.

"So . . ."

I sigh, setting down my phone and turning my attention to my so-called date. "Look, Ben, I'm sure you're a very nice guy, obviously smart given the whole doctor thing, and relatively handsome, but let me just be up-front with you here. I'm only on this date to appease my grandmother so she doesn't write me out of the will and leave our flourishing law firm in the hands of my incompetent asshat of a cousin. I'm not sure how you got roped into this blind date, but I can guarantee you my grandmother only cares about your good genes, which are only important if I were to plan on having kids, which I'm definitely not. So, we don't really need to do the whole getting to know you song and dance. Let's just eat our meals in peace and be on our way."

Ben blinks at me for a second, before the corner of his mouth tilts up in a smile. "Wow. Can't say I've ever been rejected before drinks have even arrived."

I shrug, itching to turn back to my phone and respond to the messages overflowing my inbox. I have a huge meeting tomorrow morning, one that could secure the firm a billionaire client, so it's not like these responses can wait long. "I just see no point in wasting either of our time."

He folds his arms, leaning on the table. "We do have to eat. Is it such a terrible prospect to have a conversation while we share a meal?"

"Or, alternate plan, we can both eat, and I can answer emails while you do whatever it is you need to do for your job."

His eyebrows raise. "I'm a pediatric surgeon."

Ugh, Grandmother, really? A pediatric surgeon? So much for that whole don't have kids if you really don't want to line she's always trying to feed me. She's becoming more obvious in her old age.

"Great, well, I don't know what kind of workload you bring home with you every night, but whatever it is, feel free to take care of it." I swipe open my phone.

"I don't bring work with me on dates."

"Your loss." One of the first lessons Grandmother instilled in me was to be ready to work at any possible moment, lest any free time be wasted.

Mimi arrives back at our table just as my need for wine is hitting its highest level. "Here we are." She gently sets down our glasses in front of us and then instead of returning to her job, decides to stick around. "I just have to say, the two of you make an absolutely gorgeous couple. Truly. You look like you were made for each other!"

I pull my gaze from my phone so I can grimace. I open my mouth to-politely-ask her to bug off, but Ben beats me to it.

"Thank you so much, Mimi. That's so kind of you." He flashes her a brilliant smile that, while obnoxious in its warmth, has the desired effect of sending Mimi on her merry little way. Ben takes a large swig of his wine and then, thankfully, lapses into silence.

I take full advantage, firing off responses to ten emails in the time it takes for our food to be prepared and delivered. Mimi lingers, hovering over us and asking if we need anything despite us both saying no the first two times she asked.

When she finally slinks away after neither of us engage, I set my phone to the side.

"Are you going to bless me with your presence?" Ben takes a huge bite of his pasta and meets my gaze head-on.

"I don't know what you mean, I've been here the whole time."

He finishes chewing and sips from his wineglass. "I guess in the physical sense, sure."

I stab a tomato with my fork. "I thought I had made my intentions clear."

"You don't intend for this to go anywhere. You weren't exactly subtle."

"So then where's the miscommunication?"

He twirls his fork in his bowl of spaghetti. "I don't understand why we can't have a conversation if we're going to be sitting here anyway."

"Because I have work to do."

"Do you always have work to do?"

"Yes."

"When do you take time for yourself?"

"I don't."

"That doesn't seem very healthy."

"I'm fit as a fiddle, Dr. Loving." I gesture to his pasta with my fork, lettuce speared on the tip of it. "Dare I say, I might be healthier than you."

"There's more to health than the difference between pasta and a salad." He chugs the last of his wine. "When was the last time you took a vacation?"

"I'll take a vacation when I retire."

"I literally save children's lives for a living and even I take vacations."

"Some of us are just born with a strong work ethic, I guess." Though I don't think I was born this way. So much of my drive can likely be attributed to my burning need to be nothing like my mother, but that is a sentiment I don't share with anyone, let alone handsome strangers.

Ben sits back in his seat. "I think I've lost my appetite."

"Great." I raise my hand for the check. I'll be home earlier than I thought, giving me more time to prep for my meeting tomorrow. It's essential that we bag this client if we really want to take things to the next level at Andrews & Associates. And by we, I really mean I, as I am the one who has orchestrated this whole deal, and I will be the one to take full credit when it's solidified, basically guaranteeing the firm will go to me should my grandmother ever decide to retire.

"Leaving so soon?" Mimi gestures to the plates of half-uneaten food. "You haven't even finished your dinners."

