She couldn’t fathom carrying five deceased children around on her conscience. Yet he’d saved three hundred and eight. “That equals a mortality rate of approximately one and a half percent.” She made a mental note to research the topic further, but she guessed that a one and a half percent mortality rate for a first-year congenital heart surgeon who operated on very sick, very young patients was excellent. “How many of those didn’t make it because of a physiological problem beyond your control?”

“Three. The other two had postoperative issues, potentially related to how long they were on the pump. Still, I take responsibility for those two because there may have been a technical issue with my work.”

Somehow, she doubted it. She sipped her chai tea and tasted cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg. “The homework you did on me makes me sound very dull. I feel compelled to mention that I’m more interesting and well-rounded than I sound on paper.”

“Oh?” Humor flavored the sound. “How so?”

“I love hiking and planning road trips on a shoestring budget. I occasionally compete in chess tournaments for fun. I’m rebellious because my teachers used to warn me that I needed to learn to do math in my head because I wouldn’t be able to carry a calculator around with me once I became an adult.” She reached into her purse and lifted her graphing calculator just high enough for him to see before dropping it back into the confines and straightening. “Joke’s on them. Now you go.”

“I watch soccer and movies. I’m a fan of anything related to aviation. I spend a lot of my free time with the Coleman family. I’m excellent at killing houseplants. I like to mow my lawn, and I listen to Sinatra because, obviously, he produced the best music ever.”

The entire conversation was taking place at a very fast pace, akin to a ball being walloped back and forth across a tennis court. “Interesting assertion,” she said. “I contend that the 1980s produced the best music ever.”

“Wrong.”

“Musical preferences are a matter of taste, Sebastian. One genre’s superiority over another cannot be proved.”

He shifted in his chair, setting a forearm on the table. His surgeon’s hands were large with short, clean nails and blunt fingertips. Even though relaxed, his fingers communicated proficiency.

After a long moment, he spoke. “You asked me over the phone if I’d keep your information confidential. I told you I would. Now I’m wondering if you’ll keep what I’m about to say confidential.”

“Of course.”

“Because this will get me in trouble with Ben if he finds out.”

She angled her head. “Oh?”

“He’d like to go out with you.”

Her eyebrows steepled.

“I want to put in a good word for him,” he continued. “He’s like a brother to me . . . one of the best people I know.”