34. Like Father, Like Son

Juliet

Monroe holds my hand as we circulate through the clubhouse. It's the best thing ever. Pretty sure I'm glowing. Though it might not be just from our interlocked fingers as we chat with his father's friends and colleagues.

This flush I feel inside and out is probably from the kisses Monroe keeps giving me. The soft brushes of his lips on my cheek. The curl of his hand around mine as we walk. The way he sweeps loose tendrils of hair off my neck and steals kisses.

After we peel away from a pack of doctors who high-five Monroe for "doing something tougher than heart surgery," he guides me outside, onto the veranda where he tugs me against him. The Gershwin tune grows fainter as we move into the corner, away from the windows.

"You're really mine." It's a statement, but it's full of wonder like he can't believe his luck.

I'm all tingles and starlight as I roam a hand up his chest, reassuring him. "Did you not read the assignment last night, professor?"

"Did you not remember what we did on the desk, Miss Dumont?"

I laugh, shaking my head as a summer breeze rustles a nearby tree. "You're not winning this one. I bet I told you already."

His brow knits. "I bet you didn't."

I swat him, but he grabs my hand, brings it to his mouth, kisses me again. "Mmm."

"I wrote out the assignment. Including the words—Take me, I'm yours."

He stops kissing me. "Right. But I thought that was the student writing to the professor?"

"Your cluelessness is as adorable to me as my ladybug love is to you," I say, and his lips go all Cheshire cat for a second. "I picked Adam because he's just like you."

"Right. I did figure that out." But he ends the sentence with a curious stare. He's trying to put two and two together.

I could give him a hint, but nah. I think I'll wait this out. "You can do it," I urge play.

His eyes flicker as he assembles the clues. "Oh! Oh shit. You showed me a date…with you."

I separate from him to slow-clap. "And he can learn. The teacher becomes the student."

Monroe rolls his eyes at himself. "Get ready for a whole lot of learning. Or un-learning."

"I'm here for it," I say genuinely, meaning it from the bottom of my soul. Then I rope my arms around his neck, bringing him close to me again, kissing his scar, before I say, "And yes, I was showing you a date with me. Fun and feelings."

He sighs. "I'm sorry I didn't quite get it."

I shake my head, exonerating him. "I think you did get it. You're here. Right now. It's all a process, right? That's what my brother said about you. That I should be patient because you're a work in progress."

Monroe huffs out a laugh. "Sawyer doesn't mince words, does he? He point-blank asked me Thursday night how long I'd been into you."

I'm eating up every word. "And what did you tell him?"

"I spit out my beer."

"That long, huh?"

He laughs, then gazes at the inky sky. Stars twinkle above us, brighter than in the city. "But I'll tell you," he says, gaze returning to mine, eyes bright and clear. "It started eight years ago. Then, I left for New York, and our lives changed."

I nod, understanding perfectly. "We went in different directions. Different lives. Different romances."

"Yes," he says, speaking frankly of the years apart. "Then when I returned to San Francisco after my divorce and we started working together on the podcast, I just thought of you as the co-host who drove me a little crazy."

Goosebumps spread down my bare arms as we tell the story of us. "I was your frenemy?"

"Maybe so. The woman who got under my skin. The woman whose dating life I was a little obsessed with. The woman I couldn't wait to see every week, but I couldn't put all those feelings into words," he says, then shakes his head, amused at himself. "Sawyer was definitely right. I'm a work in progress." He pauses, then takes my hand, curls his fingers through mine. "You don't mind?"

It's asked with such vulnerability that I fall in love with him a little more. My heart flips around in my chest and I'm so glad I can let myself get used to this fluttery feeling around him. "We can be works in progress together."

"Good. Now speaking of works in progress there's something I have to show you when we get home."

"Ohh. Is it reverse cowgirl? Because you forgot about that."

He squeezes my ass, then spins me around, drags me against him, my back to his chest, his lips on my neck. "Never say something so horrible again. I did not forget that. And just for that I will prove it to you tonight."

"You better," I say, rubbing my ass against him.

But after a few seconds, he gently pushes me away. "We should go back inside."

"We should."

"We should circulate at the party."

We don't make it inside for another twenty minutes.

When we do, I gasp. "Your dad's dancing with someone," I say, nodding toward the guest of honor, dancing with an elegant woman about his age, who reminds me of Lady Danbury.

"That's Jada. She's a doctor too. Loves golf. Recently retired," Monroe says, warmth in his voice.

"Do I detect a theme? Like father, like son?"

He shoots me a doubtful look, then pulls me onto the dance floor, where he keeps me close as the music plays, and we sway together at last.

As I rest my cheek against his, I steal a glance at his father. I do detect a theme. Both men, trying to repair their relationship so they can start over.

My heart is full.