Dante's Shock Proposal. Amalie Berlin

WAS BEING stood up.

      Badgered into a blind date by her coworkers, and they hadn’t even picked a responsible man who’d actually show up to the club where he’d asked her to meet him.

      Nurse Lise Bradshaw looked at her watch for the tenth time in twenty minutes, waved down a server, ordered a mojito, then let herself look somewhere besides the door she’d been staring at since arriving.

      Don’t think about him.

      Don’t think about any of it.

      To heck with judgmental people who had no idea what it was like to date in the current decade and absolutely didn’t support her life plan.

      No one here knew she’d been stood up, and even if they figured it out, she didn’t know any of them anyway.

      The music was good. Tonight could be an embarrassing footnote to her week, or it could be the fun she’d dressed for. Even if she was there alone, no one was ever really alone on a dance floor in South Beach.

      If, by some miracle, her date managed to drag his sorry butt to the club, amid the black and white decor, her slinky red wrap dress would stand out whether it was crowded or not, and it was still too early to be hopping.

      In her safe, quiet life, Lise went to work, worked hard, read a lot, and planned for her future—a future where she’d have a family again. She didn’t go clubbing with her coworkers, and had no close friends to speak of since moving from Jacksonville to Miami—so didn’t go dancing with them either. Basically, she didn’t go clubbing. If—no, when—she managed to get her plan rolling, there wouldn’t be any nights in her future for dancing, so she might as well make the most of it.

      She’d agreed to the fix-ups not because she ever wanted to replicate her parents’ deadly marriage but because she wanted to fully enjoy her remaining not-pregnant weeks.

      Her mojito arrived and she downed half of it before helping herself to the dance floor.

      Instruments sat ready on a stage elevated at the far side of the dance floor, promising live music later. But for now the DJ’s choice got her feet and body moving, and they could put the song on repeat for the whole evening for all Lise cared.

      Staking out a corner near the stage, she closed her eyes and let the music take her. Most of the lyrics shot past her, but she picked up on enough to get the meaning. The beat filled in the rest, and she let it wash away the week’s frustration and worry, let it warm her belly...or maybe that was the mojito.

      Three songs in, the music faded, but another song didn’t start. She stopped her swinging beat and opened her eyes, her gaze landing on musicians striding past her to the stage.

      A tall man in a three-piece black suit and shirt—jacket missing—and a black fedora pulled low met her gaze as he walked past her.

      Eyes black as his suit connected with hers, and Lise felt the thrill of shared attraction before recognition seared through her.

      Those eyes. She knew those eyes. Her breath stuttered, heat flaring in cheeks and racing down over her neck and chest.

      Dr. Valentino.

      While not technically her boss, she worked too closely at his side in surgery with masks covering everything but those eyes for her not to recognize them.

      She would have even if she hadn’t also been ignoring an unwelcome lusty crush on the good doctor for the past two years. He looked at her like he wanted to sweep her into his arms and learn her curves right there on the dance floor, like a sugar addict at an all-you-can-eat ice-cream bar. Tempted, with intentions forming...

      He’d never looked at her like that before, and she’d always tried hard not to look at him like that.

      For all their time working together, she knew next to nothing about him. Great surgeon, freakishly sexy, sometimes testy, and she knew which instruments and techniques he preferred.

      Some voice in the back of her mind shook her out of her staring. Go back to your table, dummy.

      Her feet stayed stuck, like her eyes.

      Dr. Valentino headed for a piano at her end of the stage. As he stepped over the bench his gaze connected with hers again, and her stomach bottomed out.

      That was desire. Real desire. An honest-to-God, I-want-you-hot-on-this-piano heat, those gorgeous eyes filled with dirty, dirty promises.

      How did he do that?

      Had he always felt that way but been too proper to show it at the hospital? He could obviously hide things—like musical ability. Like him being in a band and wearing real, non-scrub-like clothing better than anyone had a right to. Who wore a three-piece suit to a nightclub—assuming there was a jacket somewhere around the establishment?

      A rush left her feeling powerful and sexy, something she’d not felt in a long time. This was the emotional payoff for the red dress, which had been giving her courage and confidence all evening.

      Her date may have stood her up, but she barely gave him a passing thought when Dr. Valentino looked at her like that!

      Suddenly his brows snapped down over narrowing dark eyes. A scowl darkened them further and thinned his usually fine mouth. His storm shutters came down hard as he sat at the piano.

      First desire—let’s have naked fun with this marshmallow fluff kind of dirty, playful sexiness. Then...

      It took her a second to riddle it out, and the tipsy alcoholic butterflies in her belly figured it out first, and a ripple of something wrong stole her breath for an entirely different reason.

      He hadn’t recognized her until he’d sat.

      She’d probably been looking at him exactly like she’d been striving not to for two years—suggestively goofy, with added appreciation of his dirty looks. But he’d only just recognized her.

      The man never said much outside of delivering orders or maybe some narration for the surgery recordings, so she’d learned to read his eyes, often the only part of his face she could see.

      If she’d seen that look over a patient, she’d be readying for the worst.

      Her alcoholic butterflies definitely needed another mojito. If the laws of physics could at least be counted on—as it seemed possible they could have suddenly turned against her too—going back to her table to get another glass of liquid forgetfulness would move her far enough outside the glow of spotlights for him to see her. Or how the color of her face currently probably rivaled that of her dress.

      Lise unslung the small purse from across her torso, fished out her phone, and set it on the table as the music began. Soon she had another mojito in hand, and having things to fiddle with helped her settle in to listen without worrying about what his scowl had meant.

      The music that had been playing before the band had taken to the stage had been modern, Latin pop—mostly Spanish and some Spanglish songs. But the band played something different, and it took her a moment to classify the bright, fevered jazz that rolled off the stage and through the speakers.

      It helped a little, though, the idea of leaving tempted. If she ran away, she could have three whole days for him to forget before the usual Monday morning surgery.

      But Jefferson might still show up. There existed a slim chance that he’d gotten stuck in traffic or forgotten what time they were going to meet. A terrible accident could excuse not phoning or texting to bow out. If she left now, knowing her luck today, he’d show up and she’d have to reschedule rather than just getting to mark this third date officially off her to-do list without further delaying her life plans.

      The band had either practiced daily or had been playing together for years. The arrangements gave all instruments and stylings a chance to shine, and no matter the major personality trait Dr. Valentino displayed in every other interaction she’d had with him, he didn’t try to dominate the music like he took over everything else.

      That awful scowl left him before the first song finished.