possess superb physical traits, he sorely lacked both personality and charm, going from the short encounter she’d had with him. Looks could only take a man so far in her opinion. Maybe she wasn’t the only person in the world with problems? Kasey continued to glance toward the bar, intrigued.
“I wonder what he’s doing here,” she said.
“Well, duh, drinking!” Vincent reached across the booth table and patted her hands. “He must be human, just like us. Isn’t that sweet?”
Vincent had been teased mercilessly all his life about his carrot-top hair, which he now kept meticulously combed and perfectly spiked, resembling a torch on top. If the red hair didn’t set him apart, his alabaster-white skin dotted with free-flowing freckles sealed the deal when combined with his fastidious style of dress and precise mannerisms. He’d survived a tough childhood and now lived life exactly as he pleased. As a result he owned the sweetest content smile on the planet. Right now he shared that smile with Kasey. Sparkles beamed from his eyes—even in the darkened pub Kasey could see them—as he watched Jared standing at the bar, hoisting a mug, taking a swig and watching the Red Sox on the big screen.
“I don’t think he’s with anyone,” Vincent said. “I’m going to invite him over.” He shot out of the booth and zigzagged through the crowd before Kasey had a chance to stop him.
“Don’t do that!” she said, her voice overpowered by piped-in Irish rock music as he was halfway across the bar. “I need to talk to you … tell you my horrible news. And that guy’s a real pill.”
Biting her lips, she refused to watch Vincent. Instead, she cringed, took another drink of her beer and hoped Dr. Finch had a short memory. Or that he thought Vincent was too forward and invading his privacy and refused to associate with subordinates. That would suit his attitude.
Unable to stand the suspense, she glanced from the corner of her eye toward the bar. Damn, the men were both headed for the booth. She sat straighter and fussed with her bangs, then wished she hadn’t left her hair in the French braid tucked under at her nape. They’d come here straight from work, and a whole lot of hair had escaped since that morning, judging by the tendrils tickling her neck. She must look a mess, and what had been completely acceptable for spending time with Vincent would now fail miserably for making an impression on Vincent’s Dr. Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous. Why should she care?
Catching an errant strand of hair and tucking it behind her ear, another pang of anxiety got her attention. What the heck was she supposed to talk about? The plan had been to wine and dine Vincent, then tell him her woes, not have a social encounter with an aloof plastic surgeon. She hated it when her plans didn’t work out.
When Jared arrived at the booth, his tentative smile made her suspicious he’d had a drink or two already, since friendliness hadn’t been his strong suit at the clinic. “Hi,” he said. “I was just on my way out when Vinnie caught me.”
Vincent preened in the background over his job well done.
“Hi, Dr. Finch, what are you doing here?” she said, ignoring her gloating friend and cringing over the lame question.
“Having a drink—what else?” He pinched his brows together and glanced around the pub just as a group of three waiters broke into song at the booth next to theirs. They sang “Happy birthday” to a young woman who didn’t look a day over sixteen, though they served her a fancy umbrella drink with a flaming candle in it, so she had to be at least twenty-one. Yep, by the end of the song they’d sung, “Happy twenty-first birthday to Shauna”.
“I feel so old,” Jared said, after watching the celebration. “Is there an upper age limit at this bar? No one over thirty allowed?”
“Oh, no. That’s not what I meant when I asked what you were doing here. What I meant was I’m just surprised to see you here, that’s all.” This was more of a locals bar, not a place for doctors, especially future plastic surgeons.
He sat next to her, and she scooted several inches in the other direction, though there wasn’t far to go, her hands clutching the glass of pale ale. “And, besides, if the age limit is thirty, I’d be too old, too.”
“You’re not over thirty, are you?” He sat with a hand on each knee, back to looking stiff and out of his element.
“Thirty-two last January.” She didn’t care if he knew her age—she wasn’t looking for his approval.
“I would have pegged you around twenty-six or-seven.”
Well, then. She sat a little straighter. Yes, he was being nice, she knew it, but nevertheless he’d scored a few plus points over the unintentional compliment. His attempt to be kind was a far cry from the standoffish guy she’d met the other day.
“Now I know you’ve had a couple of pints.” She felt the blush from his compliment as deeply as when she’d been twelve and regularly embarrassed. How silly was that?
He stopped just before he finished off his dark brew. “From these thirty-nine-year-old eyes, you look twenty-six. Trust me.”
“How old do I look?” Vincent asked, looking a little desperate to get into the game.
“Vinnie, I’m thinking twenty-four.”
Vincent giggled, actually giggled. “Oh, Doctor, you’re so funny, I’m thirty. And could you call me Vincent, please?”
“Apologies, Vincent. Then we’re all over the hill. Good. I don’t relate to the younger generation, anyway. All the face piercings and tattoos, fake boobs.”
Kasey took another swallow of beer to help the dry patch in her throat as she thought about the four silver hoops in various sizes in both of her ears, the silver ball in her left tragus, the small rose tattoo hidden on her right hip, and the hummingbird on her left shoulder. Her breasts were her own, though. She sat a little straighter, thinking about it. “But you’re going to be a plastic surgeon, so won’t you be augmenting a lot of those ‘boobs’?”
“I’m depending on it. Lots of cash in breast augmentation. And lipo. Ah, and we can’t forget Brazilian butt lifts. Big bucks there, too.”
He seemed too caught up with the money side of the job, and it made her subtract some of those points she’d just awarded him. Her thoughts must have shown on her face.
“There’s nothing wrong with helping people look the way they want,” Vincent said, practically shushing her as if she’d been rude to their guest.
“Within reason.” For some crazy reason—maybe the second half of the pale ale—she wasn’t ready to back down. “You wouldn’t give anyone cat eyes if they asked, would you? Or a doll’s nose, or pull someone’s face so tight they looked like they’d just hit G-force?”
Surprising her, Jared gave a good-hearted laugh—a deep, really nice-sounding laugh, which suited his urbane appearance and classy charm. “I’ve often wondered if some plastic surgeons forget their oaths to do no harm.” He touched her forearm, sending her focus away from his mesmerizing eyes. “You’d probably think less of me if I said, ‘If the price was right’, so I won’t answer that question.”
His dodge disappointed her, and he looked less handsome for it. Then she mentally kicked herself, wondering who was shallower, him for doing what his patients asked or her for getting all caught up in a man with an intriguing face before knowing
