Tessa flipped open the binder and leafed from one colorful tab to the next, a fizzy bubble of excitement growing in her belly. The Midsummer Ball would require organizational skills and creative energy in a much different way from teaching. She spent three long days combing through files, gaining new appreciation for the scope and depth of the robust volunteer corps’ work. Their accounting and record-keeping were meticulous. She had to take her hat off to Mrs. Diefenderfer and the gals. Those ladies weren’t messing around.

Exiting the hospital coffee shop, she occasionally caught a glimpse of Richard trailed by a gaggle of interns. Still other times, he was deep in conversation with one of the senior attending physicians, following a step or two behind the older doctor and listening intently. But no matter the circumstance, Richard lit up the drab hospital corridors with a trail of passionate sparks. The man loved his job—he fairly glowed with it—whatever his complaints under the sycamore tree.

When Thursday night arrived, she slipped into ballet flats and gazed into the full-length mirror. After trying on and rejecting several options, she opted for a blousy, cornflower-blue dress. Flats or no, she couldn’t conceal her height. Richard stood barely an inch taller than she. Did he mind?

She turned in place and retied the sash around her waist. As requested, the dress was sleeveless, and her square shoulders were on full display. She tapped the bony tops with her fingers. Like her knees and the backs of her hands, they were hopelessly freckled. Well, Richard said he loved her freckles, so she’d take him at his word. She styled her hair in a loose bun, but already a few curls escaped the pins and danced around her temples and the nape of her neck. Tucking up one strand, she stuck out her tongue at her reflection.

The doorbell rang.

As she bounded down the stairs, she tried to remember her mother’s trick to avoid smearing lipstick on a glass. Why hadn’t she listened to Margaret Meadows more often? At least, she might have been able to bake a pie and avoid making a complete mess of herself in polite company. She checked her reflection in the hallway mirror one last time and unlatched the door.

The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed seven forty-five.

“Sorry I’m late.” Richard handed her a single crimson rose. “I was actually on my way out a half hour early when one of my patients crashed.” Shaking off a sigh, he smiled. “You look like you walked out of a Merchant Ivory Film. Very Room with a View.”

The guy knew his movies. Cheeks flushed, she tucked another curl into her bun. “Do you always know the right thing to say?”

“Nearly always.” He winked. “I took a class.”

“Show off.” She ran her gaze over his trim figure.