"Sometimes it's best just to cut your losses, I suppose." Ben holds out his hand to accept the check.

Something about his statement feels like a rejection and it sort of stings. Which is ridiculous because clearly I didn't want to be here in the first place.

Ben studies the check, one of those old-fashioned-looking ones where the server has to write each item in by hand.

I snatch it from his grasp. "Please. Let me." I pull my wallet from my purse, credit card at the ready, when I realize there's no total at the bottom of the bill.

Instead, there's a note.

Tonight, your meal is on me, with the hopes that during the next one you share together, you'll choose to be present and accept the love that surrounds you. XO, Mimi

I snort-laugh, looking around the restaurant for Mimi so I can tell her I would rather just pay for my meal than endure her passive aggression. But the little gray-haired lady is nowhere to be found, and to be frank, I don't care enough to waste any more of my time.

I toss the piece of paper back on the table, throw down a fifty-dollar bill, and give a half wave. "I'd say nice to meet you, but I don't think you'd want to return the sentiment."

Ben looks at me, his eyes boring into mine like they see way too much. He takes the bill from the table, folds it in half, and slips it into the inner pocket of his blazer. There's an enamel pin in the shape of a giraffe on the lapel and I wonder if he just came from work too, if-despite his protests-the line between work and home blurs for him as much as it does for me.

But none of that matters because this is the first and only time I will be in the presence of Dr. Ben Loving. I should have known this date was doomed from the moment Grandmother told me his ridiculously on-the-nose name.

Pushing back his chair, Ben stands and gestures for me to exit the restaurant in front of him. His hand finds the small of my back as we make our way through the tables, and I should really hate how my body instinctively leans into the warmth of it.

The moment we step outside, I put as much space as possible between us. "Well, this has been an experience. See you around, I suppose."

"Take care, Cam."

I feel his eyes on my back as I walk away, feel the heat of his gaze until the moment I turn the corner, hailing a cab and escaping into the safety of the back seat.

I hardly get any work done for my big meeting that night. I'm distracted by the whole blind date of it all, running the lackluster conversation through my mind on repeat for no discernible reason other than I can't seem to get Ben out of my head. I fall asleep way earlier than I normally would. The last thing I see in my mind before I drift off is a pair of warm brown eyes and that stupid giraffe pin.

2

I know from the moment my eyes pop open that something must be seriously, terribly, god-awfully wrong.

First, I'm tucked in a bed while streams of sunlight pour in through a window. My alarm is supposed to ring long before the sun rises-I squeeze in my prework workout when it's still dark outside. Even on the rare day I allow myself to sleep past six, my blackout curtains keep out all hints of light. But I'm in a bed dressed with a butter yellow comforter, and that blasted sunlight is streaming through curtains made of a delicate white lace. I'm tucked in bed and everything feels warm and . . . cozy.

It's gross.

"Where the fuck am I?" I mutter as I toss aside the offensively cheery blanket. "What the fuck?"

Ridding myself of the confines of the not so unpleasant warmth has exposed something even worse. I'm wearing pajamas. Pink polka-dotted pajamas. The old-fashioned kind, with buttons down the front and an adorable little collar. Well, it would be adorable if I were five. Or lived in the '50s. Where is my black silk slip nightgown? Today is the biggest meeting of my already stellar career-I don't have time for whatever the hell this is.

The hair on the back of my neck begins to rise.

As I swing my feet to the floor, more details of the room-the jail cell? the torture chamber?-crystalize.

The painting above the bed, a girl riding a mint green bicycle, a bouquet of brightly colored flowers sitting in the basket.

The furniture, all coordinated and-gag-made of white wicker.

The plush armchair wrapped in a floral fabric any grandmother other than mine would covet.

"Maybe I died," I muse out loud, still talking only to myself. "This must be my own personal version of hell." Can't say I'm too surprised that's where I ended up.

I open the closet, which is lacking my standard lineup of designer suits and structured separates. They seem to have been replaced by dresses. Lots and lots of dresses, in soft pastels with masses of ruffles, nothing like the LBDs I don on the rare occasion I actually go out for something other than a business meeting. I pull out what looks like the least offensive one, a sky blue concoction. At least, it's the least offensive until I catch a glimpse of the strawberries embroidered all along the front of the bodice.

I drop the offending garment on the plush white carpet.

I spin in a slow circle, trying to absorb all of the pastel-colored nightmares surrounding me. Except it all blurs together like I'm on a carousel from hell.