“Cruel, yes. Unprecedented? No. I can’t believe some of the names my tiny patients get saddled with.”

“Ooh, tell me.”

He gives me a get out of here look. “I can’t. That’s a HIPAA violation.”

“HIPAA Schmippa. Come on. I want the most ridiculous, far-out name—”

“Not happening, Beatrice. Next.”

I blow air out of my cheeks, sending my bangs fluttering up, then landing in my eyes. I brush them away. “Do you ever budge from your moral code?”

“Considering I’m eating pho in the least-me environment ever with a woman I’d have no occasion to otherwise, solely for the purpose of a revenge plot that I was adamantly against, yes.”

“Okay, good point.”

“Thank you. Now tell me more about you.”

I give him the stink eye. “I think it’s your turn, James.”

“Fine.” He sits back, hands folded across his flat abdomen. I really need to stop undressing Jamie with my eyes, but it’s hard. I’m a nude portraitist by training. My default is to undress people with my eyes, let alone when they’re smoking hot like him. “My father’s a surgeon descended from a long line of surgeons, and that’s his everything. He’s English—well, his father was, his mother’s American—so while he grew up in England, he has dual citizenship and had his medical training here in the States. My mother’s French, old money, no career interest, does a lot of charity work.”

That explains his speech. There’s something adorably formal about it, a little crisper, more posh than that of typical American guys.

“I went to boarding school,” he says. “Then college for premed, medical school, and here I am.”

“Oookay. But . . . what about your interests?”

He peers up at the ceiling, brow furrowed as he thinks. “Exercise. Cooking. Reading. Work.”

“Work’s not an interest.”

“It is to me,” he says. “I love my work.”

I bite back a smile. “Why kids?”

“Because they’re the hopeful side of practicing medicine. Yes, I’ve made my share of bleak referrals to pediatric specialists for worrying symptoms, but by and large, I get to keep little people healthy and see them grow.” He shrugs. “It’s meaningful to me and a lot less depressing than many other medical specialties.”

“That’s . . .” I tip my head. “Very sweet.”

Jamie blushes and focuses on adjusting his watch.

“What kind of reading?” I ask.

“I like it all. Fiction, nonfiction, poetry. Books are my kind of adventure—all that unknown from the comfort of my couch.”

I smile. “That’s a good way to put it. And a fear?”

He frowns in thought, then says, “I’m terrified of being caught in the middle of a flash dance.”

I shudder and lift my lemonade in a cheers of sympathy. “Ditto.” We clink glasses.

“Worst kiss?” I ask.

He blinks. “What?”

“Your worst kiss.”

“And you need to know this why?”